The Greyhound (9 page)

The facts, garnered from Googling judo websites one rainy afternoon ran through his head: he was small; he created judo in 1882; he was a teacher, and responsible for the education system in parts of Japan; he adapted judo from ju-jitsu, which was a rougher sport; he made sure that judo became part of the education system; he held himself to a high moral standard. Fight cleanly. Fight fairly. Respect your opponent.

Danny sighed. He bowed to the picture before stepping onto the mat. This would be a tough tournament, he thought.

The
dojo
’s orange-and-white walls seemed to glow. Danny didn’t like the walls: They reminded him of a Creamsicle, which made him think about getting sick at a county fair after eating a Creamsicle and riding the Octopus ride, around and around and around, and then throwing up white and orange on his mom’s sneakers. His mom never got angry about it, though, she just cleaned it up.

He suddenly remembered a conversation with his shrink. “How do you feel, right now?” the doctor had asked. It was after Danny had finished telling him about his father’s near death — of the family almost dying.

“I feel like I’m standing in a field, and it’s the middle of summer and the sun is burning in the sky and everything around me, the plants, the trees — everything is growing. Other kids are running around or playing in the playground, climbing on the monkey bars, or sliding down slides. I’ve been here before, it’s where I grew up, and I can hear the trickle of water from the creek that runs through this place. It’s a conservation area. And I know it’s a hot day. It’s got to be 85 degrees. But I feel cold. I can’t stop shivering. I’m cold and I’m alone even though there are dozens of people around me, and trees with branches that move in the breeze and dogs running around and there are butterflies. But still I’m ice cold. I can’t move. I want to feel the heat of the sun but
I just can’t
.” Danny had started crying; it was the first and last time he would cry at the shrink’s. He hated the shrink for that, for making him cry. He was so fatherly then, he patted Danny on the knee and said it was okay to cry.
Like some scene out of a goddamn movie
, Danny thought.
All I need is for some guy in a warm fuzzy sweater to walk in the door and tell me everything’s going to be okay.

The
dojo
was filled with strong, young people. It was a monthly tournament, a tune-up for the more important, bigger tournaments to come. Danny hadn’t fought in six months. He’d wondered if he could fully come back to it, if he had the drive and energy — and especially the focus — to do it. But the workouts with Sensei Bob were paying off.

Danny looked around at the other competitors. They were kids of all sizes and belt levels. Danny adjusted his green belt, whispering to himself (even in his mind he whispered to himself):
Some are bigger. Some are stronger. Some are faster. But no one is tougher
. He repeated it a few times, like his sensei had told him to.

“Repeat it, Danny, like a mantra.”

Sensei Bob was about the un-toughest-looking judo master you could expect, not too tall, and not very big in the chest or shoulders. But he could move swiftly, effortlessly, sweeping the leg of his opponent quickly, tugging on the opponent’s
gi
, moving smoothly to drop his adversary to the mat. Danny had learned a lot from Sensei Bob.

“Be quiet,” Sensei Bob had told him earlier. He’d repeat these phrases over and over: “Be
inside yourself
. Be self-contained. Control your energy. You’ve got big shoulders, Danny, and a low centre of gravity. You’re solid. Think of a rock. Things move
around
a rock, they don’t go through the rock. Water flows around a rock. But you can be
the rock that moves
. Steady yourself, but also learn to move.” He had paused and nodded towards the photo of Kano. “
Judo Ichidai
is your aim,” he said, referring to the goal of pursuing the highest ideals of judo.

Danny had stood still, absorbing the words, but especially thinking about Bob’s comments.
The rock that moves
. Danny wasn’t absolutely sure about it, but he kind of liked it as a nickname. The Rock that Moves. The Moving Rock. Rock-moving. His mind drifted back into the competition.

Danny’s first opponent was a black-haired boy from Wentworth High, he was taller than Danny by a few inches and whippet lean. He smirked at Danny.
Some are bigger. Some are stronger. Some are faster. But no one is tougher
. Danny ran the words through his head.
I am the Rock that Moves
.

They came to the mat, established themselves on opposite sides, and moved up to the tape that marked their respective starting positions; they bowed once, and then bowed again.

“
Hajime!
” the referee called out to start the match.

The tall kid came in strong, yanking at Danny to pull him off balance. Danny stayed weighted, turned slightly, then stepped neatly in, turning and lifting, then bringing his leg in to get the tall kid off balance.
Some tougher
.
Some bigger
.
But stronger
.
Faster
. The words ran through Danny’s mind. He turned again, bringing his opponent down. The referee lifted his hand.

“
Ippon!
” he cried, calling for a full point to Danny. Danny had won.

He moved through three other opponents, winning all three. He had never come to a tournament and won every match.
Maybe this is a sign
, he thought.

Sensei Bob was busy judging competitors on another mat, but during a break he’d come over with a big grin on his face, and offered Danny a handshake and quick pat on the shoulder. “I saw you work. Great job, Danny. Big improvements. It’s all about attitude.”

THE DANDELION PATCH

It was a day of clear skies, with just a few horsetail clouds scattered across the sky.

Danny and Ben watched as Long Shot eased into the far turn of the track, bursting open late July dandelions. Danny felt a pang of sadness. The dandelions reminded him of a trip they had taken to the east coast: running into the surf, feeling the salt rushing into his nose, hearing the cry of seagulls. It had been a wonderful trip, a trip that you couldn’t find words to describe, like a dictionary had to be invented to describe it. Building sandcastles; catching the crabs that scuttled across the shoreline; scooping up baby sea stars and putting them into little tide pools that Danny and his sister would dig out with their plastic shovels. They’d watched as the little stars unfurled their arms, moving across the bottom of the tide pool, tripping over their too-many arms like clumsy, awkward, miniature ballet dancers. There were dandelions on a patch of green lawn not far from the beach. So many that you could only see hints of green, the orange-yellow flower heads of the weeds were so densely packed.
Dad was sober that entire trip
, Danny remembered. They had played games on the beach during the day, and at night they ate lobster that they’d bought at a roadside shack and cooked in their little rented bungalow. After dinner they played Scrabble and Monopoly.

Danny could hear a voice behind him. “Aye, she’s still got the legs, lads. Didn’t think I’d see it, but seeing is believing.” A rich, Irish brogue rolled across the field, catching Danny’s ear the way a spider catches a fly. He looked again, and saw an average-sized man with the larger-than-life voice in front of the lemon yellow of the school.

The man was wearing a green jacket and khaki pants, a cloth cap was perched on his head. He walked across the field with no-nonsense, purposeful steps. Long Shot was up and trotting toward him. She was usually friendly with everyone, but she was especially so with this man.

The man stopped and, bending slightly, gently cradled the dog’s head between his rough hands. “Young lady,” he said, “I do believe you still have that urge to run inside of you!” The dog happily wagged her tail, nuzzling at the old man’s hands. “I’ve got no treats for you today. But a nice try anyway.”

He extended a hand to the boys. “Name’s Mahoney. I come all the way up here from Florida to see how my girl was doing.” He saw the quizzical look on the boys’ faces. “Perhaps I should explain myself, then. I own a kennel of racing dogs. Long Shot here — do you still call her that?” Danny nodded. “Long Shot here was the best racer there was. I’d heard you might be racing her again. I come to tell you that you need to go easy on her in the training.”

Mahoney launched into the story of Long Shot’s life, up to the point where he had sold her. “I didn’t want to sell her, you see. But I needed the money, and I was offered a considerable sum. I heard that her new owner pretty much ran her into the ground, and then adopted her out. So I was surprised to hear that she might run again. I didn’t think she had it in her. But, you know, she was the best ever. A match for any dog that put its wee paws on the track.”

Danny took Mahoney back to the house. He and Danny’s dad grinned at each other and hugged right away. “So many years!” they each exclaimed, echoing each other. It came out, in a boisterous discussion around the kitchen table, that they knew each other from Jack’s days in Florida. They couldn’t believe Long Shot had brought them back together.

Mahoney stayed for a few days, sleeping on the pullout couch in the basement. He talked continuously, but not unpleasantly, about dogs, and joined Danny and Ben for walks at the track. The amazing thing about Mahoney was that he always had a new fact about dogs, every time he spoke: he was a walking library of dog-racing knowledge.

After a few days, Mahoney took Danny and Ben and Long Shot to a place out in the country. “I’ve got a friend out here; she runs a few dogs.”

“Name’s Beverley,” she said with a thin-lipped smile as she extended a handshake to the boys. She was a wizened, bony woman in her sixties. Her hands were knotted with arthritic bumps, and the sinews were taut against the surface of her skin, stretched like tight cords. She’d been seared by the sun. Her face had been toughened by decades of exposure to the weather until it looked like aged leather. But she was pretty spry. As she moved about, she reminded Danny of a cackling old crow hopping around a field.

“Bev, I’ve brought the best of the lot for you to see,” Mahoney said.

The woman hopped about, looking at the dog. The grass on her property, which was low and set amongst rolling hills, was a light, green brown; the colour would darken from the big heat of the summer. Danny could hear barking, the distinctive sound of a greyhound’s
rooing
, in the background, and saw, a hundred yards away a long, low kennel built of cinder block, with chain-link runs. Beverley touch Long Shot on the muzzle, lightly, then firmly ran her crooked, arthritic fingers down each leg.

“How’s she looking, Bev?” Mahoney asked.

Danny looked across a field toward the two runs, each about fifty yards long and separated by a chain-link fence. Two lean greyhounds, each in its own run, bounded back and forth, racing each other down the length of the runs, yipping happily.

“She’s fine. Just about six years old, but she probably retired at the right time. Still has strength in her legs, though.” She kneeled slightly and ran her crooked fingers over Long Shot’s ribs. The dog stood stock still, as if mesmerized by both the woman’s voice and her strong but gentle touch.

Mahoney bragged about Long Shot’s running career. “She was better than Mo Kick. Didn’t earn as much, but I never saw a greyhound leap out of the gate and hold the lead better than her.”

“Who was Mo Kick?” Ben asked.

“One of the best,” Mahoney said. “Ran in the early 1990s. Earned over $300,000. Well, this gal didn’t make me rich, but she sure didn’t disappoint either.”

“It’s true,” Bev said, straightening up after inspecting Long Shot’s paws, back, and neck. “She was a grand runner, this one.”

Mahoney told Bev about how he’d discovered Long Shot running around a high-school track. “Never saw anything like that before,” he said. “Usually they just run away and get lost, then you find them in someone’s backyard, if they ever get found.” Danny shuddered.

The old woman snorted. “You don’t see it too often, but this kind of thing happens. I mean, a dog that will just run a track and never wander from its owner. Takes a special kind of person, someone who connects with the dog at an emotional level.” She looked at both of the boys. “Could be one of you, or both of you, I don’t know.” She looked into Danny’s eyes. “You seem to really care for this old pup, don’t you? I think she feels that in you. She must love you a whole heap, young man, even look at the way she stands by you now.”

Danny was speechless. He hadn’t noticed, but the dog was just sitting there, looking up at him, waiting for whatever would come next.

Bev led them to the outdoor training track on her property. It was almost a quarter mile around, tighter in the middle than a regular track, “but it does the job,” Beverley said.

She got out a muzzle from an equipment box, slipped it onto Long Shot’s nose, then casually pulled the walkie-talkie from her belt. “Sally, can you bring out Chester and Filly?”

A few moments later, a young woman in her early twenties came with two greyhounds, one black and white, and the other a light brindle, both muzzled, on red nylon leashes. “Sally’s my daughter,” Beverley said by way of introduction.