The Way by Joseph Bruchac

Author:Joseph Bruchac [Bruchac Joseph]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780761385370
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group

Chapter 11

NEED TO KNOW

The wise man knows what he knows.

The sage knows what he does not.

—Sifu Sahn

“How many people does this seat?” I ask.

Mom and Uncle John and I are standing at the top of the huge new stadium-style arena at Koacook Moon. We’re looking down the endless rows of seats cut by aisles that radiate up from the center like bicycle spokes. Aside from some maintenance men sweeping the floor below, we’re the only people in the place.

“Eighteen thousand screaming fight fans,” Uncle John answers me in a drawl that’s an imitation of either Michael or Bruce Buffer, the two brothers who’ve become the most famous fight announcers of the twenty-first century.

In the center of the arena, an eight-sided ring surrounded by metal netting about eight feet high has been set up.

“That’s where it’ll take place?” I ask. A dumb question that my uncle actually dignifies with an answer.

“In the Octagon,” he says. “Too bad I’m an Abenaki and not a Navajo, or I’d feel right at home in there.”

The three of us smile. Indian humor. The traditional homes of Navajo people are eight-sided buildings called hogans. We Abenakis lived in round wigwams.

“Better hurry,” Mom says. “We’re supposed to be there at seven P.M.”

I’m not sure who we’re meeting for dinner. I don’t even know who got the invitation, Mom or Uncle John. But all three of us have been included. Uncle John has loaned me a bolo tie to go with my best blue shirt. Aside from the fact that his shirt has embroidery around the sleeves and the pockets, he and I are dressed the same, from our cross-trainer sneakers on up to our twin bolos with a bear design in the center of the beadwork.

“My two guys,” Mom says as she links her arms between us. Hearing her say those words tugged at my heart. On the one hand, it makes me feel taller. On the other hand, she used those exact words the last time she and Dad and I went out together. Three years and 4TPA.

Leaving the arena, we walk down a hallway lined with pictures of the members of the Tribal Council and their families. I find myself recognizing some of those faces. They either look like kids I’ve seen in the halls or, in some cases, are those exact kids themselves. Like the one we just passed of none other than Jeff Chahna. In full football uniform.

I reach up to my eye and study my reflection in the glass that covers Jeff Chahna’s photo. Even though it was three weeks ago, I still remember him punching me as if it was yesterday. Of course, my eye’s not even tender anymore, and the discoloration is long gone. It usually takes at least a week before you look normal again after getting a black eye. (Trust me on that, years of experience.) But this time it only took three days for it to disappear. Maybe because of all the running, deep breathing, and other physical activities Uncle John had me doing.

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