On the playground, Traurig stared at the man two grades younger standing before him, kept observing without doing a single movement. The former raised his fists into a boxing guard, leading with his left hand. The latter stood with one foot forward and one foot back, his body slightly bent—left foot in front in a bow stance, while his right knee rested on the ground.
So it's a southpaw stance, Traurig thought.
The two men circled around a fixed point, keeping a distance of about 150 centimeters between them without approaching to each other. Measuring the distance and testing his opponent's reactions, Traurig threw several jabs out, and his opponent avoid all the jabs by keeping retreating, so Traurig stopped probing with them. Being unfamiliar with wrestling, he didn't want continue punching, afraid that the moment he would be slammed. The distance between them remained unchanged.
Let me try this out, Traurig thought.
He took two steps back, meanwhile, the man followed right after him.
Catching the moment his opponent was stepping forward, Traurig suddenly burst in, shooting out a probing jab. The opponent's forward momentum wasn't very strong; he braked slightly and came to a stop. Traurig raised his guard with both hands, lifted his knee, leaned back a little, eyes locked on the wrestler who stood a bit shorter than him. He snapped his hips forward—a straight front kick drove directly toward the wrestler's lower abdomen.
Because the man had only just stabilized his stance, he had no time to retreat. He quickly turned his guard inward to block, but was still kicked off balance and thrown to the ground. Traurig rushed in, sweeping his leg low, stopping it just ten centimeters from the wrestler's temple.
"Let's call it a day, Chu Ren. You don't want to do more than that."
Traurig reached out and helped Chu Ren up.
Traurig Eyre had black hair that was neither short nor long, with a few strands sticking to his fair forehead from sweat. He was an 11th-grade American high school student, 1.79 m tall and weighing 94 kg, though he looked about 10 kg lighter when he wore those clothes with drab and simple colors and pants which were always sweatpants. Because when he was clothed, he didn't show exaggerated muscle, just a large frame; he was fit but didn't appear overly heavy. Chu Ren was a ninth-grader, 1.71 m tall, weighing 76 kg, with long, even black hair and darker, brownish skin. He was a Junior Varsity member in the school's wrestling club. Due to their weight difference, Traurig had agreed to only use stand-up techniques only, instead of using wrestling.
At that moment, Traurig wore loose white casual pants and a gray T-shirt with black letters reading "What Can I Say," the knees of the pants already going black from contact with the floor. Chu Ren wore gray athletic shorts and a white T-shirt.
No one knew Traurig's fighting style.
"Rather than being unsteady, it looks more like you just gave up thinking about it and use your intuition instead. That is good—but yours doesn't really work in MMA. You could've sidestepped. You land on your butt, did you feel the pain?"
"No, we wrestlers are used to slamming into the floor every day, so that doesn't matter My arm got a bit scraped, though."
The memory of being lifted and slammed to his side by Chu Ren last time was still unforgettable, and Traurig marveled at how different wrestlers were. They chatted as they walked slowly off the playground.
This was an American high school with mostly Asian students in Washington State. By Traurig's account, competition was intense academically, yet athletics weren't bad —— though forget about football or similar sports. Traurig himself was academically advanced; he had even started learning linear algebra, though his grades were inconsistent. Maintaining a high GPA seemed unnecessary to him —— fighting was far more interesting than studying.
For now, it was time to go home. Surrounded by mountains, the school lay above Traurig's house at the foot of the hills. After parting with Chu Ren, he walked down toward the house.
His parents were in China for work, so Traurig lived with his grandparents. With them away and his sister gone, the large house was empty except for him. He took off his shoes and went down to the basement, sitting at the dining table. He pulled out his laptop from his backpack, intending to do his homework —— but watching some martial arts videos first seemed like a good idea to him. Today he decided to study a style known for its kicks.
He opened YouTube and typed:
Capoeira
In fact, Traurig was curious to try it, but thinking of his own weight, which is more than 80 kg, he doubted he could slam himself into the ground. After a moment, he gave up the idea of mimicking the moves. Instead, he moved to the side and practiced his own punching combinations:
left jab, right cross, left uppercut, right hook, left hook, backstep, high right sweep, low right sweep transitioning into the high sweep, spinning backward to strike an imaginary opponent with a left whip punch.
Realizing the whip punch didn't flow naturally into the next move, he stepped back a bit while resetting his boxing guard, keeping his eyes on his imaginary opponent.
Suddenly, the shadow opponent planted a left hand on the floor, launched the right leg, and did a 360-degree side flip. Seeing the distance close rapidly, Traurig stepped back, without realizing that the first flip was a feint. After landing, the shadow performed another side flip aimed at Traurig's neck. Unable to evade completely, Traurig crossed his arms above his looking-up face to block and, with whatever speed he can get to as possible as he can, trapped the opponent's ankle with a tiger-like grip, stabilizing his stance while preparing to pull and strike the other leg to tear at the opponent's ligaments. The imaginary opponent spun in midair, left foot kicking Traurig's chest. Traurig quickly twisted away from the ankle and stepped back, avoiding the kick. When he looked again, the shadow had vanished. He couldn't imagine more moves: the Brazilian martial art was still unfamiliar to him.
Sweat dripped from his hair, sometimes blurring his vision, but it didn't matter. Traurig was thoroughly and truly enjoying the moments. Every attempt is a moment of becoming more familiar with the technique. Even if he may never fly to in Brazil and have no so-called talent, even a fool —— after doing ten imaginary drills a day for thirty years —— can still defeat a champion.
In retrospect, he had done these drills a lot.
Afterward, he practiced alone for a while more, but progress was minimal. Finally understanding that he would not go any big forward to his goal, he returned to his homework. His taken-off jacket lay to the side, and the fluffy carpet was damp from his sweat.