April 2010. The countdown was on. It was exactly one week before the Regional Karate Tournament.

  Since my primary event was Kumite—full-contact sparring—my training regimen completely changed. My Sensei put me on a strict taper. He forbade me from doing any heavy lifting or intense bag work. My days were reduced to dynamic stretching, light shadowboxing, and forced physical rest.

  I hated resting. It made me anxious.

  The previous year, I had torn through the local city tournament and easily secured 1st pce. Because of that dominant run, my Sensei was pushing me into the regional circuit. Honestly, I wanted to skip Regionals entirely and register for the prestigious US Open happening ter this month. But Sensei had ft-out forbidden it. He told me my technique was sharp, but my mind wasn't ready.

  It was a compromise: if I could prove my discipline and reach the finals at the Regional Tournament this weekend, he would give me the green light to compete in the US Nationals in July.

  Two days before the tournament, Sensei ordered me to stay out of the Dojo completely. To keep me from going crazy with boredom, the boys came over to my house to hang out.

  **

  "So why didn't you just enter the US Open anyway?" Tyson asked, tossing a basketball between his massive hands as he sat on my living room floor.

  "My Sensei forbade me. He said I’m not ready yet," I grumbled, sinking deeper into the couch.

  "Is it a ranking thing? Do you have to win Regionals and Nationals first to qualify?"

  "No, there's no prerequisite. I could have registered," I sighed, staring at the ceiling. "I wanted to go, but Sensei insisted I need to take the Regional level first to test my discipline."

  "Well, he's right. It’s because you’re a complete hothead when you spar, bro," Alvin chimed in from the kitchen counter.

  "Hey! That’s bullshit, man!" I shot back, sitting up.

  "Dude." Alvin adjusted his gsses, giving me a deadpan look. "Did you miraculously forget that you almost got permanently disqualified at the st tournament? You literally tried to hit your opponent with an illegal knee strike to the face."

  Tyson stopped tossing the basketball. "Whoa, whoa. You’re crazy, Daeron! You can't throw knees to the head in point sparring! Why the hell did you do that?"

  "Because his opponent taunted him, and Daeron completely snapped," Alvin answered matter-of-factly. "You were incredibly lucky the guy slipped on the mat before your strike actually nded, Daeron."

  "Ah, come on!" I argued, my competitive pride fring up. "That guy was a prick! He kept talking trash! He should have been disqualified for poor sportsmanship!"

  "Yeah, but he was trash-talking you in the hallway before the match," Alvin reasoned fwlessly. "You tried to take his head off in the middle of the actual fight."

  "See? Sometimes you act like a complete madman, brah! You're a total psycho!" Jones cackled from the beanbag chair, kicking his feet in the air.

  "Fuck. You. Clown." I gred at him, holding up my middle finger. "Like you have room to talk! You and your tiny dick aren't exactly setting records either!"

  Gasp. Jones froze. He stood up slowly, clutching his chest as if I had just shot him. "FUCK YOU, MAN!!!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "MY DICK IS PERFECT!! MANY GIRLS WORSHIP IT!"

  "What girls?!" I ughed, throwing a pillow at his head. "Eighty-year-old blind women?!"

  "FUCK YOU!! I DEMAND A JALAPENO CHALLENGE THIS INSTANT, YOU PEASANT!!!" Jones roared, pointing a trembling finger at the kitchen. "Let’s see if you actually have the balls to back up that trash talk!!"

  The competitive switch in my brain instantly flipped. "BRING IT ON!!!!" I yelled, jumping off the couch.

  Tyson watched us storm into the kitchen, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. "My God. These two are so fucking stupid."

  "It can’t be helped, man," Alvin said, sliding off the kitchen stool and grabbing his car keys. "I’m going to drive to the gas station to buy some milk before those two idiots die from capsaicin poisoning."

  Alvin's milk was a valiant effort, but it wasn't enough. That night, Jones and I both ended up entirely defeated, fighting for our lives in our respective bathrooms with severe diarrhea.

  **

  The day of the Regional Tournament arrived with a freezing, overcast morning.

  I sat on the wooden bench in the competitor's prep area, wrapping my hands and stretching my hamstrings with my Sensei’s team. It was a brutal, one-day gauntlet: First Round, Quarterfinals, Semifinals, and Finals.

  A quiet, lingering disappointment sat in my chest. My parents were still overseas on a business trip, meaning my chairs in the family section were empty again. But that disappointment vanished the second I heard a familiar, obnoxious shouting from the upper bleachers.

  I looked up. The crew had arrived. Jessica was waving frantically, but I almost burst out ughing at the boys. Alvin and Jones had actually shown up fully cospying as characters from the Tekken video games. They were jumping around like absolute monkeys, screaming my name. Sitting next to them, Tyson had his hood pulled up tightly over his head, looking like he wanted to sink through the bleachers and die of embarrassment.

  They were absolute idiots, but they were my idiots. I couldn't help but smile.

  "Kid. Focus," Sensei’s stern voice snapped me back to reality. He crouched in front of me, locking eyes. "Leave the crowd behind. No unnecessary showboating out there. Hit, secure the point, and retreat. Keep your heart rate down and stay perfectly calm."

  "Osu!" I nodded sharply, standing up to adjust my gi.

  1st match.

  I stepped onto the blue and red tatami mat.

  My first opponent jogged to his mark. He was roughly my height, but my eyes automatically scanned his proportions. He had a long torso and a low center of gravity. That meant his legs were retively short. His kicking reach was a severe disadvantage against me.

  My tactical pn formed instantly: maintain an outside defensive stance, bait him into stepping forward, and exploit my superior reach.

  The referee stepped to the center line. "Kamaete!" We both dropped into our fighting stances. I kept my guard standard and neutral, intentionally giving him nothing to read.

  "Shobu Hajime!" The referee’s hand chopped down.

  The opponent rushed forward aggressively. His stance was tight; he clearly intended to slip inside my kicking range and use his fists to score quick points. I let him close the distance, briefly shifting my hips into an offensive posture.

  It was a trap. He took the bait immediately, lunging forward to throw a straight punch.

  I didn't block. I instantly shifted my weight to my back foot, executing a sharp side-step to let his fist sail harmlessly past my shoulder. In the same fluid motion, I chambered my leg and unched a brutal, swift side kick directly into his exposed ribs.

  "Yame!" The referee halted the match. The strike was clean and uncontested. I was awarded 2 points (Waza-ari).

  I reset at my starting line, keeping my breathing steady. I looked at the opponent. He wasn't angry; his face was perfectly calm. That was dangerous. A calm fighter is a thinking fighter. I had to remain cautious.

  "Tsuzukete. Hajime!"

  The match resumed. This time, he didn't rush. He bounced lightly on his toes, trying to decipher my rhythm. His arms were hanging a fraction too x—he wasn't going to punch this time.

  My eyes dropped to his feet. His right heel was hovering half an inch off the mat, and his body weight was loaded heavily onto his right leg. It was a massive telegraph. He was preparing to fire a front kick.

  I pre-empted him. I shifted all my weight to my left leg. A microsecond before his front foot left the mat, I pivoted hard on my left heel, rotated my hips, and whipped a lightning-fast roundhouse kick (Mawashi Geri) directly at his head. The top of my foot spped cleanly against his cheek guard before he could even raise his arm.

  "Yame!"

  The referee stopped the clock. A clean, undefended head kick. 3 points (Ippon).

  The score was 5-0. I gnced at the coach's box. Sensei gave me a single, sharp nod. I knew the math. In sport Karate, an 8-point lead results in an immediate technical win. I just needed one more head kick, and I could end the match early and save my stamina.

  I stepped back to the line. I looked across the mat. The opponent’s calm facade was gone. His shoulders were rigid, and his eyes were darting nervously between my hands and my feet. He was broken. Got you.

  "Tsuzukete. Hajime!"

  The referee started the third exchange. The opponent was desperate and completely predictable. He threw caution to the wind and charged me, throwing a wild, looping right hook just to get on the scoreboard.

  I simply stepped backward, letting his momentum carry him into the empty space. I chambered my leg and fired a swift left side kick high, the edge of my foot spping sharply against the side of his neck.

  He stumbled backward. Suddenly, he grabbed his neck, dropping to one knee and groaning in exaggerated agony.

  Shit. My stomach dropped. He was faking an injury. If the referee thought I had used uncontrolled, excessive contact, I would be hit with a severe penalty or even disqualified.

  "Yame!"

  I stood at attention, my heart hammering in my chest as the referee stepped in. I watched him evaluate the "injured" fighter. The referee wasn't buying the theatrical performance for a second.

  He turned toward me, raised his fg high, and shouted, "Aka Ippon!" Relief and adrenaline flooded my veins. Another 3 points. The score was 8-0. The match was officially over by technical win.

  After the formal closing bows, I walked off the mat and headed straight for the corner. I looked up into the stands; the boys and Jessica were screaming and cheering wildly. A proud smile broke across my face.

  "Sit. Breathe slowly," Sensei commanded, handing me a towel. "Do not let the adrenaline spike. Don’t get too excited."

  I sat down, draped the towel over my head, and focused entirely on my breathing. Sensei was absolutely right. If I let the high of a single victory cloud my mind, it would lead to a fatal mistake in the next round.

  I had survived the first stage. I still had three more wars to fight before I could take the gold.

  2nd match.

  The Quarterfinals. The mat felt smaller this time.

  My second opponent stepped up to his line. I had scouted him during the first round; he was a pure tactician who had dismantled his opponent for a fwless technical win. There were no amateurs left in this bracket.

  For the first sixty seconds, the match was an agonizing game of physical chess. The scoreboard read 4-3, my lead. I had secured my 4 points through two lightning-fast body kicks. But the opponent had drawn first blood, slipping a brilliant crescent kick past my guard to graze my forehead for an Ippon (3 points).

  Because he scored first, he held the Senshu advantage. In sport Kumite, if the match ends in a tie, the fighter with Senshu wins the tiebreaker. I couldn't afford to py defensively. If I let the clock run out on a tie, I would be eliminated.

  Even through my peripheral vision, I could see Sensei leaning tensely over the coach's barrier. The boys in the bleachers had stopped making noise.

  "Hajime!"

  The referee restarted the bout. The opponent bounced lightly, his stance high. He was hunting for another head kick to end the match. I inched forward slowly, suffocating his distance so he wouldn't have the leverage to extend his leg.

  He didn't force it. He took a subtle half-step backward, baiting me to follow him into the open space. I took the bait.

  Crack. Before my front foot even pnted, he dropped his elevation and fired a stiff, perfectly timed reverse punch (Gyaku Zuki) straight into my sor plexus.

  "Yame!"

  Fuck. The referee awarded him the point. The scoreboard fshed: 4-4.

  As we reset at the center lines, the opponent looked at me and fshed a subtle, knowing smirk. He had exactly what he wanted. He was going to stall. He didn't need to score again; he just needed to run away until the clock died.

  "Ato Shibaraku!" The referee blew his whistle, holding his hand up. Fifteen seconds remaining.

  My heart hammered against my ribs. If I didn't nd a clean strike right now, my tournament was over. My US National dreams were dead.

  "Hajime!"

  I threw out my traditional stance. I dropped my center of gravity low, adopting a loose, unpredictable posture. The opponent’s smirk vanished; he immediately started backpedaling, refusing to engage.

  I didn't chase him. I lunged forward and faked a vicious foot sweep (Ashibarai).

  Human instinct took over. His eyes darted down to my sweeping leg, and he dropped his hands to brace his bance. It was the fatal error I needed.

  Using my sweeping leg as a sudden anchor, I pivoted sharply, turning my back to him, and fired a blind, spinning back kick (Ushiro Geri) straight up into his blind spot. My heel connected cleanly against the padding of his cheek.

  "Yame!"

  The referee thrust his red fg straight up into the air. "Aka Ippon!"

  A massive roar erupted from the bleachers behind me. Tyson and Jones were screaming. 3 points. The scoreboard flipped to 7-4. I had stolen the lead.

  With less than five seconds left, the opponent was the one panicking.

  "Hajime!"

  He lunged forward with reckless desperation, throwing a massive reverse roundhouse kick at my head. I didn't even try to counter. I just parried his calf, side-stepped smoothly out of his range, and let the clock bleed out.

  BZZZZZT.

  The long buzzer echoed through the gymnasium. I exhaled a massive breath of relief. I bowed to the opponent, turned, and walked back to my corner.

  "Good read on the sweep," Sensei said, handing me my water bottle before I even sat down. "But your guard was too wide on that reverse punch. Tighten it up. You're in the Semifinals now."

  I nodded, wiping my face with a towel.

  "Get your breathing under control," Sensei warned, his eyes narrowing as he looked across the gymnasium. "Your next opponent is a local legend. He won't fall for a feint like that."