A muscular high school boy is choking a smiling, pudgy 7th grader.

The kid is a big marshmallow, his face bright red, and the older boy is built like a brick tower. The 7th grader's cheeks are so rosy and shiny, his hands so round and plump, they're adorable, really. He knows how to use them too. He taps out innumerable times in three minutes.

After the buzzer they switch partners. Now the boy with the rosy cheeks is getting pounded on by a 9th grader who out-ranks him and could possibly outweigh him too, although it isn't clear.
This 9th grader could be teaching the fatter boy anger. He beats him to the point where the boy cries, then the 9th grader laughs at him. He lets go of the boy's twisted uniform and the boy stops crying. They both stand up and do the same thing again: three times. At last, the boys wails are embarrassingly high-pitched. The buzzer goes off and they move on, the boy, having not learned anger, smiles unaffectedly and looks at his next opponent with hope.

There's another boy on the other side of the mat over here--he's been flat on the mat by himself for about 10 minutes now, just holding his head with his hand. He may have gotten a concussion or something but I don't wanna go over to check it out. With his free hand he keeps reaching into his pants and scratching himself.

The judo coach, whose aura approaches faded gray, probably doesn't notice these boyish games to much. He's having himself a nice long look out the window right now. Doesn't say much to the kids.
This team of would-be mammoths has taken his silent advice to heart: at their last match, five of the seven who attended lost in the first round. The two who won went on to lose in the second round.

This guy here, close to me, wrestling with the tall, dark-skinned, long-foreheaded kid is the team captain. His name's Yamaguchi or something close. He's got some natural wrestling ability and he quite enjoys being loud and merciless. He's the one who made the kid wail earlier.

Oh, the kid with the concussion just sat up. Yamaguchi is going to him. He asks him 'Doshita?(What's the matter?)'. The kid gestures to his neck. Yamaguchi gives him a confident nod and his hands softly seize the kid's head. He bends the kid forward, stretching his neck, encompassing it into a headlock, his body sending pressure into the kid's bend. He releases and the kid sighs with relief. Instantly, his hand is on the kid's chin and he quickly pushes it back the other way, so the kid's looking over and past the ceiling. Then he forcefully rolls the kid's head around, but the kid doesn't seem to be crying or convulsing or anything, so Yamaguchi is now a genius to me. The kid smiles and the buzzer rings. Yamaguchi grabs him by the arm and violently sweeps his leg from under him. 'Yosssh!!!,' he yells. They happily tumble until the kid with the concussion has been pinned several more times.

The match is over. They're taking a little break, and suddenly Yamaguchi jumps on a quiet, docile kid(--a decent kid, told me that he secretly prefers science to English--)'s back and makes the kid run two circles around the ring. The rest of the kids follow stride and jump up on a friend's back for a piggyback romp 'round the ring.

They're going to close class as usual. They do finger-flicking, arm bending and trunk-twisting warmdowns to the unenthusiatic count of 1 to 10, as the teenage boys handoff the count to each other. 'Ichi' to 'ju', I should say.

At the very end, we all line up to end class. I sit in front facing the students, along with the highest ranks, just because I am a teacher in the school. We bow out and I go to gather my things as the whithered coach sneaks into the well-lighted corner to change his clothes. Not that I meant to notice, but he wears tidy whiteys.