My son’s got Mike Tyson on the burner tonight. He only knows the champ from training videos and highlight reels and wants to watch a few early fights to see where it started.

Picture this. It’s 1995 and I’m sixteen. I’m the only girl in the Dojo.

I signed up for karate classes because I figured a little ‘wax on, wax off’ would be good for me.

He looked like a big muscular cherub, curly blond hair and pale blue eyes, arms like ship-ropes. He had no malice in him, though— just violence.

Bruises were the first signs that Phin was in trouble.

Growing up, karate was my favorite thing in the world.