Puffing on his crookshank pipe, Dixon retraced how it all came about in New York: “Kick-boxing is one of the great traditional sports of the Orient; it was fairly new in the States at the time, in the 60s. I used to work out at this local YMCA up near 42nd Street, and they had classes there run by a legendary Burmese kick-boxing champ named Tohsio Tenaka. He later went on to train some of the greatest kick-boxers of all time.”
At this Dixon went silent for a moment, relit the pipe, and said, quietly: “Don’t get me wrong, young Donovan. I’m not braggin’ or boastin’ here, but Tenaka once told me that I was one of the most talented fighters he’d ever trained, including the Japanese great, Nai Shegei. I took it as a compliment; he wasn’t wan for saying random blather. Very mild-mannered man. Never heard him raise his voice.”
“Mr. Dixon, I never heard of anyt’ing like dat,” Billy said. “Would you be willing to teach me some stuff about kick boxin’? We can’t tell anywan; sure, they’d just laugh at me.”
“Don’t worry about that, son—it’ll be between us. Until it’s too late for the bullies to do anything about it.” Dixon said this with a smile and a mock punch to Billy’s shoulder.
That summer, they’d worked out in Dixon’s barn every evening when Billy was done with the chores at home. The deal was straightforward, and hard: Billy had to get in top shape, by running at least a mile a day and skipping rope for 30 minutes, which he had to sneak in between his chores. He also had to lift weights, which Dixon did with him. And he had to practice on the punch and speed bags, at least a half hour a day on each.
After supper each night, they put on the boxing gloves and worked out for one to two hours on specific drills. Billy learned all the kickboxing basics: classic stances, how to jab, cross, uppercut, and hook; how to bob and weave, side kick, and execute knock-out moves, such as the round house kick to the head, a nifty spin move practiced with Crowley’s acne-scarred face in mind.
By the time school started in mid-September, Billy had grown two inches—to almost six feet—gained ten pounds and, most important of all, had confidence that he could handle himself in a fight. His sparring matches with Dixon had grown competitive to the point where Dixon was often happy to call it a night.
As if going into a professional bout, Billy trained for the first day of the 6th grade, focused like a laser on one image: a punching bag comprised of Brendan Crowley’s sack-like body.
But this was just one piece on Dixon’s fighting chess board. Mostly he emphasized the importance of strategy in winning a brawl without rules, which Billy was facing at Killgarson. “When ya take down the alpha in the wolf-pack,” Dixon declared, “the other curs turn tail and run. That’s the t’ing about bullies: they’re cowards at heart—can only dish it out; can’t stand a fair fight. Make sure it’s in public; make sure ya punish him and that ya beat him into submission. Right off! Never forget the element of surprise. They’ll never know what hit ‘em; they’ll t’ink yer the same poor lad they stepped on back in June.”
Coming back to school that first day, Billy was sick with trepidation. Tommy Dixon’s advice only made things worse: “Take the fight to the big lad, Crowley, right away. Don’t forget what I told you about the element of surprise. And be sure it’s in public. The more witnesses, the better.” Easy for Dixon to say. He’d been a kickboxing ace. Billy hadn’t even had a single fight yet, and he’d be going against maybe half a dozen hefty farm boys.
The confrontation came immediately, but not as Billy had planned. He bumped into Brendan Crowley—literally—as the big redhead was rushing out of the loo, just before the first bell. Billy blushed, excused himself, and tried to step around his nemesis, but Crowley wasn’t having any of it. “Hey, what de ya t’ink yer doin’, gobshite!” Crowley snarled, reaching to rip Billy’s shirt out of his pants—his habitual prelude to an all-out assault.
All Billy’s fear evaporated in the face of Crowley’s hateful move. He forgot that he’d ever had a summer of kickboxing lessons; he forgot that Tommy Dixon had warned him this might happen, exactly this way; and he forgot about the element of surprise and the importance of making the fight public. Instead, he reflexively blocked Crowley’s hand and smashed him with a left hook in the mouth.
For a split second, Billy saw confusion, then fear, in Crowley’s amber eyes. But that brief glimpse of vulnerability quickly turned to rage as Crowley lowered his head and bull-rushed, pinning Billy against the stone wall of the loo, knocking the wind out of him. Crowley proceeded to gore him with head butts in the chest, cursing him all the while. “Feckin little bollix. I’m going to KILL YOU! Ye’ll be sorry ye ever raised a hand to me. Gobshite!”
Billy escaped from the vice-like clinch as Crowley made another blind lunge at his mid-riff, trying to tackle him. He missed, plunging his head into the stone wall, then turned toward Billy, dazed, hands dangling loosely. Seizing the opening, Billy remembered the punching bag exercises and moved in with a right cross, following up with a flurry of jabs to the nose and eyes of his hated assailant. Blood sprayed from Crowley’s nose; his lower lip began oozing blood, and his left eye was beginning to close.
That’s when Mr. Duggan came rushing into the loo, shouting, “What do you two think you’re doing? Here we haven’t even started school, and you’re already into it. Get inside at once. I’ll deal with you on the break.”
“He started it, Mr. Duggan. I was just…” Crowley whined.
“Crowley,”Mr. Duggan barked impatiently, “I doubt very much that Billy D. started a fight with you. But looking at your face, I’d say you might be careful the next time you decide to pick a fight with him. Serves you right, I must say. Now get inside!”
On the short walk to the classroom, Billy beamed with satisfaction at the realization that all the summer work with Tommy Dixon had paid off. He’d won a fair fight with Brendan Crowley, something no one—with the exception of Tommy Dixon—would have believed an hour before. If this was what revenge felt like, it was one sweet feeling. He wanted more.
At the break later that morning, Mr. Duggan detained Crowley and Billy D. to hear their versions of the fight. He asked Billy to go first and listened with obvious skepticism as Crowley refuted Billy’s version. “Mr. Duggan, Donovan’s a liar. I was just mindin’ me own business when he started pushin’ me around outside the loo. Sure, I had to defend meself.”
“Alright, Crowley,” Mr. Duggan interjected. “Your reputation as school bully is well established here, so I find your plea of victimization a bit rich. Here’s what I’m going to do: Both of you will serve detention during breaks for the rest of this week. And if there is any more disturbance, I’ll have to call in your parents for a conference. I won’t have this school turned into a jungle where aggression and violence is the rule. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sir!”
“Good. I should hope not to hear any more about this.”
Billy knew this was one hope that would not be fulfilled, not if he had anything to do with it. He hadn’t spent a whole summer working his heart out just to let it all slip away with one, brief skirmish.
Over the lunch break that day, Billy stayed inside the schoolhouse, determined to avoid Crowley and his gang, who huddled at the bottom of the schoolyard, plotting revenge. The Dolan twins—Jimmy and Frankie—were the most vocal of the underlings. “Why don’t ye come on out for a little fun?” they yelled at the schoolhouse. “We forgot ta bring a football today, but sure you’ll do instead.” This inspired howls of laughter from the others: Horse Breen, nicknamed after his broad, horse-like face; Diarmud (Muddy) Walsh, who lived alone with his abusive, alcoholic father in a cottage up in the mountains; and Sean Dowling, another resentful 14-year-old, like Crowley, who’d been left back and hated school, like most of the pupils at Killgarson.
At the 3 o’clock bell, Crowley and the gang rushed for the door, as usual. Billy D. took his time, the nauseating fear returning as he contemplated what was waiting for him outside. He considered dodging out the back door, through Mrs. Finnegan’s room, where he could avoid an attack for at least another day. But he knew this would only delay the inevitable and encourage the jackals even more. And besides, what was he going to tell Tommy Dixon? That he ran away from the fight? No, this was it. He’d have to face the music sooner or later.
As he slowly pulled on his schoolbag and started toward the door, Billy reminded himself of Dixon’s advice, all he’d learned about kickboxing, and most of all, that he’d already won a fair fight against the brute force of Brendan Crowley.
This, of course, was not going to be a fair fight. It was going to be a brawl, maybe five against one, though he doubted Muddy or Dowling would have the guts to jump in; they were all talk, happy to let Crowley do their dirty work. Billy reminded himself what Dixon had coached: take it to Crowley, the alpha, first. Billy had done that already, to devastating effect, but without witnesses, so the lesson was mostly wasted.
That he was about to have his chance for witnesses became clear as Billy stepped into the laneway behind the school. Word of the fight had spread. Crowley had put the word out that Billy D. had jumped him from behind in the loo. Needless to say, such cowardly conduct cried out for punishment, which Crowley and his boys were now waiting to mete out. Most of the other pupils—girls and boys—drawn to the excitement, were lined up along the broad stonewall on the eastern perimeter of the schoolyard.
Crowley stood in the middle of the laneway, his gang behind him, blocking Billy’s pathway. The burly redhead looked in no condition for a rematch. Both his eyes were swollen, mouth puffed up, and nose clogged with dried blood. He looked like someone who’d gone not just one heavy-weight round, but ten, and lost. Now he was back for more, trying to prove the morning’s humiliation had been an exception.
Billy surveyed the pack, assessing his chances of taking out Crowley before the others had the courage to jump in. The Dolan twins each had hurling sticks, which they twirled like swords, mouthing ugly, jeering yelps. Horse Breen had his belt off, mimicking his violent Da’s weapon of choice when his son displeased him. As Billy had rightly guessed, Walsh and Dowling were staying out of it. So far so good. Now he knew what he was up against.
Billy dropped his schoolbag by the wall and removed his boots, slowly, placing them methodically beside each other. Another Dixon tip: get in their heads with preternatural calmness and strange, “foreign” rituals—like removing your boots, saluting the opponent, chanting, humming, even smiling.
The ruse seemed to work, because Crowley backed off as soon as he saw Billy’s boots come off. “What the feck is this? What are ya some kinda nancy boy?” Billy just took a deep breath, remembered the speed bag image, stepped forward into the imaginary ring and said, “Who wants it first. Come on, Crowley. Want some more from this mornin’?” Crowley, looking like a caged animal, glanced around at the gang before lowering his head and charging Billy, just as he had earlier. This time Billy was ready. He side stepped the charge, stuck out his foot and tripped Crowley, sending him flying on his face in the dirt.
Horse Breen decided this was his chance. He came at Billy, swinging the heavy metal buckle in a vicious circle. Billy ducked the lethal buckle and came up with an uppercut to Breen’s long jaw, but not before the swinging buckle caught him in the temple. For a moment he was sure he was going to pass out; stars danced before his eyes, then he felt a warm stream trickling down his face, and he tasted his own blood for the first time, surprised at the salty sweetness of it. Breen was down on his knees, screaming, holding his jaw, his mouth bloody.
Crowley came back at him, undaunted. The crowd was cheering for Billy D., which he found surprising, but also comforting. Crowley repeated his one move—charge. Billy sidestepped again, this time landing a solid right cross to the redhead’s bleeding nose, which opened a crimson geyser. Before Billy had time to follow through, Jimmy Dolan came at him, hurling stick raised, a murderous look on his face. “Ya fucken little shite, I’m going to end it right here. Ya had this comin’.” The weapon coming at his head was a sharp reminder to Billy that he’d need more than his fists to survive this fight.
It was time to bring on the kickboxing.
Inspired by the thought of it, Billy spun away from Dolan in a smooth, bounding leap that brought gasps of admiration from the onlookers on the wall. He executed a “round-house” kick, catching Dolan under the chin and lifting him several inches off the ground as the hurling stick flew from his hands. Dolan landed on top of Horse Breen, who renewed his screams of agony, holding his injured jaw. Frankie Dolan, who was about to join his twin in the fray, backed off in alarm at the sight of his brother’s slumping body.
Leaning against the wall, tasting his own blood from the nasty gash in his temple, and surveying the damage he’d inflicted, Billy savored the moment. He knew he’d won and that he’d never have to have this fight again. The sudden realization made him dizzy with relief and an almost unbearable feeling of exuberance. But it lasted just a moment before turning to an acute sense that something was missing—something essential to the success of the summer’s work.
His long year of torment at the hands of Crowley and his pals now bubbled over into a towering, volcanic rage. He wiped the blood from his mouth and yelled at the top of his lungs: “Come on yez bastards. Who’s next? Which of ye gobshites wants to get his daylights shut? Who’s the big lad now?”
When no one answered and no one met his enraged glare, Billy decided this was the moment to finish the job. Tommy Dixon’s words came floating up, as if on a blinking billboard: “Make sure it’s in public; make sure that ya beat him into submission.” SUBMISSION. That’s what was missing.
Homing in on Crowley again, who was holding his face with both blood-soaked hands, Billy morphed from prey to predator. “How about it, Crowley? Want some more? Show me what ya got! Another charge, like a stupid bull? Is that it? That’s the lot? Come on, ya don’t want to let yer pals down now, do ya.? Yer not afraid, are ya? It’s just me, Billy D.”
“Fleck off, Donovan,” Crowley blurted, through swollen lips. “I’ll get ya whin ya least expect it, ya little bollix.”
Big mistake. Feeling no mercy, Billy simply waded in, punishing his prey with vicious jabs and hooks, keeping an eye on the rest. No one came to Crowley’s rescue, so Billy kept going. “I’m gonna teach you to shut yer gob? To cry uncle I swear ta God, I’ll keep beating you until you say the words, ‘I give up.’ Say it, gobshite. Say the words!” Crowley put his hands over his head, muttering something unintelligible. “I can’t hear ya, gobshite. Louder! Let’s all HEAR THE WORDS!” Billy shouted this so that he could be heard all the way to the chapel, a full 100 yards away. “Awright, awright!” Crowley pleaded. “For Jaysus’ sake, Billy D., I give up! I GIVE UP!”
“That’s the style,” Billy said, and turned on the gang, who’d backed off down the lane. Emboldened and still bristling, Billy followed, taunting them with every step: “Anyone else want his feckin’ daylights shut? Now’s yer chance. How about you Sean? Muddy? I haven’t even warmed up on this tub o’ lard. What are ya gapin’ at, Frankie? Want to try yer luck with that hurl?” No takers. They just kept backing down the lane.
Billy D. put a hard eye on each of Crowley’s forlorn pals, saw the visceral fear in their eyes, and kept stalking them, slowly at first, then charging into their midst, like one might a flock of geese, just to see them take flight. To his exultant delight, they turned as one and fled down the lane, several dropping their schoolbags in panic. He pulled up abruptly, laughed out loud, and turned back to the collect his belongings.
The crowd on the wall, completely in awe of what they’d witnessed, gave Billy D. a raucous and prolonged round of applause. He smiled, took a barefoot bow, put on his boots, picked up his schoolbag, and headed for Tommy Dixon’s farm.
(to be continued next Friday)