My son and I were both black belts in the art, although at different levels—I had begun teaching him when he was nine—and we both served as instructors there as much as our schedules would allow. Lately, my schedule hadn’t even allowed for much in the way of workouts. Mike met me there and the two of us sparred with a group of black belts who regularly met there on Tuesday evenings. I was rusty and needed the workout badly. My son almost beat me, but the old lady was still ahead and I proved I could teach him a few things. When we were done with the workout, we cleaned up and buzzed over to one of our favorite Tex-Mex joints to meet Tommy. He was crunching on tostadas and gulping down gallons of tea when we arrived. Mike and I ordered water and tea, too. The waiter brought our beverages, and we ordered our food. “So, who won the big sparring match tonight?” Tommy asked. Mike cleared his throat, and gave Tommy the corner eye shot that silently told him, “Don’t go there, man.”
