I’m not thrilled, as it’s my turn to get thumped. Murphy motions my opponent to step forward. When he does so, he bows, and I bow as well. A split-second after the bow, before I even have a chance to hold up my arms and assume a fighting stance, my opponent lunges with a step-across sidekick and slams his foot into my stomach, totally catching me off-guard. There is a big “oomph” as I get the wind kicked out of me and, awkwardly wincing after the kick, I embarrassingly stumble backwards, hit the bathroom wall, and slump to the floor.
“Yama,” Murphy shouts in his most authoritative voice, “Stop fighting!”
Terry Crook cries out, “Cheap shot!” Crook leans over and whispers, “Someone told that guy you were legally blind and he took advantage of you.”
Clutching my stomach, I stand up, clench my teeth, and murmur to Crook inquiringly, “Who told them I had vision problems?”
I shift my eyes to the right, allowing the only part of my remaining vision to peripherally catch an image of that cheap-shot-kicking coward. Once spotted, I charge the shadowy image, catch him off guard, and solidly jab my fist into his lower ribs. However, a violent counter-punch to my gut knocks me to the floor once again. It hurt badly and I fold-up from the pain.
“Yama!” Murphy yells, “Match over!”