The judo thing got started because we (read that his father) thought it would be good for him. Besides,
the kid likes martial arts, so it seemed like a winning ticket. The first night father and son attended a judo class and watched from the sidelines. The instructors had him suited up and going through his paces
before long. He came home waggling a white belt and swaggering. Judo, it appeared, was pretty darn easy and he'd probably be taking down 300 pound professional wrestlers inside of a week or two.
Then came lesson
two, where for a solid 90 minutes he was worked to a pulp. He dragged home half-dead and informed his father and myself that he wasn't judo material. He didn't like sweating and, besides, it made him thirsty. He was
quitting.
Not so fast, said Dad, reminding him that we paid for six months because he said he wanted to do it, and he was going to spend six months in judo even if it killed him. Not only that – but it's good
exercise and will one day pay off in confidence.
The next week he was deathly ill when judo night rolled around.
"I think I'm going to throw up," he told me.
I clucked my tongue. "You poor,
pitiful thing," I said. "Put on your judo clothes or you will think throwing up is fun." He dressed and went, but belligerently.
The next time, he was sick again. Amazing how many illnesses strike my son just as
he is required to go to judo class. His father propped the poor, failing child up and took him anyway. When he came home he reported that he'd been taken advantage in his weakness.
"I got thrown all over the place," he said.
"Well, you're just learning," I comforted him.
"By girls…" he finished. "It's really embarrassing. I'm not going back."
"Want to bet?" I asked sweetly.
The following week he confessed it was highly probable he'd contracted leprosy or possibly even a bad case of malaria. His father – callously ignoring the public health risk
– marched him out to the car anyway.
When he returned he advised he'd salvaged his honor by throwing one of the girls who threw him the week before. Ah – sweet revenge. But not sweet enough. Last week our
budding medical experiment on legs started wising up. He'd already learned that illness alone got him nowhere. Neither did being brutalized by the opposite sex. So he tried a different tack. When my husband told him to
get ready for judo, he informed his dad that he'd hurt his leg in judo class the week before and still hadn't recovered from it.
"What's wrong with it?" Dad asked.
"Well, Dad, I'm pretty sure I decapitated it," Marcus Welby, M.D., said.
Guess where he spent his evening?
