Benjamin Thorpe would be “on deployment” anywhere from a couple of weeks to six or seven months. He usually returned unannounced, although Johnny sometimes guessed when his father’s appearance was imminent because his arrival was foreshadowed by his mother preparing an elaborate meal of Thanksgiving-sized proportions and spending an inordinate amount of time dolling herself up in the bathroom. Her rituals generally concluded with Ben bursting through the front door, gifts in hand. His daughter, son and wife would pounce on him. It was only during these moments that John ever witnessed his father become emotional; nothing exorbitant, just a glistening of the eyes. Once, a single tear trailed down his cheek before being quickly wiped away.

The next day Johnny would be woken by a pair of boxing mitts landing on his chest as his father stood in his doorway silhouetted by the hallway light.

“Let’s see if you can kick your old man’s ass yet, boy” became his standard line. With that, the two would go down into the basement and unroll the mat. Father would spar with son for a few minutes before putting a solid whooping on the boy so as not to let his head get too big.

“You’re getting pretty good, son, but you’ll never be able to whip your daddy,” his father would say with a grin.

When Johnny turned twelve, Ben decided his son needed real-world experience. “All the classrooms in the world can’t prepare you for a single dark alley,” his father would say. On their first such outing, Ben loaded fishing gear into the car and told his wife they were heading to the lake. In reality, they were headed to downtown Kansas City to pick a fight.

Ben drove around the seedier parts of town before coming across a closed skating rink where a group of kids sat outside waiting for trouble.

“Johnny, just remember everything you’ve learned and concentrate on the kid you’re fighting,” Ben began. “I won’t let anyone else jump on you, and you have nothing to worry about ‘cept maybe a black eye. But the most important thing is this—don’t seriously hurt one of these kids. We’re here to learn, not to send someone to the hospital. They’ll say some nasty things to you, and rightfully so. We’re coming into their place and picking a fight. Don’t get angry about it; put yourself in their shoes. If you break someone’s arm or go for an eye or anything else dangerous, you’re going to have to answer to me. I’ll take you down to the basement, and you’ll get an ass-whippin’ like you’ve never had before.” Ben held out his fist, and father and son did the over-under fist bump. Ben smiled, and they both walked over to the group of kids.

Thorpe could still picture the scene after all these years. As Ben and John approached the group, one of the kids who’d been sitting on a concrete wall slid off and strode up to them.

“What you want, mister?” The question was meant for Ben, but the kid never took his eyes off John.

“I’ve got ten dollars in my pocket says not one of you can whip my boy. Any takers?”

The kid who’d approached didn’t hesitate “I’ll take your money, mister.”

“Good. Just a few rules. Only you fight my son. Anyone else jumps in, no money. Any weapons come out, no money. If you do pull out a weapon or jump in, I don’t care if you’re a kid or not, I’m going to kick your ass. And finally, if you lose, no money.”

“I ain’t gonna lose, mister.”

The group formed a circle around John and the boy—whose name turned out to be Levi, as in “Beat his ass, Levi.”

Ben shouted, “Lift up your shirts and turn out your pockets, both of you. Any weapons, no fight.” They did as told. John noticed how much more developed Levi appeared to be. John had the body of a child while Levi was beginning to look like a man. Despite his years of training, John was scared.

Ben put his hands on his son’s shoulders, leaned down, and whispered, “Let him come to you, and don’t forget to breathe.” His father stepped away and simply announced, “Fight!”

Levi danced around on the balls of his feet in a boxer’s stance: “I’m going to jack you up. Your daddy oughta give me that ten dollars now and save you a broken mouth.” Levi followed his words with an overhand right. John had been through the drill so many times he didn’t even think, his body just acted. He slapped the punch to the inside with his left hand and slid in behind Levi’s right shoulder. Behind him, John slipped his right arm under Levi’s chin and grabbed his own left bicep. His left hand went behind Levi’s head and he squeezed. Feeling his opponent go limp, John released Levi and watched him crumple to the ground. The seconds-long fight silenced the circle of spectators. Knowing Levi would soon regain consciousness, John locked his opponent’s shoulder, elbow, and wrist, then waited for the inevitable. Levi woke in a compromising position with little recollection of what had occurred.

“What happened?”

“You lost,” John answered.

“Bullshit, I…” Levi didn’t finish the sentence as John applied pressure to the back of his opponent’s hand, causing excruciating pain in both his wrist and elbow joints. “Okay…Okay…You win.”

Thorpe won the fight in a matter of seconds without having to throw a single punch. His father walked over, put twenty dollars in Levi’s hand, told him he’d earned it, and left with his son.

“Good fight, son. One thing: I don’t think you took a breath until I paid Levi his money. If it’d been a long fight, you wouldn’t have lasted. Your muscles need oxygen. Otherwise, good job. How do you feel?”

“Okay. He didn’t even hit me,” John answered, looking up at his father from the passenger seat.

“I’m not talking about physically.” His father tapped his temple with his index finger. “I mean how do you feel up here?”

“A little bad, I guess. I mean…he didn’t really deserve that. I probably embarrassed him in front of his friends.”

“Good, Johnny. I don’t ever want you to start a fight—just end ‘em. I started that fight not you. You’re a good boy, Johnny, and you’re going to stay that way…understand?” It was a statement not a question.

Whatever Ben did for a living, he didn’t want his son to be involved in any way. The secret fights continued, and John’s opponents got bigger and older until he was fighting grown men. Some fights were easy, and some John lost. More than a few resulted in contusions and lacerations that had to be hidden from his mother.

In addition to fighting, Ben taught his son relaxation techniques, survival and navigational skills and made him proficient with a variety of weapons and firearms. All the martial arts and boxing schools he attended had been miles away from home and been paid for in cash. Ben always enrolled his son under an assumed last name. If John had ever bragged about his training or started fights at school, he would have been sharply disciplined. Ben was a living, breathing manifestation of the book The Art of War. Many of the teachings imparted from father to son were principles of war craft.

“You should never let your potential enemies learn of your capabilities, son. The less they know about you the better.” John often wondered why his father was so intent on him learning these principles, yet pushed for John to become a “nine-to-fiver.” Ben had many responses, most of which were along the lines, “You never know what life is going to throw at you.” Or when his father was in a particularly dark mood: “Son, dynasties, empires, and civilizations have been collapsing since the dawn of time—the mightiest from the inside out. Why should the U.S. of A be any different?”

But there were lighter times as well; family vacations, weekend outings, camping, and lots of horseplay. Ben’s long absences were an emotional stain on his wife, but they rarely fought, and their love for each other was obvious. Still, things hadn’t ended well.

At sixteen, John already outweighed his father by fifteen pounds but was still a heavy underdog in their sparring sessions. By then, John was the one testing the instructors when trying out new schools. He held his own for the simple reason the teacher had immersed himself in a single discipline while John had been cross trained in a variety of arts. John would simply find a weakness in the particular discipline and exploit it. It was during this time father and son had gone out for another “fishing trip.”