Kung Fu Master

Rowan is on the path to becoming a Kung Fu master. It's a slow path. The previous eight weeks of Friday evening classes have all led up to today's big test, held at a middle school in a neighboring town, after which Rowan will add to his curriculum vitae the title of "Kung Fu White Belt."

I thought he'd get the white belt on the first day, like they'd just hand them out and then work on the first real belt. You're alive and your dad paid the $79? Here, kid, tie this around your waist.

In actuality, white belt means you've mastered a series of blocks and punches that'll allow you to survive an attack by another white belt. The infinitely patient instructors would demonstrate a move with perfect form, and then they'd shower praise while their charges flailed around like little flamingos. Then they'd do it again. And again. Week after week. And the kids got better at it.

Last night, I told Rowan not to stuff his uniform in the hamper; he'd need it today for the test.

He's ready. He's in the zone. It's ON. Jackie Chan, you've been warned.