Daylin entered the room, a sudden big presence in his green SA Judo Coach tracksuit. He must have watched some of the women’s matches already. “Ready?”
“Focused.”
“You’ll go right through them.” He sliced his hand through the air. Daylin had gelled his hair for the occasion; it caught the fluorescent light, shiny and black like a seal. Surita had known him since she was eleven and was aware there was no shortage of women in his life. Somehow, with at least two cellphones, he managed to keep them oblivious of each other. But with his fighters he was impeccably professional, never a hint of flirtation – or Surita would not have trained with him.
“Right through them,” said Surita. She had not put on enough talcum powder; already her hands were slightly warm and not perfectly dry.
“Hey,” said Daylin. “Look at me.”
She looked at him.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“Trust yourself.”
“I will. Thanks.”
He nodded firmly, clapped her on the shoulder. “Come on. You’ve got a bit of time, but you may as well go out now.”
She bounced on her toes a few times, experimentally. Strong. Like a rubber ball – she always liked to imagine this. Rebounding, rolling over her opponents. “Fuck it,” she said aloud, surprising herself. “Here we go.”
She strode out of the changing room into the cacophony: a milling crowd of spectators, some watching the matches intently, some looking on idly; and fighters, their matches over, swigging energy drinks from plastic bottles, stretching and chatting. She passed a mother and father consoling their crying son, a red-faced junior of maybe nine. The father was big and thick-necked but gone to seed, with a jutting stomach. He looked embarrassed, as if he wanted to hide his son’s tears. The boy needs to learn, Surita thought. Shouldn’t behave like that at a judo match. Tough inside, tough outside.
The kids she taught at Daylin’s dojo often found judo too difficult and wandered off, promising to return next term or when their schedule of extramurals slackened. They seldom did. Judo was arduous, she understood that well; she’d never found it smooth going. If you were dedicated, fighting would take everything from you. But there was something clean and pure in giving all.
She arrived at the official, just off the mat. “How many matches ahead of me?” she asked. The official held up her index and middle fingers. There were two women already waiting on her side of the mat. She didn’t know either of them – neither was South African, and she hadn’t faced them in tournaments before. She spent some time looking them over. Then, and only then – no need to show too much interest – did she glance over to the women standing on the other side of the fighting area. Her opponent was third in line. From Egypt, she knew, a serious judo country. Powerful build, firm and calm, not bouncing or stretching, not staring back; just ready. Okay. Surita was ready too. This would be a battle. African Championships: worth fighting for.
Surita stood watching the fight taking place in front of her. Her side – though of course they weren’t her team, they just happened to be fighting from the same side of the mat – seemed to be winning, to be more active. A lesson of judo: keep attacking, get your opponent off balance, and you’ll be rewarded. Victory comes to those who don’t relent. But then there was a struggle, some footwork that was hard to track, and Surita’s fighter went over the other woman’s hip – not cleanly, but she couldn’t get up again. She was being held down beautifully and there was no way her bucking could help her. She struggled for twenty seconds and then it was over, both of them standing and adjusting their gis, expressionless, bowing at the end.
One match before Surita went on. As the woman in front of her bowed, Surita felt suddenly scattered; she dismissed the panicky feeling that she was unprepared, should scratch the match because of illness, would be a mess on the floor. She began to breathe deeply, slowly, putting herself together again – then, bam! The match in front of her was over with a foot sweep. It had lasted five seconds, a losing competitor’s nightmare. Too quick – but now she was moving onto the mat, her body ahead of her thoughts, the soles of her feet padding across the cold canvas.
She stood at the outer line, bowed to her opponent, stood at the inner line, bowed again, and went forward. They plucked at the air for a few seconds, each trying to get at the other’s gi, until Surita found a grip on her opponent’s collar. She twisted her fist to hold more tightly, then spun and dropped, trying to throw the Egyptian over her shoulder – but the woman was too fast, stepping over her. Surita sprang back to her feet. The Egyptian was quick and unfazed by Surita’s left-handed style – maybe she’d done her homework. For a minute or so they scuffled, trying to sweep each other or get in close for a shoulder throw. Then, moving forward to make a wide sweep of Surita’s leg, the Egyptian let Surita react by stepping back and immediately went in for osoto-gari, hooking her right foot around Surita’s ankle. Falling, Surita managed to twist in the air, onto her hands and knees – only a yuko, a minor point. Crouching, she defended herself from the strangle, her crisscrossed hands tight on her collar to block the hard fingers trying to slide around her neck, until the referee stopped play and got them on their feet again. Surita took her time standing up. Her heart was beating much too fast; her shoulder hurt. Upright, she felt vulnerable. Defensive positions come more naturally: the body understands the necessity of avoiding harm. But she pushed away the weariness. You have to keep dominating until the opponent welcomes defeat as a respite.
Surita was suddenly dropped by a kosoti-gari, like a mugging, and again she was fighting to get up. The Egyptian was on top of her, heavy, bearing down, but there was a small escape gap to the left. Surita went for it, turning, grunting with the effort. The woman got hold of her hand, pulled it between their two bodies where the referee couldn’t see, and bent Surita’s small finger backwards. The pain was excruciating. Surita looked towards the ref, about to shout out what was happening in the churning white material. Sudden relief as the woman let go of her finger – and whispered in her low voice into Surita’s ear: “Mother’s cunt.”
It was such a mad thing to say that Surita lost focus. Of course previous opponents had whispered violent things to her, tried to intimidate her, but these crazy words took her by surprise. She lost quickly after that. When they stood up again, the Egyptian tried a series of aggressive throws, countering each defence with a new attempt, a fresh angle, and finally won with a hip toss.
Off the mat, when Daylin asked her what had happened, Surita told him that her injury was plaguing her. It was true that she’d hurt her shoulder five years before, age seventeen. Despite an operation, frequent cortisone injections and ongoing physiotherapy, the injury seemed permanent. But she often trained through the pain and always fought through it. She was embarrassed to tell Daylin that this time she’d given up. For what? An insult, an Egyptian curse, a reference to her mother, a woman she’d never met? Although she was also coming down with something – her throat ached and a headache still tugged at her temples – she didn’t mention this. Blaming her loss on the shoulder was weakness enough.
Her progress in judo was over for another year, then. No medal in the African Championship, no points towards the World Championship.
Daylin touched her on the arm, a gesture of kindness: he knew how she’d needed this win.
She stayed until the end to support her teammates, of course. They expressed surprise and sympathy at her defeat – they’d seen how hard she’d trained. Adeline won a silver medal in the middleweights, and a group wanted to go to a bar at the bottom of Darling Street to celebrate. Surita begged off, saying she was getting flu, and eventually, past eight o’clock, was free to sling her tog bag over her