MN 1 - World Champ

“Art! Lean! Art! Lean!”

It was the final round of the World Freestyle Karate Championships. Full contact. Full speed. And the crowd was on its feet, chanting, their voices filling the Stockholm arena.

Art Lean, a handsome, muscular African-American, shook his head to sling the sweat out of his eyes and twisted on his feet to find his opponent. When he moved, his legs moving like pistons, his skin gleaming like polished ebony, the referee scurried to stay out of his way.

Art changed his stance again, easy and slow, ready for anything. His opponent, Caesar Cerant, the Belgian national champion, was good – but Art knew he was better.

But where was Cerant now? The ring was small, nowhere to hide...

“Behind me,” Art muttered, and leapt straight up, just as a reaping kick from behind came in, fast enough to make the air whistle. It would have been enough to hamstring a man, perhaps break his leg, had it connected – but Art wasn’t there. He turned a somersault in midair, twisting like a cat. There was his opponent, off balance and out of position, trying to recover from the missed kick.

“Art! Lean! Art! Lean!” the crowd roared again.

Art landed in a crouch. Then, without pausing for a second, he launched himself forward again, his right hand shooting out in a heel-hand strike, directly into Caesar’s torso, just beneath the point of his breastbone. The Belgian went pale, the breath driven out of him. But he still began to take a stance, ready to renew his attack.

“Not so fast, sucker,” Art breathed. The American spun, the edge of his foot taking the Belgian in the back of one knee, while at the same time Art’s forearm slammed into the front of his opponent’s chest at the level of his collarbone. His opponent fell backward, fast. He hit the canvas and lay on his back. In a flash Art was kneeling beside him. The tall African-American smashed his palm down toward the Belgian’s face, his arm moving almost too fast to see. He stopped a fraction short of the delicate cartilage in the man’s nose, a fraction short of the killing blow.

“It’s over,” Art said, standing.

And all at once, the referee was there, raising his hand, while another man was attaching something heavy around Art’s waist: the championship belt. Attendants fluttered around the fallen man, reviving him, checking his vital signs, his reflexes.

Art stood tall, paying no attention to those around him. His hands were raised in the victory salute, while the crowd surrounding the arena chanted his name, louder and louder.

Then it was indeed over. Art shrugged on his robe, black with scarlet trim, and climbed between the ropes. Head high, he strode toward the dressing room.