Free The Black Stiletto: Stars & Stripes by Raymond Benson Page B

Chinese men sat at a table inside the door. They didn’t say a word, but one gestured to several flyers and handouts. They were all in Chinese, but I picked them up anyway and thanked the men in English.
    It was a small gymnasium with a basketball court—hoops at both ends—and surprisingly full bleachers on two sides. A taped outline on the bare floor designated the “ring,” only it was square. Judges sat at a table along one side.
    The voices and shouts echoed loudly as they tend to do inside a gym. The adults appeared to all be sitting on one side, so I headed there. It was so crowded I had to take a seat pretty high up, so naturally they all stared at me as I climbed to an empty spot next to some gray-haired Chinese men. It was a look that said, “What are
you
doing here?” but then they turned their attention back to the action on the floor. Every once in a while I’d get another scrutiny, but for the most part I felt comfortable. I noticed Billy’s mother sitting six rows below me with a group of women. Thankfully, she’d only given me the one curious and slightly disapproving glance. For the most part, I’d say everyone ignored me, even though I think I was the only white girl at the tournament. There were a handful of Caucasian males in the audience, and they gave me the look-see, too.
    The gym floor and the other bleachers were full of Chinese teenagers and young adults, almost all boys. There were no girl participants, but there were many sitting in the bleachers. A few teams were in competition. Billy told me that a
sifu
named Lam Sang was the grandmaster in Chinatown. I was pretty sure I spotted him at the table. Maybe he was the head judge, I couldn’t really tell. Another guy did all the talking between bouts. Lam Sang was an elderly, but very fit, gentleman dressed in a traditional
wushu
uniform, which is different from the Japanese
karate
and
judo
clothing. Instead of a
karategi
, the Chinese wear a jacket with loose sleeves and cuffs, a mandarin-style collar, and buttons called “frog” closures. The pants also fit loosely and have cuffs. There’s no question that it looks “Oriental.” The uniforms look like they’d be comfy.
    I spotted Billy sitting on the other side with a group of boys, all dressed in the same brown-and-white uniform. I hoped I hadn’t missed his bout.
    The tournament consisted only of barehanded fights. They got points for striking the head, trunk, and thighs, but were penalized for the back of the head, neck, or groin. Each bout had three rounds of two minutes each, with a minute rest in between. The competitors had to stay within the square. I recognized some of the moves Billy had taught me, but most of it was
way
over my head. I sat there simply fascinated. It was like when I witnessed my first Japanese martial arts tournament at the Second Avenue Gym. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe human beings could actually
do
what I was witnessing.
    And it looked so
rough
, too, and yet it was beautiful to watch.There was more of a dance between opponents in
wushu
than in
karate
. As I observed the matches, I realized what I was doing wrong when I drilled. Seeing
wushu
in action was a lot different than attempting the simple exercises with Billy, so I did my best to study the moves.
    Finally, I saw members of Billy’s team start matches with a team wearing purple-and-white uniforms. In between each match, one of the judges delivered a brief speech in Chinese.
    Eventually, Billy got on the floor. His opponent was a boy that appeared to be the same age, size, and weight. I heard Billy’s mother clap and shout something. My stomach had butterflies in it. I wanted to shout, “Go, Billy!” but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.
    The opponents faced one side of the audience and made a gesture with their arms and hands—they held them in front of their chests as if they were praying,