learning how to control himself. “Somebody record this,” Blake announced. Several parents immediately raised their phones. I glanced toward them. “Actually, I’d appreciate it if everyone kept recording.” Blake laughed. “What, you want proof of how badly you get beaten?” I shook my head. “No.” Then I looked directly into his eyes. “I want witnesses.” For the first time since I’d stepped onto the mat, Blake’s smile faltered.
It lasted only a second.
But I noticed.
And then he raised his gloves.
Blake stood several feet away from me, moving
lightly across the mat.
I remained still, my hands resting loosely at my sides.
“Put your guard up,” he ordered.
“I don’t need you to teach me that.”
The room went quiet.
Near the back of the bleachers, an elderly man wearing a faded Navy veteran’s cap slowly leaned forward.
I hadn’t noticed him earlier.
He looked to be in his late seventies, with thinning white hair, weathered hands, and the observant expression of someone who had spent a lifetime paying attention to details other people overlooked.
His eyes moved
