A Compliment Violently Delivered

To follow up on the previous post, I'll relate a quick anecdote that I find amusing in hindsight, as most martial artists would, I imagine.

This morning I went to class, as per usual, and it proceeded more or less as expected. The class was still a bit larger than it usually is, but it appeared that we had lost a few since Monday, so the group was a bit more manageable. We went through training more or less as expected, and we did so at the direction of a trainer named (I think) Nan, while Deng and two others circulated around, watching certain students specifically.

I should note here that Deng has a distinctive habit of carrying around a thin bamboo switch, which he uses to punctuate his commands by slamming it onto mats or walls or thighs. The thing itself is perhaps just wider than my thumb, and it is held together by heavily layered masking tape in several places, giving it the air of a spiteful elderly middle-school disciplinarian who carries on despite several terminal illnesses. He walks with this old-fashioned study-aid seemingly everywhere he goes, only laying it aside to demonstrate techniques or when holding pads.

Throughout the class, Deng took little notice of me, as has become his habit, and, as mentioned in the last post, I have begun to take his abnormal attitude (or perhaps lack of attitude) toward me, which is to say primarily his lack of shouting, as a subtle compliment. Until the end of class, he in fact said very little to me, aside from grunting at me to come over to him so he could wrap my hands halfway through.

At the end of training, Deng proclaimed his customary orders to finish the workout:
"OK, AN NOW, FO-HUNID SEET-UP AN ONE-HUNID PUSH-UP."

As we all fell to the mats, preparing to embark on the final marathon for the morning, Deng retrieved the 15-pound medicine ball from it's usual seat next to a pillar, and strolling over, dropped it next to my head. I was familiar with this exercise, as I believe I have described it before, and I prepared my stomach for the ensuing bombardment. Instead of stepping over me, however, and preparing to somewhat gleefully deliver the daily punishment, Deng simply swatted my shoulder with his stick and, grunting, pointed to the student next to me. I looked up at Deng inquiringly, and he nodded to the ball and to my fellow, grunting, "You, peek up, fo heem, foty time."

Surprised, but flattered, I sprang up, grabbed the ball, and stepped over to the other student. He nodded to me when he was ready, and I started dropping the ball onto his abs, calling out each time I reached a multiple of ten. Deng stood nearby, surveying my work expressionlessly, and from time to time swatting me with the stick and growling "Mo powa."

Most martial artists (and perhaps other athletes, though I can't say from experience) now reading this will understand that moment to be something of a compliment, as the direct responsibility for any task, however minor, is customarily given to the most competent student available. Honored as I was, however, as we continued around the room, which I now coldly realized contained seventeen students, I began to realize that this was certainly no free pass. In case anyone is wondering, fifteen pounds is not an excessive amount of weight, but around the five-hundredth repetition, it becomes a little more cumbersome. Deng followed me from student to student, assigning them numbers based on, presumably, what he thought they could handle, and then flicking me absently with his stick whenever my efforts flagged.

No one in class seemed to resent my efforts, particularly, I'd imagine, those toward the end of the line, for whom I could barely muster up the first ten, let alone fifty, of the assigned thrashings. When I had finally finished, Deng smiled briefly and hit me on the shoulder, saying "See? Not so easy be like Deng."

Then he pointed at the ground, and when I was on my back, arms above my head, waiting for him to assign my sentence, he pointed to Harry, an almost impolitely large Englishman, and said to him, "Now you do fo heem. Eity time. Wait twenny second. Then seventy time mo. One-hunned-feefty time."

As I stared at Deng in horror, Harry smiled ruefully at me and shrugged, muttering, "Sorry mate. Best o' luck."

In the ensuing violence, I could only think that for all I value my ambiguous friendship with Deng, this was, unfortunately, an inevitable side effect of earning the respect of one's trainer. I'm glad that Deng seems to have a high estimate of my gastric capacity (rather higher than my own, in fact), but I can't say I was experiencing any of my typical respectful affection for him after Harry finished, and the little Thai man snatched the ball, raised it over his own head, and barked "Why you do so soft? Must go like thees! Twenny mo time!" He then proceeded to further demonstrate his respect for me at the great expense of my abdominal muscles, and indeed the majority of my digestive tract.

Now, sitting on my bed, a few hours removed from that final moment of my prostration in which I rolled groaning onto my side, coughing spasmodically, I can say that I sincerely appreciate the compliment. Certainly Deng offered little in the way of encouragement, only swatting my shoulder with his stick and grunting his customary "See, uh? Not die," but I can't help but feel that now, demonstrably, we at least have an understanding, though I'm not convinced that I have the sheer fortitude it will require develop that into a friendship.

Here's hoping.