“Don’t listen to those old birds. You look like a dumbass.”
I can’t hold back my laughter. “Hello to you, too, Peter. What brings you by? You don’t normally join in with the seniors’ class.”
Peter’s eyes slide to another of the elderly women, a newcomer named Sarah, before fixing me with a glare. “Never mind that. Just get to it. I’d like to see what you think makes a good class. Since you don’t seem to be taking well to my coaching, that is,” he adds in a whisper before strollingover to take the spot next to Sarah.
“Hey, Coach. Sorry I’m late.” My newest fighter, Jared, jumps to a stop next to me, tying his long hair into a knot on his head while his eyes scan the room. “I fell asleep. It won’t happen again.”
My face screws up in concern.
This is Jared’s first training camp, but not his first time away from home at only sixteen years old. He’s bounced around foster homes for the last ten years, but this is his first time away from a home that he will go back to. He’s not much older than I was the first time I left home for training, and because of that, I may have a soft spot for him.
“Am I working you too hard? We can take longer to ease into it, if you need. I know you’re not used to working out quite this much.”
He looks at me sheepishly. “Nah. That’s okay. It’s my fault. I was up too late talking to my girlfriend. She was upset.” He sighs. “She still doesn’t like me being so far away. She thinks I’ll meet someone else while I’m here.”
I take a deep breath and choose my next words carefully. “You know yourself better than I do, kid. But you’re here until the end of the school year. That can either be a really long time, or no time at all. That depends on you. But I’ll tell you this; it’ll seem a hell of a lot longer if you’re not getting a proper night’s sleep. You won’t get the most out of it if you don’t fully commit to the program. That includes a healthy sleep routine.”
“Yeah, Coach. I know.” He won’t look me in the eye. I have a feeling he’ll have a few more issues with his girlfriend before he figures out what it is he really wants. When you’re first starting out, the life of a professional fighter doesn’t leave much time for a love life. Ask me how I know. “I’ll do better.”
I clap a hand on his shoulder and give him a gentle push. “Good. Now go help these folks get set up for class.” Jared joins a group of women and helps them get set up with the equipment we’ll be using for their class today.
When I first approached the activity director of the seniors’ home about hosting exercise classes for their residents, they were understandably hesitant. Having a six foot four muscle bound meathead tell you he wants to put on exercise classes for a group of people in their seventies and eighties at his MMA gym has got to be a scary experience for the average activity director. When she realized I had no intention of strapping the old folks into gloves and shoving them into the cage to battle to thedeath, she was all for it. Getting elderly people interested in physical activity can be difficult, especially here in Tuft Swallow, where the only sport anyone pays any attention to is cornhole. I surprised her with my detailed plan to get them involved, in a reduced capacity, in martial arts. I wasn’t sure how popular it would be, but we have new students joining in every week, and watching them stream off the transport bus and into the gym is the best feeling.
Second best now, I suppose. Tina looking at me like she wants to eat me for dinner has moved way up to the top of my list. But I need to put those thoughts aside for later. I’m not wearing the right clothing to be getting turned on. Even more so than my running shorts, the compression shorts I’m wearing leave little to the imagination.
“Okay, are we all here?” I call out. An enthusiastic “yes” goes up from the group, followed by a grumpy “get on with it” from Peter. I chuckle and shake my head. At least he’s consistent. “Okay, guys. Let’s get warmed up.”
After the warmup, I have Jared to lead the group through a modified Tai Chi program. While he demonstrates the movements, I talk to each of the seniors, helping them make further modifications as needed, and before I know it, class is over.
“Which one of these ducks is you?” Miss Martha yells at me from near the gym’s entrance. She’s pointing at the mural taking up the entire wall depicting a fight in progress, complete with a cheering crowd, refs in striped shirts, fighters, and various coaches and trainers. Chloe, who apparently also works with Tina, painted it before we opened. She was the second person I contracted for services when I moved to town, the first being Peter. He’s the one who recommended her, in fact.
“You can’t tell?” I yell back. “I’m the winner, of course.”
Miss Martha pushes her glasses up on her nose and takes a closer look at the mural. There, in the center of the ring, is my likeness, in duck form of course, with my arm being held up in victory by the duck referee. How can you tell it’s me? Duck me has the same haircut, buzzed on the sides and longer on top, the same tattooed arms, and even though you can barely see it because of the angle, the same rubber duck fighter tattoo on his lower back. Other than the fact that he’s a duck, he looks just like me.
“You have a weird obsession with ducks.” Peter is next to me, hands thrust into one of the many sets of pockets in his khaki cargo pants. “It’s not normal for a grown man to have this many toys, you know.” He gestures to the trophy case full of rubber duckies and championship belts near the reception desk. “That’s supposed to be for trophies. Not toys.”
My heart swells when I look at my babies, and by babies, I don’t mean my championship belts. Sure, I’m proud of my belts. Being an undefeated heavyweight champion after so many years in the business is quite a feat. It’s a hard life. Tough on the mind and tough on the body. The fact that I made it to thirty-eight years old, and retirement, without injury is something worth celebrating. Never losing was just icing on the cake. But either way, the belts are not what I’m most proud of in that case. No, that spot belongs to my babies.
My rubber duck family.
When I was a kid in Tuft Swallow, struggling to find my place as a martial artist in a town preoccupied with cornholers, my lack of cornhole prowess marked me as an outsider. An Odd Duck. A label I adopted as my own, becoming the odd duck both in and out of the ring.
I was one of those fighters who genuinely loved the sport. I loved being in the ring, and I loved my opponents. When I knocked a guy out, I was the first one checking to see if hewas okay, a fact that many a ref took issue with until they learned that I actually was concerned. In post-fight interviews, I had nothing but nice things to say about my opponents, always expressing gratitude and humility that they’d given me the chance to go toe to toe with them, never mind that I was the champ. I always had compliments for my team, their team, and all the refs and announcers, too. On more than one occasion, I sent food to all the people involved in putting a fight on, from the director of the venue, to the people who worked the concession stands. I loved being a fighter, and I appreciated everyone who worked hard to allow me to do it as my job, and I had no problem showing it every chance I could.
And out of the ring? Well, out of the ring, I have amassed the second largest rubber duck collection in North America. It all started when a fan, a young kid, saw me out shopping for groceries a couple of days after one of my fights. He came up to me, held out his little hand, and gave me a rubber duck. He told me I was his favorite fighter, not because I was big, and not because I always won, but because I was so nice to the other fighters after. He said he wanted to grow up to be an odd duck like me. When I finally got the tears under control, his dad told me he’d insisted on bringing that duck everywhere since he first saw me fight.
That duck still has pride of place in my trophy case, above all the other ducks and every belt I’ve ever won. It’s not something many people understand, but I’m lucky to be a big enough guy that few people have the guts to call me on it. Few people other than Peter, anyway.
“You know the story, Peter.”
He scoffs. “Yeah, yeah. I know. A kid gave you a duck, then you cried. Doesn’t mean you needed to keep it. And it certainly doesn’t mean you needed to collect a bunch more of the ridiculous things, fill a trophy case, and make it your entirepersonality.” Without waiting for an answer, he storms away to board the transport back to the seniors’ home, leaving me shaking my head.
He’s gruff, but I know he’s not nearly as mean as he pretends to be. I’ll get through to him one of these days. At least, I will if he doesn’t drop me as a cornhole student first. And Peter dropping me is a distinct possibility, because in the six months he’s been coaching me, I haven’t improved at all. It might be time for me to admit that I am not made for cornhole. I wonder if I could take part in the cornhole league in some other capacity? Because at this rate, they won’t let metry outfor the team, never mind let me actually play for them.
He's An Open Book, He Says
Tina
