Pictures of Cal Sr. fighting in tournaments adorned the walls near the shrine, an alcove at the end of the empty studio where swords were mounted on a marble alter. Their lacquered handles gleamed seductively under the recessed lights.
No one was allowed to touch them out of respect for the weapon. Weapons were the last resort of the warrior, Cal would say, he must first learn to use his brains. It was that last resort I always waited for him to describe. Hoping he’d offer the justification for the hate I felt, that at times made me sick to my stomach. I’d wait patiently for him to elaborate, but he only talked of defending, never offending, of Sun Tzu and The Art of War whose teachings hung from a tapestry opposite the shrine:
When able to attack, we must seem unable;
When using our forces, we must seem inactive.
When we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away.
When far away, we must make him believe we are near.
If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him.
If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.
Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.
I studied them. Learned to recite them on command. Except the last one. It slipped from my memory, evaded repetition, and washed away like liquid through a sieve. The last tenant mocked me, exposed me for what I was, a spy infiltrating to learn how to kill my brother, to use the art of defense to wage, not protect.
During sparring sessions my anger exposed me as a fraud. I’d rage toward opponents, no longer a representative of the tenants that hovered above, their essence betrayed.
Cal stopped every match, yanked me aside and reprimanded me for ignoring the first, last, and only rule of sparring, no contact. With each infraction I was sentenced to pushups until he saw that I needed a lesson in control.
He summoned Cal Jr. to the room, paired me against him, mumbled something about seeing if I had what it took. I saw it as my chance to expose him as a fraud. Cal Sr. offered the pads, shin, elbow, and head. I waved them off. We bowed to the master to show respect, to each other.
Fight! Cal asserted. I was already in my stance, brimming with energy, on the balls of my feet aching to move forward. My head snapped back. The hard rubber sole of Cal’s shoe hit front while the solid concrete assaulted my back. He flattened me with a kick I never saw.
I sprung up; water welled in my battered eye. Cal Sr. cupped my head in his meaty paws and rotated it left to right, checking the damage.
“Pay attention, your weight’s all over the place. Center.” he advised. “Are you ready?” he asked.
I was already poised, weight on my heels, primed to take the brunt of an oncoming attack. Fight!
Cal Jr. stood, immovable. I waited, ready to defend. The anger begged to engage. It built like steam against a turbine. When it was clear that Cal wasn’t going to initiate, I shuffled forward only to meet the gaze of water stained ceiling tiles. My legs were swept out from under me. I was once again flattened by an attack I never saw coming.
I had fantasies of becoming Cal Sr.’s progeny, the chosen one prophesized to take the art of self defense to the next level and beyond. I searched my body for a mark that slated me The One. I only found a mole that loosely resembled Charlie Brown. But the position was filled. Cal Jr. was next in line. The best I could hope for was to teach the Saturday morning toddler class when Cal Sr. was too tired. I quit after receiving my brown belt.
