The Ones Who Knew

It was when we were sitting in class together that I saw the bruises on his arms.

Specific points all along the inside of the forearm.

There was no way it could be anything else.

After class I asked him, and if he was surprised he didn’t let on.

Budo.

Different art, different teacher, but it was the same.

We should start practicing together.

Since we were in the same classes and had the same schedule it was easy to find two times to get together. After class on Tuesday and Friday, before lunch we would go over to the University gym and practice in one of the racquetball courts.

No instruction, no teaching, just throw a punch and see what happens.

This was the first time outside of the dojo that I met somebody that matched my commitment, matched what I saw.

Such people do exist.

One day at lunch he asked what I thought about brining another to the practice, which would change it to a group. His girlfriend knew another girlfriend of a guy who, in her words, did crazy stuff like us practicing martial arts all the time.

We both agreed, invite him to practice and we’ll know his heart right away if he come back next week.

Now our group had three.

If we were now a group we needed call signs, something to talk about in code outside the group, half in jest and half in seriousness.

He gave me the name Warmachine.

The guy from the comic books?

No.

Something different, as all I every seemed to do was practice budo. Why was I even in college anyway? True, but budo isn’t going to keep a roof over my head, and if I tried that someday, it would become contaminated and compromised.

I gave him the name Vagabond.

Vagabond?

I always found him in the arcades in the are playing Street Fighter and other fighting games.

One of my fellow deshi in the dojo who also attended the same University started seeing us hanging around campus together and he asked who they were.

Budo demands total honesty so I told him.

He wanted to know if he could join the group, why didn’t I tell him what I was up to? We were dojo mates.

I’d have to ask the group, but before I could he had invited himself.

Throw a punch and see what happens slowly changed to being critiqued and told what to do. The punches, kicks, and grabs came in a little faster, but they still missed the point of shut up and train.

It was an interesting dynamic, as I was his sempai in the dojo, but here in the group, out in the court it was a different dynamic.

During one session, when I noticed somebody watching us from the seating above the court I knew it would sort itself out shortly.

Vagabond noticed the woman also, so he hit him harder as we practiced.

Eventually it was back to the three of us.

One training session we arrived to find the courts closed for renovation, so we needed to find a new spot to practice, what about a different place each time to make it more real? There were lots of cool places on campus we could crash and practice in.

Word began to spread about a martial arts group being seen at random places on campus, most of which we were not allowed to be in, so we settled for a basement room in one of the lecture halls.

We kept a lookout for a fourth but never found anybody.

I never really thought about graduation, but there it was as senior week approached, and now it looked like we would be going our separate ways.

My friend was heading off to California to code, Vagabond had enlisted, and I was staying where I was in the city as there was no way I could leave the dojo.