Once inside the Dojo my Dad can see the blood lust in the eyes of the spectators. “Son,” my Dad asks concerned. “Do you think you should be fighting all these guys? It sounds and looks dangerous.”
“Dad,” I say, “You’ve never backed down and I’m sure you don’t want me to either. So just relax and let me take the beating and it will be over before you know it.”
I leave my Father and move into the fray. Having impaired vision heightens my other senses. This is a good thing in many respects, but I still feel like I am on the defensive. While I can see amorphous shapes from the corners of my eyes, I realize quite emphatically that my physical responses will rely solely upon whatever happens up close and personal. I am hoping that I am strong enough, but as usual, I am leery about my fears triggering an asthma attack. The stifling humidity and the mold in the air are the two most detrimental things to an asthmatic. No doubt about it, I am scared!
But to become nervous now will surely sap what little strength I’m managing to hold on to, due to the fear and heat. That’s a weakness I cannot afford, so I silently tell myself: “You have to shrug it off!