Daniel smiled.

Then he turned toward Jake.

“His name is Henry Carter.”

“I know his name.”

“No.”

Daniel shook his head.

“You know the name on his maintenance badge.”

Silence.

“In 1976, Henry Carter won the National Open Karate Championship.”

Several spectators reacted.

Jake stared.

Daniel continued.

“Back when those tournaments looked nothing like the point competitions you’re used to.”

I looked at him.

“You’re making me sound prehistoric.”

“You practically are.”

A few people laughed.

Daniel continued.

“He fought internationally for almost fifteen years.”

“Karate.”

“Kickboxing.”

“Full-contact events in Japan, Europe, and the United States.”

Jake looked at me again.

His face had changed.

Daniel pointed toward my stance.

“That position you mocked?”

“He learned it from Masaru Tanaka.”

That name meant something to several instructors.

Jake still looked confused.

Daniel explained.

“Tanaka was one of the people who brought that system to the United States in the early seventies.”

I looked toward the bench.

“My cane.”

One of the children ran over, picked it up carefully, and brought it to me.

“Thank you.”

He smiled.

I leaned on it.

Instantly, I looked seventy-two again.

That seemed to confuse everyone.

Jake stared.

“You were a champion?”

“For a while.”

“How many fights?”

“I don’t remember.”

Daniel laughed.

“He remembers.”

I glared at him.

“Don’t.”

Daniel looked at Jake.

“More than eighty documented full-contact bouts.”

Jake’s expression went blank.

“Eighty?”

“Probably more.”

Daniel looked toward me.

“He stopped keeping records.”

I said:

“Records don’t make the hip hurt less.”

The crowd laughed.

Jake did not.

Then he asked:

“If you were all that, why are you working maintenance?”

That question changed the mood.

Not because it offended me.

Because of how naturally he said it.

As though one thing could not exist beside another.

I looked at my work shirt.

Then at the toolbox near the mat.

“Because things break.”

Jake frowned.

“What?”

“Things break.”

I tapped the cane against the mat.

“Doors.”

“Pipes.”

“Light fixtures.”

“People.”

“You fix what you can.”

Daniel looked down.

He knew the rest of the story.

Most people there did not.

I had not competed since 1986.