One

Oh, what a tangled web we weave,When first we practice to deceive!

Sir Walter Scott

Jian-mei
September 1986

Until two weeks ago, I enjoyed a life filled with comforting routines. I attended a private school during the morning hours, enjoyed a light lunch, and then I spent the afternoon with Mr. Ni, who has served as my martial arts instructor for the past eight years. Then, without warning, Mr. Ni informed my mother he had entered me in the Asian Tae Kwon Do Championships in Hong Kong. My tranquil life of school and practice suffered the first major interruption, I can recall. However, I must admit to a high degree of excitement, now that I am here and have reached the finals.

The early rounds of the tournament went as expected. I had little difficulty defeating my opponents, even though they were usually larger and stronger than I was. I relied on guile, skill, and quickness and those aspects of my arsenal served me well in the prelims. Even though I am not overly strong, I am tall and strong enough. Over the years, I became comfortable competing with foes that were more physically powerful. During this period of my development, I established myself as a fierce competitor. That one trait made up for my lack of muscle mass. Even though I fight almost daily with strong, well-trained adversaries, I have not lost a match in years, and I do not intend to lose the championship match that begins in five minutes.

Amidst the noisy crowd, I made my way up the steps to the ring and stepped through the ropes. I took in the throng of the screaming Tae Kwon Do fans one final time and observed the judges huddled together. The referee prepared himself for this highly anticipated first match. My adversary, Dia Washi, was already stretching his ample muscles and staring rudely. Refusing to abandon good manners, I ignored him and glanced up at my mother seated thirty rows up. She appeared anxious with her hand over her mouth. I smiled at her, and she smiled in return.

The thunderous noise level faded as the short, rotund announcer spoke into the ring microphone and asked for the attention of the fans. He gestured in my direction and introduced me as a finalist from Macau in the twelve-year-old division. I had captured a multitude of fans during my journey through the preliminary bouts, and they responded with a roar. I bowed with exaggerated dignity.

Next, the announcer pointed toward the powerfully built finalist from Osaka, Japan. Dia Washi leaped up and danced around for his many supporters.
I had made it a point to witness each of his matches. I knew he depended on a modicum of talent and enormous brute strength. His opponents hardly challenged him during his march to the finals, and two of them suffered, what I deem, unnecessary injury. Dia Washi was very good, but so am I.

In our age division the speed of action, the skill level, and even the brutality of the prelims captured the interest of the fans. The crowd reactions to our introductions were deafening. I turned and faced the champion from Japan. We performed the traditional kyong bow. Afterwards, the referee glanced at both of us and shouted "jun-bi". I took my stance, as did Dia Washi. He displayed a fierce passion with his stocky body and burning eyes. Then the referee screamed "shijak," and I advanced three steps toward the boy from Osaka and froze.
Dia took one-step forward, and performed a high-spinning kick. Having judged distances in the ring for many years, I sensed that the kick would not cover the space between us, so I didn’t react in any way. I knew the move was only to incite the multitude, and they answered with a howl. Dia Washi was something of a showman.

He advanced once more and thrust straight out with a kick. Once more, evaluating the distance between us with perfection, I did not move an eyelash. I noticed a fleeting look of consternation cross the countenance of Dia, but it quickly evolved into a snarl and a charging jump kick. This time he was serious, but I timed my defensive movement for the last possible instant, and the foot of Dia Washi hissed past my face.

Appearing bewildered, Dia Washi circled to his right. To erode his confidence even more, I maintained my stance without reacting to his circling movement but watched him with peripheral vision. He employed a lesser-used hook kick intended to break through my defenses with his heel. To counter, I did a lightening-fast full turn with the blow, and once again, Dia’s foot found air.
Dia Washi growled in a muted voice, "It is time for a broken bone." He became a whirling pattern of movement, employing a series of rapid attacks using spin kicks. He used a sidekick, another hooking kick, finally, he leaped high in the air, and employed a jumping front kick, which required him to fold his lower leg back and snap it forward with maximum power. I decided it was time to go on the offensive.

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