I sit in the elevated booth behind my church congregation, trying my best to listen to the pastor's words. My fellow AV partner sits beside me, studying his Bible carefully. I try to do the same--God knows I do--but my eyes are tired. I fidget restlessly, and my legs ache with a faint yet distinct soreness. My tired eyes beg to close, and for a second they do.

I'm hot. The beads of sweat trickling from my brow try their best to distract me, yet cannot. Not this time. I stand opposite a man a couple inches taller than myself who looks to be in his mid-thirties. He's thin, but that thin frame is lined with muscle. His bald head and facial stubble coupled with his stern look tell me that he's ready. So am I. A woman stands between us. Her white gi and black belt match ours. She glances at us both, then steps out of the way. She announces, both for the audience to my right and the judges to my left: "Jiyu kumite. Either side attacks."

Sweat soaks into my gi. I slow my already-labored breathing. I straighten my back. I stare into the man's eyes. I slowly assume a sort of stance, my core and bottom tightening into one another and converging into a mass of muscle and energy. That mass presses into my legs, sending energy through them and down to my bare toes, which shift subtly, finding their foot on the gymnasium floor beneath them. One of my seniors would tell me to do something like this--tighten the core, and feel the chi. I don't know if I'm doing it right. I don't even know what "chi" is. But something within me is chambered. My core is sinking into my legs, like a coiling spring, or a cat on its haunches.

My eyes never leave the man's. His never leave mine.

"Hajime!" calls the woman.

Both of our left legs shoot forward as the words leave her mouth. Our gloved hands are up, and we're creeping toward one another. It's slow at first. The back leg creeps up, and pushes the body forward little-by-little. Then we reach the ma--the distance. Then the spring uncoils, and we explode.

It's not clear who moves first, but in an instant, our fists are flying to strike and deflect one another. We clash in a series of blows that I cannot fully recall. We're almost like a pair of alley cats, the way our voices rise with our blows. We're close now--too close. He tries to run me over with his attacks, yet I stand my ground, striking back beneath his ribs as a punch goes by me. A bellowing holler originating from the pit of energy in my gut rises to my throat and escapes from my lips, cutting through the silence in the gymnasium. We exchange a few more blows, with no clear contact.

"Yameh!" the woman calls. We shove one another away, but our eyes remain locked. I pass by him, my eyes issuing a challenge as I return to my spot. The woman is pointing to me. "Right hand reverse punch," she says.

I assume my stance again, coiling the spring. I chamber that intensity once more.

"Hajime!"

We spring into a fighting stance, creeping in once more. We close in until we reach our ma. We circle one another for a moment, waiting to see what the other does for a second or two. He wants to do something. I don't give him the chance. My right knee surges forward, carrying the rest of my body with it as my left hand shoots outward toward him. He shifts back, his hands deflecting my knee and my left hand, but my right is already erupting from its place at my side. Another kiai burst from my gut as my right foot connects with the ground and my right fist meets his face. The blow isn't hard. At least, I don't intend for it to be. I certainly don't mean to hurt him, just to tag him enough to show that I could.

"Yameh!" the woman calls as soon as the blow is landed. We part, glaring at one another as we find our spots. "Right hand, front punch. Continue. With control, please."

We sink into our spots. The springs coil.

"Hajime!"

Again, we close the distance. We circle. We explode. I move in for another decisive strike. I open my mouth to allow another bellowing kiai out, but it is stopped by the foot that meets my chest, and the gloved fist that strikes my right cheek. I stagger back, but regain my stance.

"Yameh!" calls the woman. "Control!" She sounds irritated. The man takes a knee, bowing in what I assume is a remorseful position. She must assume he lost control, but he didn't. If he hadn't been controlled, the kick would have knocked me over, and left me crumpled on the floor. The dull ache in my gut and the stinging on my cheek--those only inform me of what he could have done. I could be upset. Some might choose to be. But I barely even feel the pain.

I've never felt better in my life.

He stands. The woman points us back to our spots. She commands for us to bow. We hold each other's gaze, severing it only when our bows direct our eyes to the floor. And as we rise, our eyes lock once more. We stare. The blows are one thing. But the locking of eyes is intimate, in a way. The eyes alone communicate intimidation. Challenge. Exhilaration. Respect.

We part once more as we face the table of judges. We bow.

As we walk from the floor, our open palms clasp one another's shoulders. I glance at him, and he's smiling too.

My eyes snap open. I look up to see the pastor still preaching. I blink a few times, and in the tiniest moments in which my eyes are shut, I'm there again, fists flying in some immaculate yet borderline barbaric explosion. But I'm not there now. I know I have to stay in the present, but I allow my eyes to shut once more.

The exchange repeats. Certain parts loop over and over. My punch to his face. His punch to mine. Quiet, intimate tension is severed by our attacks, only for the silence to take over once more as we part. For a moment, we're sitting side-by-side, catching our breaths.

"I'll have to buy you a beer or five," he says as we complement one another.

"If I were old enough, I'd agree," I reply.

"Well, nevermind then," he says with a chuckle, raising his hands.

"It's the thought that counts," I say.

Then the whole thing restarts.

A hand grips my shoulder. "You awake?"

My head shoots forward and my eyes jolt open. "Yep," I say, following a slight gasp. "What's up?"

"Worship team is up," says my AV partner. He doesn't look amused.

"Oh, yes. Sorry," I mumble, fumbling with the sound board in front of me to turn off the pastor's mic as I realize he's no longer standing at the pulpit. "Sorry," I repeat as I turn on the mics for the musicians.

My partner shakes his head with a slight sigh. "Talk with me after service, please."

I purse my lips and nod. "Yessir."

But in the back of my mind, the fists are still flying. I've got until the worship team finishes the closing song.

I let my eyes drift shut once more.