The Gentlemen's Hour

37

A real dojo smells.

Badly.

Mostly of sweat. Rank, stale sweat.

Team Domination reeks.

A circular ring dominates the center of the studio. As Boone walks in, two guys are rolling around on the mat in the ring, practicing their jujitsu. Heavy bags hang from the ceiling, and three other guys are banging away at them, alternating punches with low kicks and knee strikes. Another two guys straddle heavy bags on the floor and slam elbows into their downed “opponents.” In one corner, a student hefts kettle weights while another skips rope.

There are none of the trappings that Boone would recognize from the old-school Asian-type studio—no gis, no belts, no Chinese paintings of tigers or dragons, no single white chrysanthemum in a vase. Instead, posters of UFC stars are pasted to the walls, and slogans such as “No Gain Without (Other People’s) Pain.”

The students don’t wear gis but are decked out in a variety of Gen X gear, mostly cammie trunks and T-shirts. Some sport black “Team Dom” ball caps. A few are in plastic “sweat” suits, trying to cut weight. Most of the guys have tattoos, lots of them, all over their arms, down their backs, on their legs. The guy supervising the jujitsu practice looks up, sees Boone, and walks over.

“Hey! What brings you here?”

It’s Mike Boyd.