I moved outside.
Caught the wrist.
My other hand touched behind his elbow.
Turned.
Jake spun past me.
No strength.
Angle.
He stumbled three steps.
When he turned back, I was standing exactly where I had started.
My hip hurt like hell.
I hoped nobody noticed.
Jake did.
He smiled.
“Your leg’s bad.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you quit?”
“Because you’re still holding my afternoon hostage.”
A few people laughed.
That made him angry.
He rushed.
Not technically.
Emotionally.
That is where young fighters usually become old lessons.
I shifted my weight.
Jake threw a right.
I caught his arm.
Stepped underneath.
Turned my hips.
And guided him toward the mat.
Not a violent throw.
Not the kind that makes highlight reels.
He simply discovered that his feet were no longer underneath him.
Jake hit the mat on his side.
Before he could scramble up, I placed one knee near his shoulder without dropping weight.
His wrist was controlled.
My open hand stopped two inches above his throat.
Everything froze.
Jake’s eyes widened.
I could hear his breathing.
The entire plaza had gone silent.
I asked:
“You done?”
His jaw tightened.
Then he nodded once.
I released immediately.
Stood slowly.
My left hip screamed.
I tried not to limp too obviously.
Jake got to his feet.
His face was bright red.
Nobody laughed at him.
That surprised him.
He looked around.
Maybe he expected humiliation.
Instead, people were simply staring at me.
Daniel stepped onto the mat.
He looked at my posture.
Then shook his head.
“You still lead with the same shoulder.”
I smiled.
“Bad habit.”
“Forty years and you didn’t fix it?”
“Never bothered me enough.”
Jake looked between us.
“Who is this guy?”
Daniel looked at him.
“You really don’t know?”
“No.”
One of the older instructors at the edge of the mat spoke.
“I do.”
His name was Raymond Ellis.
Seventy.
Retired boxing coach.
He walked closer.
“I saw him fight in Detroit in 1978.”
Jake frowned.
“Fight what?”
Raymond laughed.
Daniel looked toward the crowd.
Then back at me.
“Can I?”
I sighed.
“You’re going to anyway.”
