Tuesday, September 24, 20XX

Time to open up the vault again. With all this training down at the martial dungeon, memory lane is opening up and with that a story.

But before I poke at mental scars once again, I want to mention and remind myself that Claire visited the club yesterday. It was unfortunate that we were gone, and I'm going to have to make sure to pay her a visit sometime or another. It'll be cool, since I know a lot of the people down there, those running idiots.

She left some rejuvenating goodies and a note at one of my classes before I got there. "Break a neck," she wrote. It was sweet.

With her well wishes, I hit the mats once more, motivated, until my motivation was shattered with one single throw. Then it was back to the GRIND BABY.

THE GRIND BABY. The... grind...........

Ehhh, at least there are good parts. Such as the times I don't get thrown. Those are always welcome.

Anyway, back to the story. For some odd reason, this passed my mind yesterday, but I used to be on the basketball team! How could I forget? I haven't played in two odd years. I was only on the team for a season, but that season was spectacular.

Me and the boys were balling. It was a pretty tight knit group. We were all fired for the game, so fired that at times the coach fired us. That is, he put us on the bench when we got too rowdy and started making dumb moves. We made dumb moves often...

Not only did we play hard, but we trained hard. We often pushed ourselves too far. Gym peer pressure. Hitting the weights like no tomorrow—that ‘mo ikai!’ spirit. We were hustling on the court in our own whacky ways. Normally we messed around, caused crazy uproars, happened upon random acts of trouble, and laughed about it at the end of the day. Call us Johzenji high. We cut backcourt with flamboyancy. Contrary to expectations, we played a mean ball. Usually. Hopefully.

Fortunately, you didn't need to be twelve feet tall in our area to play ball, so I made the cut. I not only made the cut, but I was the starting point guard. Crazy looking at me now, as I was the most reliable person to carry the ball up and down the court out of everyone on the team. Oh, how people change.

But that brings me back to now. I asked Mark why he doesn't go to the dojo every day. I put it in a better way, but I basically asked if it's because he's too good for the people there. He grunted in response.

I was expecting him to say, "Isn't it obvious?" but he didn't. Our bantering has really developed lately, so that made me a little disappointed, to be honest. I prepared myself for the punch and was left biting the dust.

I soon learned why, and my, it was frightening. Mark was tense almost the entire time. He seemed out of it—I could tell. It was subtle, but real, and it really hurt, since Mark was a lot more careless, failing to pull punches, punching me with raw force. I swear I was almost injured (for real this time).

After some time working and snacking (thanks a bunch Claire, ya sweet rascal), that’s when it happened.

A certain man walked in. 

It was an unbelievable build of muscle. I would quickly realize that this intimidating person is the source of Mark’s love for the game and anguish around others. He is connected to that grocery store incident and many other uncovered dealings. He stood tall and firm, and his mere presence shook me to the core, very much like another, certain person except much more ferocious.

It was Mark’s father. I need not ask this time—I could tell from Mark’s Mad Scowl (hidden power #3), which was very similar to that time, and their vague conversation. It’s obvious. It’s a no brainer.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Mark really dislikes his father. And seeing him this way, I can understand why he doesn’t hit the dojo often. I don’t know specifically why he dislikes him, but it’s clear to see there’s some bad blood boiling. 

But wasn’t his father the reason why he picked up the sport? He mentioned that, briefly, during one of our tiring runs. 

That’s naive thinking, me. It’s obviously a much deeper problem.

All of this I picked up quickly. I observed the two. Understanding people has always been my specialty—a skill picked up during my lonely years, and exercised and refined in my conscientious golden age. 

This is what I picked up.

1. Mark dislikes his father.

2. Mark really dislikes his father.

3. His father probably doesn’t like him too.

A comprehensive list, right? But there’s more (stop screwing around, me).

1. His father is a crazy competitor—crazy as in strong. He travels frequently for matches. I was wondering why Mark decided now was a good train at the dojo and why I haven’t seen him until now—He was out on another trip, and it ended earlier than expected.

2. His father wants him to take the game much more seriously and train under his guidance. He expects a lot out of him, like it’s his duty. Mark despises that.

3. Mark hesitated to tell him that we were preparing for a match. His father picked up on it anyway. With cold eyes, he said he’ll be watching.

The reason why I surface a memory from the vault is that his father reminds me of my own coach. Despite our unpredictable and unorthodox methods, our coach was the exact opposite. He was a man that stood for simplicity and fortitude. He had an imposing aura. He rarely smiled. He set extraordinary expectations on us, and more often than not, we failed to meet them and rebelled. When we did succeed, however, he was like the most doting parent in the world. At the end of the day, we were his pride.

I feel like this is a similar case, a similar dynamic. Mark's dad is much scarier, much more imposing, much more intimidating. He's not as verbally abusive as Mark, but he's twice as strict and steadfast. Yet, I can't help but feel the same vibes between father and son. Mark is already awkward enough. I wonder what's in their vaults.

But I'm pulling stuff out of my juicebox fade (I wish I had and could have one). I digress and regress.

All in all, there's no doubt the tension is high. The other members of the dojo could feel it too. It's a sticky sort of tension. It's not comfortable. Time extends as patience diminishes. The black hole of killed vibes threatens to absorb all of us.

And, as quickly and as dramatically as they descended, they ascended on their own, separate ways afterward. Mark grabbed his stuff and stomped out, as if in a hissy fit, unexpectedly. I followed after him, prompto.

I didn’t pry. I respected his personal space. I turned off the switch—the “imposing” attitude—and after a suitable amount of time, I talked to him to calm him down.

We ended up back in the clubroom. It was open, fortunately, so we didn’t have to chase down Mr. Kafka at the gym. He’s probably having the time of his life, drilling high school girls and wearing sweats. It’s real surprising, but I heard during practices Mr. Kafka is a MEAN guy—mean as in mean and not good, not good at all.

We cleared some space. He entered formation. “Attack,” he said.

No going over drills, no extra explanation, no commentary, just resuming practice. He’s not the person to let up. I don’t know what’s got him so edgy, but as a fairly sad boy myself, I empathize. Not because I’m a good person and all, which I hope I am, but because when there are people that trouble you, troubling to the point and complexity that you can’t find the words to explain a semblance of any of it, then there’s really nothing left to do but action to deal with the rush. To just jump in and get going again—it’s a daunting task.

I played his game. We went at it, and he was unfocused.

I snapped him out of it. 

“Get your head in the game. Focus.” 

Those words were enough for him to put his troubling thoughts to the side, for now, and get back into gear. Although our options are limited in the club room, we still hit each other hard. We entered into a good flow. There was no space for excuses—we made the best of the unconverted classroom and we’ll do it again and again and again.

Then it’ll be time. I hope my body doesn’t get too sore. Oh wait too late.

Ah, ah… Comfort is enticing…

I can feel it. His passion, his desperation. It makes me want to root for him. It draws me like a moth to flames, reminding me of my firefly moments. It's dazzling in all sorts of ways.

Ya know, some thoughts are steep. They end up mining, recklessly igniting dark zones.

I feel that.

Get your head in the game.