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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jones, Patrick, 1961–
Side control / by Patrick Jones.
pages cm. — (The dojo ; #2)
ISBN 978–1–4677–0631–5 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978–1–4677–1632–1 (eBook)
[1. Mixed martial arts—Fiction. 2. Military service, Voluntary—Fiction.
3. African Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J7242Si 2013
[Fic]—dc23
2012042250
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 7/15/13
eISBN: 978-1-4677-1632-1 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-3302-1 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-3301-4 (mobi)
If you’re already a fan of mixed martial arts, in particular the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), then you’re probably familiar with moves like triangle choke, spinning heel kick, and Kimura. If not, check out the MMA terms and weight classes in the back of the book. You can also go online for videos of famous fights and training videos. Amateur fights are similar to the pros but require more protection for the fighters. While there are unified rules, each state allows for variation.
WELCOME TO THE DOJO.
STEP INSIDE.
“I’m sorry, Jackson, but I don’t think you’re ready,” the new army recruiter says.
Jackson James sinks into the hard chair as the recruiter stares at the computer screen.
“I’m not seeing what Corporal Davis saw.” Corporal Richards turns to Jackson, forehead scrunched. “Now, we’re not just talking about joining the army. Do you really think you have what it takes to apply for Special Forces duty?”
“Yes, sir!” Jackson controls his urge to salute the crew-cut-wearing white officer.
“Being in the Army Special Forces is part of being a team, but I see you played no team sports other than football, your freshman year, and you even quit that.”
“I’m training in mixed martial arts.” Jackson’s voice fills with pride. “Corporal Davis said it was the hardest physical training available and would best prepare me for Special Forces.”
“Maybe physical training, but the Special Forces are a team, understand?”
Jackson balls his fist. He doesn’t appreciate being talked to like a little boy when he’s turning eighteen in a few months.
“Let me ask, Jackson, why did you quit football your freshman year?”
Jackson pauses. It’s a trick question. If he’s looked at Jackson’s file, then he knows the answer. He’s testing Jackson’s honesty and integrity. “I didn’t quit. I got kicked off the team.”
The recruiter hesitates for a moment. “We don’t need discipline problems in Special Forces.”
“I wasn’t a discipline problem. I obeyed my coaches. But I got … arrested.”
“You have a juvenile record?” The recruiter raises an eyebrow. Jackson knows that look. It means the recruiter no longer sees a potential soldier but just another black kid from the hood—even though Jackson lives in the St. Louis burbs. His mom, a lawyer, is probably better educated than the recruiter. But that makes no difference.
Jackson exhales. “I was arrested, detained, and then released,” he says. “I tried to get back on the football team, but Coach Cole said he didn’t give second chances.”
No response from the corporal.
“It was a mistake.” Jackson wipes sweat from his brow, even though it’s a bitterly cold January day. “I was making bad choices and hanging with the wrong crowd.”
“Remember, son, you’re only as good as the company you keep.”
Jackson nods his head in agreement, thinking back to bad memories of before he joined the Missouri MMA dojo. He lacked purpose and self-confidence. “I know that now.”
“We like to see proof that recruits have the dedication to work together and work hard and the discipline to balance that with their schoolwork. Without any kind of team sports, I don’t see how you’re preparing yourself for this kind of challenge.”
“The dojo takes teamwork, sir. And trust,” Jackson replies, looking Corporal Richards in the eye. “Plus I’m doing better at school, and I’m working in MMA around that.” Jackson rubs his sore right shoulder. His judo instructor, Mr. Matsuda, almost tore if off demonstrating the Americana submission yesterday in his MMA class. Come to the dojo, Jackson thinks—I’ll show you a challenge. “I can pass the ASVAB.” Jackson sits up, chin thrust forward. He’s passed the practice military entrance exam many times, although he still struggles with the math section.
“And what about the physical exam? Are you prepared for that?”
Jackson leaps from the chair, takes off his green army jacket and his white T-shirt, and then sprawls onto the ugly brown carpet. “Fifty push-ups in two minutes. Time me.”
Corporal Richards laughs. “Jackson, you don’t need to do that.”
“Time me!”
“Fine, suit yourself.” Richards looks at his watch and then yells, “Go!”
By the time Richards yells stop, Jackson’s at fifty-four. “Now, sit-ups,” Jackson says.
Jackson clears sixty sit-ups a few seconds before time is up. Richards applauds, looking surprised. “That’s quite a performance. Now, use your last semester to show you can really dedicate yourself to school as well as your training, and stay away from bad influences, and then I’d probably recommend you for Special Forces.”
“Thanks.” Jackson puts his T-shirt and jacket back on and returns to the chair.
“It says here you first visited this office three years ago, so you must be ready to go.”
Jackson looks at the floor. “I am, but I might not sign up on my eighteenth birthday like I said.”
Richards leans across the desk. “Huh. I thought you were committed. What is it, a girl?”
“I wish,” Jackson mumbles. The girls in his MMA dojo are off-limits, and girls at school go for guys with more money.
“Then what’s the problem?” Corporal Richards presses.
“I am committed, but I like MMA too,” Jackson says. “I went to the dojo at first just for the training, but I like MMA and I’m good at it. Once I’m eighteen, I want to fight amateur status, and then maybe see if I can go pro. If not, then I’ll join right away. One way or another, Jackson James will be a Green Beret.”
“It helps that your father served his country. Special Forces, too—that’s a plus.”
Jackson looks at the posters on the wall with the words duty, honor, and sacrifice. The words pound Jackson like hammer fists from the mount. He takes a deep breath. “Sir, my father didn’t just serve his country. He died for it.”
“Ready?” Mr. Hodge asks Jackso
n. Jackson nods. Mr. Hodge asks the same question of Hector Morales, who stands across the ring from Jackson. Hector nods and bangs his gloves against his face. Jackson readjusts his sparring helmet and waits for the whistle.
Mr. Hodge blows the whistle, and Jackson rushes toward the center of the ring. He and Hector have sparred and trained together for two years. Along with Nong and Meghan, they’re the only ones left from Mr. Hodge’s first teen MMA program. In five months, they’ll all graduate from high school, but before that, they’ll turn eighteen and step into the cage for their first amateur fights.
Jackson circles Hector, looking to shoot, but Hector defends with offensive strikes. An overhand left doesn’t connect, nor does a right uppercut, but Hector lands a solid roundhouse kick in Jackson’s side. Jackson pounds his gloves together, angry at himself for taking the kick.
Of course Hector—a middleweight, two weight classes under Jackson—would be using his speed, Jackson thinks. He calls Hector a drive-by fighter because Hector does his damage and then gets away.
“Work, Hector, work!” Mr. Hodge yells out from Hector’s corner.
“Be aggressive, not angry. Control your emotions!” Mr. Matsuda shouts from Jackson’s corner. Jackson listens and then breathes to let his frustration go. When he entered the dojo at fifteen, he didn’t know how to fight. By obeying his coach’s orders, he’s grown into a skilled MMA warrior.
Hector lands a hard left hook and goes into the clinch. He wraps his hands around the back of Jackson’s neck and brings up his right knee. Jackson eats it but drops down, grabs Hector’s vulnerable left leg, and drives him hard to the mat. Both are fighting for position, but Jackson lands on top and fights his way to side control.
Jackson stretches his legs out behind him, driving Hector onto his back. With his left arm, Jackson tries to control Hector’s neck. He uses his right to throw short punches from the top.
“Move, Hector, move!” Mr. Hodge yells.
“Americana!” Mr. Matsuda yells, as if he’s reading Jackson’s mind. Jackson grabs Hector’s left wrist with his left arm. Then he wedges his elbow down the side of Hector’s head and pins Hector’s left arm down like a pretzel. Hector tries to straighten his arm out, but Jackson’s grip is tight. Even as Hector fights to regain control of his left, Jackson weaves his right hand under Hector’s left arm. Jackson brings his hands together and starts to crank when the whistle blows.
Jackson releases the hold and stands. He extends his hand to Hector and helps him to the mat. They touch gloves, then hug. “You’ve been working on submissions?” Hector asks.
Jackson nods as Hector returns to his corner to confer with Mr. Hodge.
“Great execution!” Mr. Matsuda pats Jackson on the back. “Side control is the key. Everybody wants a full mount, but that limits you. Side control gives your opponent nothing and leaves you with many options. It doesn’t win the fight, but it creates opportunities. Choose the right one and you win!”
“Can I talk to you, Mr. Hodge?” Jackson asks. The dojo master nods and hands Jackson a jump rope, and they jump together.
“My last semester of school is going to be tough,” Jackson says, sounding unsure.
“I see.”
“The army recruiter says I’ve got to focus on my schoolwork even more.”
Hodge picks up the pace of his jumping. The sweat starts to break along his scarred forehead. “Are you saying you need to quit?”
“I might just have to miss some nights,” Jackson mumbles.
“No, I need committed athletes. You’re so close to reaching your goal.”
“I’m still committed,” Jackson says. “But the army recruiter said—,”
“You do what you think is best,” Mr. Hodge says almost in a fatherly tone. The problem, Jackson thinks, is I don’t know what that is. He just knows what he wants to be: a Special Forces soldier like his father … and an MMA champion like Mr. Hodge.
Jackson throws down the jump rope and throws punches against the speed bag. The smack of his hands thunders over the other noise in the dojo. He doesn’t want to go against Mr. Hodge, but he doesn’t want to disregard Corporal Richards’s advice either. “How about if I also train on Saturdays with the adults?”
“That’s against my rules. You’re still a teenager and—,”
“I’ll almost eighteen,” Jackson says. “Besides, I need the challenge, better competition.” He punches the bag harder a few times to make his point and then turns to Mr. Hodge.
Mr. Hodge, still bouncing, stares at Jackson’s pleading eyes. Finally, he sighs. “Okay, we can try it.”
“Thanks,” Jackson says, relieved he didn’t need to beg.
“Jackson, you won’t be thanking me after the first time a grown man puts you to sleep.”
Jackson kisses his right glove, curls his face into his best scowl, and throws a vicious hook. “Ain’t no man gonna stop Jackson James from getting what he wants.”
Mr. Hodge stops jumping. “Only one person can beat you, Jackson. That person is you.”
“Jackson! Joseph! The James gang! What’s going on?” Hakeem offers his fist to Jackson and his little brother, Joseph. Jackson ignores it, but Joseph returns the gesture.
“Nothing. Just busy.” Jackson walks a little quicker, but Joseph slows down.
Hakeem follows Jackson and Joseph into the corner store. Once inside, Hakeem shadows Jackson, staying just behind. When they played football freshman year, Hakeem was quarterback, while Jackson snapped the ball. Hakeem still calls the plays on their block, but like Jackson, he hasn’t touched a football in years.
“Hurry up!” Jackson yells at Joseph and walks away from Hakeem.
Hakeem walks over to the magazine rack. He picks up a copy of Flex featuring a UFC fighter on the cover and shows it to Jackson, smirking. “Hey, look, is this you?”
“It’s Jon Jones,” Jackson says. He’s proud to share his initials with his idol.
“I bet to the people who put this magazine out, all brothers look alike,” Hakeem says.
“Looks more like me,” Joseph says. Three years apart, Jackson and Joseph could have once passed for twins, but years of MMA training have turned Jackson’s baby fat into solid muscle.
“So you’re like, all ultimate fighter, right? You think that makes you some kind of tough guy?” Hakeem asks. Jackson grunts a non-response and picks up some milk and soup for his mom. The prices at the corner store are high, but she hasn’t had time to get to a supermarket.
“What’s with you?” Hakeem grabs Jackson’s right arm. Jackson stares him down.
“You used to be fun. Now look at you, all serious,” Hakeem says and laughs. Jackson doesn’t join in. Hakeem finally walks away as Jackson grabs a few more cans off the shelves. He takes everything to the counter and hands over a twenty. The counter guy takes the money but never takes his eyes off Jackson. When Jackson opens the door to leave, Hakeem cuts in front of him. Joseph follows quickly behind Jackson. Jackson senses the counter guy is still watching him.
“That place is a rip-off,” Jackson mutters as they walk across the store’s parking lot.
“I know, so I returned the favor.” Hakeem unzips his black hoodie. Inside are three candy bars. He hands one each to Jackson and Joseph. “Like I said, just like old times.”
Jackson’s hungry—he’s always hungry—but he waves it off. Hakeem rips the wrapper off his candy bar, tosses it onto the snowy sidewalk, and devours the candy in four bites.
Jackson hits Hakeem with another hard stare before he bends over to pick up the candy wrapper.
“I’ll take his,” Joseph says. Hakeem hands the third candy bar to Joseph. Jackson frowns.
“We’re mobbing that store tomorrow night, if you want in,” Hakeem says.
Jackson walks faster with his head down. “Listen, Hakeem, leave us alone.”
Hakeem grabs Jackson’s arm and squeezes. “Or else? What you gonna do about it?”
Jackson gives his fiercest scowl and lifts Hakeem’s hand off his arm. “Whatever I want.”
“I don’t know,” Hakeem says as a smirk spreads across his face. “Seems like all you want is to be a good little soldier.”
Joseph laughs but stifles it quickly.
Jackson stares at Hakeem and then at Joseph. “Joseph, let’s go!” Jackson’s voice booms as he starts jogging toward home. When he doesn’t hear Joseph behind him, he turns and sees Hakeem walking the other way, with Joseph following one step behind.
Jackson thinks of chasing after Joseph, but he walks home instead. He could warn Joseph about Hakeem, but it wouldn’t do any good. The only way a person learns anything, Jackson thinks—in the cage or outside of it—is by making painful mistakes.
“Look at the new fish,” Nong says quietly to Jackson and laughs too loud. They’re doing pull-ups before practice. Hector jumps rope nearby, while Meghan smashes her fists into the heavy punching bag, hitting harder and talking less than anyone except Jackson. As usual.
Jackson glances at Mr. Hodge talking to four new students. The latest generation. Jackson couldn’t even have gotten into the dojo’s teen program with Mr. Hodge’s current rules requiring new students to have experience in one MMA field. All Jackson had when he started was strength and an eye toward making Special Forces.
“Hey, Meghan, you got some competition!” Nong says and points toward the tall, blonde girl and a shorter black girl. “Maybe one of you can finally get a girlfriend.”
“You know Mr. Hodge doesn’t allow that,” Hector says. Jackson mumbles in agreement as he stares at the shorter girl. He’s seen her around North High. Tyresha Harris, a senior.
“I’m hitting the dummy.” Jackson adjusts his gloves, then walks over and picks up one of the heavy wrestling dummies. He hurls it to the mat in a textbook back throw and starts punching. In the black dummy canvas, he sees Hakeem’s face. Right, left, right.
“Jackson, let’s use that energy elsewhere!” Mr. Hodge shouts and waves Jackson over.
Side Control (The Dojo) Page 1