The Song of David

“That’s right. We’re missing a few people, but a bunch of my guys are here.”

Henry had already met Axel, my Swedish sparring partner, at the bar, but Amelie shook his hand politely and Axel shot me a pointed look over the top of her head. He’d seen her dance, obviously. Mikey, with his powerful forearms and his missing lower left leg, greeted Henry and Amelie with a smile and a handshake. Mikey is always a gentleman in front of the ladies, but reverts to a foul-mouthed marine in front of the guys. He lost a leg in Iraq and works out his demons in the Tag Team facilities. He’d taught me a few things about hand-to-hand combat you can only learn from someone who has actually fought for his life more times than he can count.

I moved on to Paulo, a Brazilian, and a better grappler than all of us, and then to Cory, the youngest on the team. Cory Mangum was a wrestler, an NCAA heavyweight champion his junior year. But he threw it all away his senior year and ended up at Montlake Psychiatric Hospital after trying to escape his drug habit by jumping off a bridge. My old friend, Dr. Andelin, had sent him my way. So far, he’d managed to stay clean and pin me daily. I was learning a ton from him.

Beyond Axel, Mikey, Paulo and Cory, who provided training but didn’t compete, I had a handful of MMA fighters in a bunch of different divisions who all fought under the Tag Team label, and they greeted Henry and Amelie politely, with side-long looks at Henry’s crazy hair and Amelie’s blinding smile. I wondered if Amelie knew how appealing she was. Probably not. There were plenty of women in and out of our facility. Some came to see me or one of the guys, some came to work out with us. I had two female Tag Team fighters who were ranked in the UFC. Amelie was a novelty, though, and I was positive the guys had all noticed her sweet figure, her shiny hair and her pretty mouth. The thought bothered me. Just wait until Axel told them she danced around a pole several nights a week at the bar. That really bothered me.

“This part of the gym is for fight training. The rest of it—the weight room, the exercise equipment, and the classes—is for Tag Team fitness members. For fifteen bucks a month you have access to everything on that side of the facility. We have classes over here a few nights a week too, the classes that need the mats like judo and some of our self-defense classes, and those things are extra.”

“Maybe you’d like to try out a judo class or a self-defense class, Henry,” Amelie spoke up. “I took judo classes for a while. There’s a division for blind athletes. Pretty cool. But my heart wasn’t in it unless the music was blaring and I could do kicks and spins, which doesn’t work in judo.”

“Yeah. Not unless you’re throwing someone while you’re spinning.”

“Would I have to punch a bad guy?” Henry asked doubtfully.

“Nah. Judo’s all about throws. An MMA fighter uses a lot of throws and submissions, so judo is a pretty big deal around here,” I said. Henry seemed overly worried about having to punch someone. Which meant I probably needed to teach him how.

“You don’t have to punch anything. Except maybe that bag. Do you think you’d like to punch that bag over there?”

Henry halted and looked suspiciously at the punching bag a couple of feet to the left of where we were standing.

“You could punch the speed bag too. It’s fun. And it doesn’t hit back.”

Amelie was still holding onto Henry’s arm, her stick nowhere in sight. I reached out and gently grabbed her elbow, pulling her beside me so that Henry wouldn’t hurt her if he attempted a jab. I was doubtful Henry had ever punched anything in his life. He was a small, skinny kid, and he clearly had developmental problems. He sounded a little robotic when he talked, and I wondered if he was autistic. On the one hand he could spit out sports trivia like he was a walking record book. On the other, the kid asked for permission to say ass. Not your average teenager.

Henry walked toward the long punching bag, eyeing it like it might transform into something deadly. His left hand darted out and slapped the bag, and he jumped a foot in the air.

Amelie clapped. “Was that you, Henry? I heard that!”

“Try again, Henry. You can kick it too,” I instructed.

Henry’s leg shot out as if he were kicking open a door, and the bag swung back and bumped his upraised leg, sending him sprawling.

“He got me, Tag,” he groaned, and Amelie gasped. I guess I was wrong. Apparently the punching bag could hit back.