A friend of mine called me today, a former teacher and someone I respect though we've damaged our relationship a number of times. It's mostly scar tissue now, which isn't pretty but certainly is strong. We met at the college gym. In summer it's empty, except for the not unpleasant smell of sweat and a sullen student assigned to watch the door. "Bring your sticks," he'd said, referring to the short rataan sticks of escrima. When he saw me, he raised his over his head in greeting, and we went down onto the deserted basketball court.

We began with the simplest of siniwalis, the patterns of stick practice. The noise of the sticks echoed off the walls and ceiling, and as the pattern sped up the smell of smoking rataan reached me. Over the clatter of our attacks and defenses we began to talk, first of old classes, then old writers, then books read and to-be-read.

As I struggled to keep my breathing even and in time with my strikes, the pattern changed, anapests to the previous spondees. With this alteration in rhythm came a lightening of tone, and we began to trade limericks back and forth, ending with a truly lewd creation of Swinburne's. After an hour, coated in sweat, we bowed, hugged, and went back to our jobs.

And people ask us why we practice martial arts.