Akting Out

I’m at work late last week when my phone begins to vibrate. Instinctively, I reach for it, thinking it may be my kids. Instead, it’s out of the 816 area code…
Immediately, I begin to assume the worst. I’ve always feared (hoped?) that someone from the old life would come looking for me, hoping to settle up. But I severed ties with the old life years ago, and when I left, I made sure I owed no one.

Phone in hand, I beeline to the breakroom, trying to figure out why someone in Kansas City would be looking for me. I check my voicemail and a slightly familiar voice is on my recorder—and he calls me out by name. My real name. He sounds brain-damaged or something, and I can hear a woman coaching him in the background. He doesn’t wanna fight, he tells me, and he would just like to talk to me.

My fears subside as I try to remember where I know this voice. I figure I have a few minutes to kill, so I punch in the number and tell the man that answers that I’m returning his call.
He sounds happy to hear from me, asking if I remember who he is. Unfortunately, I don’t, but I get the idea I’m talking to an opponent. The woman continues to coach him on…and when he gives me his name, it clicks. Not his name, but the way he says it. The rapid speech and arrogant inflection that made me think he was from Brooklyn or something. I’m overcome by a number of positive emotions as we try to cram almost eight years into five minutes.

And then it hit me; that was eight years ago…

Has that much time gone by? It makes sense; I’m about the age he was when we met. It was a sunny day not far from the shelter I was staying at in Kansas City. My youngest son had just been born. We had just been evicted. The fight was hastily planned (if you can call it planning), but both “Jason” and I needed the money. He got twenty percent if I won, and odds were three-to-one against me. As always.

We met on this barren field where the grass was dying. The homeless used it to sleep if they didn’t make it to the shelter on time. During the day, it was a shantytown of sorts.
He was muscular, lean, and gray. That was the first thing that hit me; this guy had short, curly, black hair that was beginning to turn gray! What the hell was he doing out here?!
He also looked like the illegitimate son of Sylvester Stallone and John Turturro, with black eyes, bad teeth, and a triangular-shaped head. He had reach, too.

He took one look and started berating me (at least, that’s what I thought at the time). He looked to his contact and kept asking who the “kid” was. He was here for a “real fight” and he wasn’t gonna beat up on “some kid”. And me, being my cool, level-headed self, responded in kind. He shut me up quick, saying that he wasn’t disrespecting me; he didn’t wanna hurt me. Go home, he said, do something real with myself. I shouldn’t be out here.

I asked him if he was scared. That made him mad. He gave up, and the fight was on.
I don’t remember much of the fight. He could hit. That was his strength; he could hit harder than you could. And he could take more damage than you could. You could stand toe-to-toe with him and I guarantee you that he’d knock you down first. Trust me on this.

In fact, I remember that vividly. I took a left cross, but before I could recover from that, he caught me again with a right. It felt like my brain exploded in my head and I could feel the force of the world spinning. It was like I hadn’t had enough time to recover from the first blow before taking the second. He knocked me down and knocked my hat off my head. I thought I was so cool when he knocked me down (again) and I rolled back to my feet, replacing my hat and telling him; “Okay, let’s go.”

Oh, what the hell. That was cool.

The moments we were in close were intense and insanely fun. I made it a point to never take two shots in a row from him and his balance was lousy. He was a hitter, I thought I was a martial artist. He had no answer when I started kicking.

But at one point, I caught him in the stomach when he was rushing me, and when he doubled over, I punched him in the back of the skull—which was a really bad idea. I screamed as every bone in my hand splintered, or that’s what it felt like. I couldn’t have unclenched my fist even if I wanted to. I hurt myself more him.

The fight finally ended when I caught him with a butterfly kick to the side of the head. I got back up. He didn’t. Jason and I collected our winnings and that was that…

Talking to him a week ago, my conscience crept on me. His words were perpetually slurred, and the woman in the background had to coach him through most of his speech. Did I help do this?
When I told him that I was working (ironically, back in Missouri), settled down (sort of), and off the streets, he actually laughed. He kept saying, “Good for you. Good for you.”

When I was training Tim and Ashley, I tried to talk them both out of the life. I understand now that back then, when I was young and stupid, he was trying to do the same to me. I have no romantic illusions about fighting or being homeless. Truthfully, there are only three possible outcomes. One requires that you beat the odds, the other two are not pleasant. One of them is fatal.

But we all wound up okay in the end, didn’t we?
So I sign off for now; I have to work in the morning.

This blog is dedicated to Pat Mason, a good fighter who was kind enough to look me up after all these years just to see if I was alright.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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I’ve been studying martial arts for over twenty years. I don’t think it’s fair to say that I am a martial artist. There’s nothing artful about what I do, or how I move. I see something, I react, normally in violence. Recently, I have learned not to react with the maximum amount of violence to every hostile situation, but I still have a long way to go.

Without going into too many details, yesterday, I got into a brief altercation. In hindsight, I was probably set up. Someone in my building stepped towards me from around the corner very unexpectedly, and I knocked him down. I was not looking for a fight; it was a reflex action to respond to a perceived threat with violence.

I could list the problems I’ve had with this guy before, but nothing changes the fact that I felt horrible about it. The man is forty years older than me.

So…that made me think.
I was always criticized by my various teachers for not having any form to my technique. I never saw a point to form, to be honest; form never got me anywhere in a fight. Also, I have never understood (nor tried to) the idea of learning to fight so you don’t have to fight. To me, that just doesn’t make any sense.

Isn’t that why we study? To defend ourselves, and those we love?
I learned how powerful techniques can become the more you practice them, and as such, I’ve learned to control myself in a fight, so I don’t do mortal damage to someone. I’ve always thought that it was awesome; to be able to hone your body into a lethal weapon, just as destructive as a bullet. Even more awesome is your ability to control your power, and use it to other achieve other means. My training plays a big role in keeping my blood sugar down.

I figured that once I learned to knock someone out, instead of shattering their jaw, I had a pretty good grasp on martial arts.

But I still have a long way to go, don’t I…?

I claim to want peace. Then again, I’d have no idea what to do with it.

If I’m not training to fight, then why am I training? And why do I still enjoy it so much?
What does this whole “training so you don’t have to fight” mean?

These are questions I seek answers to as I continue my training. Usually I work on speed and power. Today I slowed things down (not used to that at all), allowed my techniques to come slowly, and went through the forms I’d been taught. As I did this, I could feel the answers at the edge of my mind, trying to break in.

I know this ties into my future success, too; learning to approach the world peacefully instead of waiting for an adversary.

And so, as my training continues, I hope for peace and answers, praying I’ll be ready to accept it, knowing I won’t be aware when I do.

Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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I really wanted to throw something together at the last minute that reflected everything that’s gone on this past week. I just needed to find the right setting. I turned on “Reinterpretation” off of the stellar (and free) soundtrack to Super Street Fighter 2 Turbo HD Remix and here we go.

It always traces back to a game…

After all the drama, once again, I finished the next chapter of Universal Warrior at the last minute and got it off in time for Molly to edit before posting. I was then hit with a hard dose of reality—most of you know about it already—that sent me into a nice little depression.

What does all this mean?

This was what I kept asking myself, as, in nearly blind rage, I sent my left fist into the tile wall of my bathroom over and over and over again, until I looked to the tile and saw red. The tile hadn’t even slightly cracked, as though it was oblivious to my presence, but my knuckles had been worn down. Skin was missing.

I can see someone coming from almost a mile off. I can associate people with how they smell. I can size up people by watching them walk. I can tell someone’s lying before they open their mouth. I can take someone’s arm and sprain it, break it, or make it completely unusable for the rest of their lives.

And none of this means anything any more. The hunter has no prey.

It would be easy to say that the hunter has no place in this world, and maybe it’s true. But since I’m not going anywhere soon, my dilemma was finding the bright side. I’m not one for self-pity. I don’t have time to waste like that.

I feel like I get penalized a lot harder when I break the rules. I admit that I screwed up when I lost my job, but why is it other people did worse and were retained? I walked off of my job site to try to be there for the girl I was with at the time and I got fired. Fair enough, I broke the rules. My former supervisor was caught receiving oral gratification from an underage girl in the stairwell and he was transferred. How the fuck does this make sense?

Wait, I’ll tell you.
Had I not lost my job, I wouldn’t have been able to launch Universal Warrior, I wouldn’t have gotten into freelancing, and I wouldn’t have met Molly, whom, even if I wasn’t dating, is still one hell of an editor. Odd, but it all adds up.

So faced with the reality that I just barely edge by in a month, I was finally forced to acknowledge something I had known for awhile. It’s funny how saying something aloud makes it real.

I will be in Jefferson City for, at the very most, one more year.
If I wanted to throw everything I had into moving to St. Louis in a couple of months, I could—but it wouldn’t make any sense. At the end of this year, my credit rating will significantly improve. Opportunities will open up in January 2010. But that’s not what really got me.

My children are growing up without me. I have no one to blame but myself.
My plans don’t really change. I’m still working, I still plan to see them, when I said I would see them…the contact I have with them now if better than anything I had within the last five years. At least this way, they get to know me, and me them, a little bit before we spend time together.

Yeah, but it doesn’t make it any fucking easier to swallow.

No, it doesn’t, but this is what I have to work with, and it’s better than nothing.

I do feel, however, with Universal Warrior, my children, and this relationship I have…this is the fight of my life. It was never about anyone in the street. It was about the only things that really matter—which, I’ve long maintained, are the people who will go to the wall for you.

And I’ve never lost a fight.
So that’s the best face on a new situation, and the band plays on.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Four years ago, I was staying in an unlisted shelter in Saginaw, Michigan. Located in one of the city’s most dangerous neighborhoods, one would walk through a crime scene at least once per week, and Busterwolf had to be at his prime.

At the time, I was trying to raise enough money to leave Saginaw behind and head for Grand Rapids—where there were more jobs, more opportunities, and what I believed was the rest of my life. I wasn’t concerned about how I raised the money—I just wanted out.

And no one could outfight me.

The adventures in Saginaw were many, including a fight outside of a nightclub with two friends, one of whom was an adventurous, married woman, and a tournament that had been arranged just to see if Busterwolf was everything the legends said. Those invested in this tournament were so serious about seeing me fight that when I tried to back out, they conveyed their seriousness by firing a bullet at me.

Eventually, I was able to leave Saginaw, convincing myself that Busterwolf’s days were indeed behind him. When I arrived in Grand Rapids, I caved to the legend once again, and the real adventures began. They included two students (my first since my son) and the only man who put the fear of God in me, so much so that I could not beat him…

I realized a little back that I compiled all of these adventures into my very first blog, which goes all the way back to the days in Saginaw. Sometime this year, I’m going to compile and edit them, and then, if I can, self-publish them. I think they make a good read, and I changed most of the names…

The book will be entitled “The Road”. I’ll keep everyone posted as I put it together.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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One can’t live in two worlds, I’m realizing. Eventually, you have to make a choice.

You also choose the friends that are worth fighting for.

I have two good friends; one of them enforces a system I don’t really believe in, yet we’re friends anyway. Another disagrees with the system as strongly as I do, but may have broken what is, in my opinion, an unbreakable law. I can’t prove if he did or didn’t; for a change, I did not blindly follow my first instinct, which would’ve led to violence. Instead, I thought things through.

While my law-enforcing friend became angry with me (for not doing the right thing), I stood against the world and desperately tried to convince my wayward friend to cease his involvement—any type of involvement—with an underage girl. In a few short weeks, he had gone from being in love with her to looking at her like a daughter. The thought of it made me want to vomit. How can you do this?! Who the hell are you and what have you done with my friend?!

I saw my friend and the underage girl together, physically flirting and whispering to one another when they thought nobody would notice. I convinced myself that it wasn’t what I knew it was.

Last week, I needed a ride to the career center. My wayward friend agreed to drive me. I had to be there at two; he showed up at a quarter till…with his underage friend in tow.

Millions of questions flooded my mind: Why was she there? Why wasn’t she in school? Why did she keep saying that they had just woke up?

I cut him off after that…for a minute. It’s the Christian thing to forgive, right? Ugh… Besides, it’s not like I was able to prove that he was doing anything illegal. Maybe he was just confused. Maybe someone is going to sell me the St. Louis Arch.

I cornered him, and demanded to know what was going on. I wondered if I was really fighting for him or just struggling to hold on to one of the first face-to-face friendships I’ve had in years.

He told me that he was dating the underage girl’s mother, and that he was spending time with her children in an attempt to get to know them better.

Avery: Thank God. That makes sense.
Busterwolf: You’re lying, and I know you’re lying, you sick f***.

I forgave him. We patched things up.

Yesterday, the girl’s mother happened to be at a friend’s house and I asked her, point blank, if she has been seeing Billy. She denied it. Of course.

I let my instincts guide me as she told me how she was sick of the rumor; she’s never done anything with Billy.

This means, the night we patched things up, someone I considered one of my closest friends lied to me yet again. He lied to me as he promised not to lie to me again.

Crushed, I realized the truth.

I headed home and tracked down my law-enforcing friend. We hadn’t spoken in awhile, and my message was simple: We need to talk.

When he showed up, he wasn’t in uniform, which was good: He would to talk to me as a friend, rather than as a cop. He was cordial as he entered my home and shook my hand. He knew why I had called him. When he took a seat on my couch, I unloaded like a dump truck.

No, I’ve never seen anything illicit between these two with my own eyes. Yes, I thought the situation was worth investigating. Yes, I had seen a lot of physical play between the two, and yes, I thought it was inappropriate. It’s been going on for about a month now…

I lied in a recent myspace survey; I think I cried last night. I know I kept wiping my eyes. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

My friend wrote down everything I said, then closed his notepad and folded his hands. He lowered his head for a moment and just exhaled; one doesn’t become numb to this kind of thing, and it’s a lot to take in.

He looked up to me and asked me, off the record, if I thought these two were being sexual.

…
Yes. I say it out loud.

Whoa…
I was suddenly sprinting for the toilet and there went dinner. I hadn’t thrown up in years, and it was like my body was making up for it. I threw up until it hurt, and I was clutching my stomach. It felt like coughing up acid. Thankfully, there was no blood.

My friend didn’t help. He just waited patiently in my front room.
He did, however, ask me if I felt better when I re-emerged. Not really, I said.

We talked—my friends are good at that—about what it really meant to be someone’s father.

When you’re someone’s father, he told me, you have to lead by example. You don’t cut and run when you get angry with someone. You fight for them for all you’re worth, and when that fails, you do the right thing…

I know he is right, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

Chances are there will be no legal action taken, as there’s no proof. Still, I can say that I did all I could, and mean it.

If I’m going to show my children how to live in this world, I have to do it myself first.

So there it is. I still feel like crud, but I’ll get past it, and maybe one day my former friend will wake up, or maybe he won’t, but that’s between him and God.

I have my own issues to sort through, and I need to keep people in my life who have similar (healthy) goals.

Those are the friends worth fighting for.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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When I was nineteen, I had a legitimate shot at being an athlete. Instead of playing football (like I should have) I wound up going into the ring. In my fourth fight, I knocked my opponent down and was heading back to my corner. Before I could get there, he had gotten up, gone airborne, and thrust the blade of his foot into the rear of my left knee, shattering it instantly.

This was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, and I think most of San Francisco heard me scream. I screamed so loud that I couldn’t even hear the ref counting me out.

Through the pain, I was mad as hell. There was no way this guy was gonna take a cheap shot and claim the purse. I should probably say these fights weren’t exactly sanctioned…

My trainer (a very good friend I maintain sporadic contact with today) is ready to call the fight, I have other ideas. He bandages my leg, which is unable to support any weight, and although I’m still willing to continue, I’m all but unable to come out of the corner.

So the cheap-shot-taking mofo blitzes me and keeps me on the ropes, first doing everything he can to tag my leg, and then resorting to whatever it takes. I’m able to knock him away, and as he falls back, I leap from the ropes, flip backwards towards him, and bring the instep of my right foot crashing down onto his shoulder. He’s out cold, but I go down too. I’m able to get back up.

I spent about three years completely rehabilitating myself, but the injury torpedoed any pro career I might’ve wanted.
So fast forward about half a decade. By chance, I wind up in Newark, New Jersey. When I say by chance, I really mean I fell asleep on the bus and missed my stop. If you haven’t been to Newark, rent a Charles Bronson film and save yourself the trip.

I wind up falling in (as usual) with the crowd that knows where everything is, and a fight is set up with this nineteen-year-old kid who has never lost.

The kid is a Bruce Lee-wannabe; lightning fast; all speed, and the battle cry was perfect, but not a lick of power. And cocky; damn, the kid could run off at the mouth. He made me look humble and I wanted to hit him just to shut him up.

He could take a beating, too. It didn’t matter how hard I hit him, he just kept getting up. I eventually became bored and hit him so hard that I nearly lost my balance. He may have tagged me a million times but his lack of power means he’s more annoying than anything else.

I start hitting this kid with everything I have in sequences and he just keeps getting up. The act is getting old.

I just want the money. To hell with everything else.

I knock him away with a side kick, knowing that he was going to get up. As he recovers, I leap into the air and thrust the blade of my right foot on the outside of his knee as he begins to get up. I felt the bone break beneath the impact.

He screamed. He cried. He pounded the ground. He cried for his mother. He clutched his knee. He would’ve torn it off to make the pain stop. I know this.

I watch this, and I can’t help but remember when someone inflicted a similar injury on me. I remember being told that I would never walk straight again and how long it took to prove them wrong. I keep telling myself that it wasn’t a cheap shot. I wonder why that isn’t making me feel any better.

Everyone was quiet, and looking to me as though I was some kind of monster. I was.

I told the kid I wasn’t going to hurt him. I don’t know if he heard me, but I know what the look in his eyes meant when he turned to me.

I picked him up—he didn’t weigh much—and I asked for directions to the nearest hospital. It was too far to walk, so I hailed a cab. Back then, they didn’t ask questions.

Once he was in proper care, I left.
I always expected that kid to come back for me someday. So far, he hasn’t.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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There’s this new dream I’ve been having lately…
There is a torrential rainstorm in a barren land. The rain is coming down with such force that I can’t see but three feet from me.

Thunder and lightning strike with enough force to make me think the ground is coming apart.

I’m dressed; black button-up short-sleeved shirt, black jeans. No hat, no gloves, no do-rag. This is me, Avery K. Tingle.

This storm seems to call the end of the world forth, but I’m not affected. I keep walking, unsure of where I’m going, until I see a dark figure ahead, moving towards me.

It’s me. Well, sort of. It’s…who I used to be.
Blue jeans, black sleeveless T-shirt (which I still own), the trademark blue jean jacket with the black star on the back, and the hat I gave to Drea almost four years ago now.
The gloves are there too. I remember there was a time I did not nothing without them. The gloves are running with fresh blood.

For some reason, I’m not surprised.

Today (real life now) I’m at the desktop, trying to get my two computers to like one another. While going through the desktop I’m surprised to find two sets of users, both with very different settings. In one folder, there’s Avery…in the other, Busterwolf.

Chilling to the bone is that I do not remember setting this up.
Also chilling are my friends telling me that my eyes are different in almost every single picture I take. I know why.

Busterwolf is not a monster, although he can be. He is a shell I created to protect my weaker self. I find myself no longer needing this shell, which refuses to go quietly into that good night.

So it’s time for us to face. In my heart, right now, I know I can’t beat him. I know just how strong he is; I made him.

This past week, I began exploring a photography hobby, tried red wine for the first time in life, I got to meet up with some of the smartest literary minds in the city, I landed quick work setting up someone’s computer, ranked in on a writing contest, and I even forgave a friend.

Even the martial arts have taken on a different perspective for me; my chi is much more aligned, time seems to slow down when I go through a form, punches and kicks find their mark with much more fluidity. It’s like I’m more fluent than I’ve ever been.

For all the fear I’ve overcome, there is still one more hurdle I have to face, and this is where Busterwolf awaits. I have yet to confront my own rage.

An interesting tidbit is I’ve always gotten a much bigger rush from fighting than from sex. With sex, I care very much what my partner likes and in fighting…I don’t care about anything but being better. I think less and go almost entirely on emotion. Going deeper into my emotions eventually leads me to rage, at which point I no longer care if my opponent lives or dies.

With sex, there’s always that point I will never go beyond, no matter how much I get into it. I don’t think I’d ever kill the person I was sleeping with, but I don’t know what would happen if I gave that deeply into my emotions, either. I think it’s because I’ve held back so much is the reason I’ve never gotten a rush out of the experience.

I take extreme measures to keep my temper in check. Very few people have ever seen me angry, and the few who have don’t talk to me anymore. It’s not something I’m proud of.

I look at everything I’ve screwed up in my life—my kids, people that loved me—and I have come to realize that what I have now—my writing, getting my children back, Molly—is my second chance. I am letting the past go, but I still have no idea how to healthily deal with rage.

I know that I won’t overcome—or make peace with—Busterwolf through some fight in a dream, that would be too easy.

No, overcoming Busterwolf will involve me earning the right to raise my children, finding literary success (my goal is to do it full time, for a living, but if I have to choose, I would rather be respected), and finally, at long last, get on one knee to the girl I’m supposed to spend my life, ask that very fateful question, and she says “yes”.

Yeah….I can freely admit I want a home and a family. And I would like at least one more child with the one.

When I start to find those, that’s when Busterwolf will walk away, taking the storm with him.

But right now, he’s waiting for me.

(It’s not about me, it’s about my sons)

Alright, Wolf…let’s you and me go….

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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A few days pass between the fateful sparring match between me and my cop friend and the events of about ninety minutes ago. The adrenaline is still working its way out of my system. I’ve already twittered that I won’t be going to bed; bad idea, since, as always, I have a lot to do. Not the least of which includes the update to my new series Universal Warrior: Journey to Asgard. Yes, that was a shameless plug. But it’s my blog. I can do that.

Spare moments between contracts are devoted to training; in the past few days I’ve knocked off close to a thousand push-ups, nearly tearing my shoulder in the process. I’ve gone through punches, kicks, blocks, meditation, even forms. Whatever’s coming, I want to be ready for it. I can feel it with every fiber of my being; this is the fight I’ve been waiting my whole life for.

The IM comes in tonight. The message is simple; “Out back.”
That’s the first twinge of fear to strike me. He’s out there, waiting for me.
As I get up, another message comes through, this one shakes me to the core; “Two knives.” He says, “Pick one.”
I’m almost ready to type; are you out of your f***ing mind?

No.
Not only is this man a cop, he’s my friend…and eventually I have to learn to start trusting people again. Besides, this is the fight I asked for. I refuse to believe that he’s going to come at me full force, blade-to-blade. Of course, it hits me that all those years on the road, I’ve never been in a knife fight. I know very basic techniques when it comes to using a knife, but my friend is ex-military. The advantage is clearly his.

Of my two knives, one has a compass, the other a knuckle guard. They’re both dull, but the one with the knuckle guard couldn’t cut through water. I go with the compass–in case I have to switch positions on the fly.
It hits me again as I leave my apartment and head downstairs, to the rear of my apartment building; he’s out there.

Indeed he is.
Dressed all in black, I might add, including this beanie that had to be pulled out of some action movie I saw somewhere. For a minute I wonder if he’s serious, and we’re gonna cut each other up.
Then he smiles.

I feel relieved. I may have lost–but I would’ve stood my ground.
He asks if I want to see what he’s working with and he pulls forth a miniature BROADSWORD that looks like it could cleave the world in half. Not really, but the blade is elegant, double-edged, and BEAUTIFUL. It’s about a foot long…and blessedly, it’s as dull as my blade. I snicker.

He clown each other about our knives (his is bigger) and we bow. So it begins.
He immediately corrects me, the only time he’ll do it that night; why isn’t your knife hand out front? I switch my hands around, holding my blade defensively.
Then it begins.
My heart rate increases. I exhale. Adrenaline flows. I feel like I’m eighteen again, in the prime of my life. I’m thirty-two, and I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.

I should say now that he is far better than I am with a knife, and had we been fighting, he would’ve put me down pretty quickly. I got in a few good shots, though. I realized that killing was his skill, not fighting, and this was the difference between him and I. This was what he wanted me to see, and having known me as long as he has, he knew I had to experience it to understand.

There were two key moments in this fight I was especially proud of. Fighting at my peak, I kept him away with kicks and our knives struck with such impact that he nearly dislodged my weapon on a couple occasions. He tried to get inside and demonstrate a killing technique; each time he did, I repelled him. Eventually, we stood toe to toe, slashing, dodging, intercepting, and countering. I had no idea how I was doing the things I was; I was just doing them. I often say that I don’t need things to be explained or even make sense. They just have to work. For about one minute, I stood toe to toe with him using a style I had no experience with and I frustrated the man. I feel pretty good about that.

The second time, just after we finished going toe-to-toe, he came in close. I tripped him, we fell together, me on top. I’m pressing the dull(er) edge of my blade downward towards his neck to demonstrate the kill, he’s pushing me off–but I’m physically stronger and he knows it. He can only save himself by putting his foot in my solar plexus (ouch) and sending me flying, landing flat on my back (OUCH!). We got up at the same time and simply took fighting stances at one another. Stalemate.

But….to all things an end…and he is the better man with the knife.
He came in close. He feinted low, knowing that I would go for it, and made a fatal error in lowering my blade to block what I thought was an attempt at my femoral artery. The second my hand went down, he grabbed it, holding it in place. The knife hand went to my throat.

If you ever have the sharp end of a knife pressed against your throat, then you know just how quickly your life can flash before your eyes. You also realize how quickly you can lose control of your bladder.

He looks at me. He smiles. I smile back, nodding. “You got me,” I concede, for the first time in life. I have to admit it felt good to say.
He tells me I’m not bad. For some reason, I don’t feel humiliated at conceding. I’m actually pretty pleased with myself. He extends his hand, and I shake it firmly. We may get together and spar, but it won’t happen as much as it used too. We’ll spend a lot more time training each other now. We don’t need to say it; we just know.

Don’t do nothing stupid for New Years, he tells me. You too, I respond. He turns, he leaves. I watch him go.
I got nicked a bit during our match. Soap and hot water should take care of everything.

I head back inside unsure why I feel euphoric. I lost. I did my best and I lost, and I’ve always said that was okay…right?
Well, yeah, but it’s not that.
The euphoria comes from knowing that my road has taken a different course now, and I have nothing left to do or prove in my old life. I fought once, I’ll write now.

And so the Busterwolf era finally, officially
Comes to a proud close.

Thanks for following along.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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I may be straight and narrow now, but I’ve been a fighter for so long that I know almost nothing else. Everything else fades away in a confrontation, be it sparring or real life; you step outside of the passing world, just you and your opponent, and it’s usually strength of will that determines the victor. It’s pure; you either win or you lose.

I should take this moment to point out that I feel privileged to keep some of the company I do. I spar regularly with ex-military and current law enforcement, which is something I never could’ve achieved on the street.

A close friend of mine, who must remain nameless as he currently works with local law, comes by maybe twice a week so we can train. Usually we beat the crap out of each other. Well, to be straight, I usually beat the crap out of him–which is why he keeps coming back. He’s a good friend and I’ve learned a lot from him. He started me down the Krav Maga road. He did this by getting inside me once and playing Donkey Kong on my chest. Unpleasant.

So he comes over about seven days back after a shift. He’s had a long night, it’s about four in the morning, and I don’t sleep. Feel like sparring? He asks. Sure, why not.

I move the front room table away to give us room. As usual, we bow, and we begin to circle.

He uses nothing new; a hybrid grappling/boxing/kickboxing style that’s very brutal (and I’m glad we’re friends) but also very familiar. Last time we went at it, I took him down by the neck. Tonight, I’m getting tagged–and I don’t know why.

I can see these moves coming, even the feints; jab to distract, cross that means business. I know it’s coming, and I take it on the jaw anyway. When he gets a one-two shot in, I can see it in his eyes; he knows something is wrong with me.

I don’t know what it is.
I feel like I’m moving through quicksand and not only are my moves inefficient, he’s dodging them. At one point I threw what used to be a dreaded spinning crescent kick and found him behind me. I got off the street because I was starting to slow down…but I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s like I’m a rookie all over again.

He repays me for the miss by slamming the back of my legs with a kickboxing roundhouse. It staggers me. He immediately grabs me–knew that was coming, why couldn’t I stop it?–and puts me in that damn impossible choke-hold. I usually remind him that I know how to fight by driving my elbow into his solar plexus or sending him on the Wolf Express over my shoulder….this time I just tug at his arm.

He pushes me away. I turn back, my hands raised, and he looks at me quizzically as if facing a stranger. “What the hell is wrong with you, Avery?”

I just….lowered my hands.
I wasn’t tired.
I had plenty more to give.
I just didn’t want to fight anymore.
Shoot, I type that now and can’t believe I’m the one saying it.
I can’t even say that it was a conscious action to drop my hands. They just lowered on their own.

“I’m done.” I said, not believing the words even as my mouth spoke them. He looks at me; there are people who would’ve paid cash to hear this. “You okay?” He asks.

I nod. “Can we just…talk for a minute?”

After confirming that  I was indeed in my right mind, we talked. I made up two cups of tea (damn, I’m getting old) and we sat, the two of us. We spoke about our children and our experiences. We talked about what we wanted to be when we were kids and what we turned into as adults. We spoke as rivals, as martial artists, and most importantly, as friends.

But this wasn’t the end.
Now that I finally accepted that I had nothing left to prove (his words) he asked me if I’d be interested in one final encounter between him and me–one that put everything we had to the test.

Something crept up in me and I smiled. Yeah, I nodded. Busterwolf’s last battle.
He nodded. He told me he’d tell me when he was ready. Be prepared, he warned…and I don’t scare easily, but the way he said it scared me. And I loved it.

I was ready.
It happened tonight.
How it went is the next entry…

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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