Revised Just A Boy

It’s a big word even for a twelve year old girl: tournament. As I stood in line for registration, the word rolled around in my mind, making me think of all the stuff you saw on television. A stadium as big as a football field—no, bigger. Shiny, golden trophies. Athletes waving like celebrities. Grunting and sweating and swearing and ow.

Well, my local Tae Kwon Do tournament wasn’t in any stadium; it was, however, an indoor gym that was more than enough for me. As I craned my neck to peer through the double doors, I saw that they’d pushed the bleachers as close to the walls as possible to provide the most room. Hard, gray metal chairs lined the edges of the room for parents and participants alike.

I caught a flash of gold, but before I could get a better look the line was moving and I had to watch where I put my feet. I hadn’t taken my shoes off yet, but lots of the other kids already had. Registration was quick; the instructor found my name on the list, stamped the back of my hand with a red symbol that I couldn’t figure out, and ushered me through the doors.

Somehow, the crammed high school gym managed to make me feel tiny; this definitely wasn’t the little room at the community center where I took classes, either. Instructors wandered about in packs. Black belts were everywhere, including a few that I knew were younger than I was. I fidgeted with my green belt, trying to come up with a good excuse in case they asked me why I wasn’t one yet.

An instructor with long, frizzy hair saw me standing by the door and called out, asking how old I was. “We’re putting everybody in groups,” he told me. “Age is one of the ways we’re doing that.”

I told him and he indicated the farthest possible corner of the gym, where I saw a laminated sign being waved in the air by one of the parents: 12-15 year olds.

I mumbled a thank you and shuffled over. As I dodged camera-laden parents and avoided the miniature black belts, I realized that everyone was split up into age groups; the little kids were all gathered in one corner, the not-quite-a-little-kid-anymore kids in between them and us, my group, the teens, and everybody over 18.

The adult waving the 12-15 sign offered me a grin as I made it to “my” corner, and after flashing him a smile I looked around at whoever else was going to be in the group. So far, we had a yellow belt girl, two green belt boys and… me.

Maybe everyone else is still in line, I decided, and moved to get ready for the tournament.

Everything fell into category after category; the reason everybody was being told to go into these groups was because of the kinds of things everyone wanted to do for the tournament. There were three main events each participant could do: you could do your best set of moves in front of the instructors for points; you could break boards; or you could face off with another person in a sparring match. (Dad had said something about the tournament being a waste if I only signed up for one, so I signed up for the first and the third things.)

I looked up at the gym clock over and over, and as the minute hand inched along, more and more people flooded the gym and were sent to their own areas to prepare. Our group never got bigger, though the number of instructors near our group did. I could see them looking at us and muttering to each other as it got closer to starting time.

Whatever the problem was, they didn’t seem interested in sharing with us; in a few minutes, the Grand Master Kim entered.

For a Grand Master, he wasn’t anything like what I’d seen in martial arts movies. After a minute or two, though, I decided I liked that; he had a big smile that more than made up for his height, and even the warmup moves he led us through were so graceful I felt like I’d accidentally wandered into a Tai Chi tournament instead. Even his jumping jacks made the ends of his uniform snap with his movements.

The next few minutes seemed to go faster and faster, the same as my heartbeat as I got ready to do my form in front of the instructor panel. Every belt level had its own form, a series of movements that you were supposed to be learning after earning said belt. Once you’d mastered each action, you were usually ready to move on to the next belt.

Both of the green belt boys sat to one side, and to my surprise, I was put up with the yellow belt girl at the same time. Weird, but it made sense; I guessed that maybe the two boys had decided not to do the forms. Yellow Belt and I made our way up to the panel of three instructors when our names were called. We bowed to them, to each other, then faced forward and began our own separate forms.

Before I made it to the tournament, my home instructor had told me to make sure I finished every kick or punch with a snap of my limb, like the Grand Master had done earlier; it was supposed to make the fabric of my uniform snap in turn, which made things look better. Now, though, as I started through my movements—kick, step, kick, double punch, turn—all I could worry about was trying not to run into Yellow Belt girl. We shot each other cautious looks as we turned and kicked and tried not to trip in front of our judges.

Somehow, the two of us survived. Yellow Belt stumbled toward the end and made me almost trip over my own feet in surprise, but in the end, both of us managed to finish around the same time and bow to the instructors. The instructors nodded, and dismissed us to ready the floor for the next part—breaking boards.

I glanced over at the other girl, who seemed to be completely focused on looking for her bag. “Are you doing the next bit?”

She shook her head. “I’m done… My parents just wanted to see what a tournament was like.”

“Oh.”

I found a gray chair that hadn’t been taken up, and had a seat as the two green belt boys moved out to break boards. As they did, I noticed the pack of instructors that had gathered before the first part of the tournament again. They were still muttering and looking over at our group. I could tell they were looking at all of us, because even when one of the green belt boys managed to break three wooden boards put together, they didn’t even bat an eye (usually, they’d applaud like everyone else).

Their actions were so interesting that I didn’t even notice it was time to get ready for the sparring until an instructor—Instructor Frizzy Hair—made his way over toward me. “Hey, you’re going to be in the sparring, right?”

I nodded.

“I’m asking because we have kind of a little problem… the only people in your group are you and the two boys.”

I didn’t see how that was a problem, so I just nodded again.

“In the tournament, we usually make sure that girls spar against girls and boys spar against boys, just to make sure the matches are as fair as possible. We can’t do that this time.” A pause. “Is it okay if we have you sparring with just the two boys? We can put you with another group of girls instead, if you want.”

Another group of girls? I looked around at a couple of the other groups, which were already sparring. The teenager group already had a pair of girls up—each way taller than me, and landing blows that made me wince from where I was sitting. The group younger than me, on the other hand, only came up to my chest.

I shook my head. “I’m okay with it.”

“Are you sure?” The instructor regarded me for a moment longer, then nodded. “All right. Well, you’re up against Brian, first, then.”

For the third time, I nodded, and slid off of my seat so I could put on my gear.

For sparring, everybody had to put on all sorts of stuff to keep us from getting hurt; arm and leg pads, and chest and head protectors (with other stuff for the boys). It made for bulky, awkward fighting, especially since that same gear acted like targets for your opponent; every time the other person landed a hit—say, on the chest pad—they would get a point.

Brian-Greenbelt was waiting by the time I was ready. He was a bit shorter than me, and kind of round-eyed at something that a female instructor was saying to him as she tied a red ribbon into his green belt. Each person sparring was assigned a color: white, or red. Instructors stood at the corners of the ‘ring’ and held matching color flags. Every time the ‘red’ won, the red flag would go up; same for the white side. Looked like I was the white side. Worked for me; a ribbon was just one more piece of bulk to worry about.

Whatever she said must have really bothered him, because the fight was a short one. Brian-Greenbelt acted like he’d never used this kind of gear in a match before; when he started toward me, I turned just enough and managed to land a solid side-kick straight on his gut that sent him staggering back a foot—and made the white flag go up. I grinned; he grunted, and came at me again. One point.

This time, he came to the side; I guess he figured out that the chest-protector was really easy to hit, so he was guarding the front with both hands. He even blocked a punch or two before I turned and slapped a back-hook kick against the side of his head-protector. Two points. My flag went up, and Brian-Greenbelt was finished in less than a minute. I couldn’t make my grin go away; looked like sparring with my black-belt instructor back home was a good thing!

Green Belt Two—whose name I never got—was a different case. As he entered the ring, I found myself leaning forward on the balls of my feet to try and match his height. He seemed to notice, and offered me a friendly grin. I smiled back and went on my toes.

My attention was diverted as Instructor Frizzy Hair made yet another return, this time to tie the red ribbon Brian-Greenbelt had been wearing to my belt. I sighed. Great. More bulk. At least it was tied in the back, and not in the side or front.

The instructor knelt down next to me so that he could tie the flag into my belt, and as he did so, he began to murmur into my ear, like that female instructor had to Brian-Greenbelt.

“Okay,” he said, as he tied the first loop of the ribbon. “I know this might be a little weird; have you fought a boy before?”

“Yeah.”

He paused. “You have?”

“Uh-huh. All the time.” I nodded.

“I see… well, then this match shouldn’t be a problem for you. Don’t get me wrong; he’s good. But he’s just a boy, just like the others you’ve fought, right? You can totally kick his ass today.”

I turned my head around to stare at him, but my head gear got in the way of my sight. It didn’t matter, though, because soon he’d tied the second knot, and was lifting a hand to let the others know that I was officially ready to fight.

Unfortunately for me, I was still so confused by his words that Green Belt Two—Just-a-Boy—managed to land a punch before I could even bring my hands up. That got my attention; my grin from earlier was gone as I brought my hands up into a defensive stance. Just-a-Boy grinned, probably in as good a mood as I had been. Well, I’d take care of that.

Soon, I was the one wearing the grin as Just-a-Boy fell for the same move that Brian-Greenbelt had—the side kick. However, while I got the point, the kick slid off to one side instead of sending him backward like I’d hoped. I tried again, and he spun to one side to aim a punch under one of my guarding arms. Blocking out of pure luck, I tried to punch him again.

It was a long enough sparring match that I thought I heard Instructor Frizzy Hair suggesting they set a time limit (which I would have protested, as Just-a-Boy had made his second point and I was behind). But since it was the last event of the day, everyone decided to let us fight it out on our own. Punches, kicks, blocks, steps, stumble-oh-no-block; it felt like the form performance earlier. The only difference was, this time we were trying to run into each other as much as possible.

The rest of the match wasn’t that memorable, beyond the next couple of days where we both had pretty bruises to show off to impressed friends and not-very-impressed parents. Just-a-Boy really was just another green belt, just like any other green belt I could have sparred with (though he was good like Frizzy Hair had promised). But as we were led up to the podium where all of us were going to get our trophies for the match, I realized that I’d get to go home with something that Just-a-Boy, the instructor, and maybe a bunch of others here wouldn’t: the understanding that some things really weren’t any different from each other. Not only in how sparring matches went--whether they were in a tiny community center or in a big tournament--but also the strange worries that adults could get over something like what might happen if a girl had to spar a boy.

Well, that, and the chance to get a smile and a handshake from the Grand Master himself as he handed over my prize.

…

And a bigger trophy.