Inside a mirrored room at the Activities and Recreation Center, Alli Mack, a 19-year-old pre-med student, takes a kick to the side of her head. She stands five feet, five inches tall and is bouncing swiftly and decisively on the balls of her feet. Back and forth, back and forth. The steps make a pulsing rhythm off the hardwood floor and soft but hurried breaths escape from her nostrils. Her fists are chest-high, held up by toned arms that show little fatigue. Her Gi — a traditional piece of martial arts wardrobe originating in Japan — is a crisp white and fits loosely on her small figure. In uniform, there’s a decided confidence in the way Alli carries herself. Around campus, she blends in. In this room, she’s a weapon.

Around Alli’s waist is a black belt.  

“Other sports, kids get into them to be with the cool kids,” she says. “Karate is very different. You’re alone, so you have to know who you really are.”

Allison Mack was born in Glenview, Illinois. When she was 4, her mother took her for her first karate lesson. The Mack children were all put through the martial arts ringer. Some of the six siblings stuck it out, others didn’t. The turning point for Alli was when she was only 9. In her first national competition, she took first place in the Kata — a detailed and choreographed set of patterned moves judged on precision, passion, strength and spirit. As a child champion, Alli was confident that she’d stick with competitive karate forever. Yet today, she’s training for her final competition: the 2015 World Championships in Poland.

“I don’t think I’ll have the chance to go to another Worlds because I’ll be in med school,” she says. “I just want to be satisfied with what I do. And obviously” — she smiles — “it’d be nice to come home with some hardware.” 

Whatever happens in Poland, Alli will hang up her Gi and bow out of competitive karate at the age of 21. Seeing that she was the third best in the Kata on the planet at age 17, this is like Michael Jordan calling it quits after high school. Over the years, Alli tried other sports — lacrosse, soccer, basketball — but none stuck like karate. 

“There’s a certain respectability and spirituality to the training that helped me focus more intensely on every other aspect of my life,” she says.

She first noticed her newfound calmness and maturity in middle school, right at the time she would earn her black belt in Shotokan, the most widely practiced of five forms of karate. The philosophical mantra of Shotokan: seek perfection of character, be faithful, endeavor to excel, respect others and refrain from violent behavior. A lot to live up to for a 12-year-old.

“The art itself pushed me into my field of kinesiology,” she says. “But sticking with it at such a young age made me think of everything in the long-run. I don’t like to quit at anything.”

Her partner in today’s kicking drill is Charlie, who stands six-foot-one. They trade kicks, swinging their legs over each other’s outstretched arms at chest height. Alli’s kicks have to go as high as her head.

“I can get lower for you,” offers Charlie. 

“No, don’t,” says Alli. 

She does the kicks with ease. Her kicks are strong and evenly orchestrated. Her foot strikes Charlie’s hand pad repeatedly — pop, pop, pop. They say football is a game of inches; the control of an experienced black belt in karate makes it a game of centimeters. Take the Kata: When performing it, a wrist bent in the wrong way will give away a victory. The body is meant to move as one like a machine, the mind being the controller of all parts simultaneously. 

Alli keeps a loose routine before competitions: visualizing her Kata puts her to sleep easily the night before. For breakfast something simple — a bagel or yogurt. Kanye and Jay Z play in her headphones. The beat of hip-hop keeps her rhythm in check. When she changes into her Gi, which is pressed, ironed and tailored before every competition, she must be completely alone. Her mother is usually waiting on the other side of the locker room door with a pep talk — nothing fancy, just “Chin up” and “High spirit.” If the mat seems slippery, Alli will apply hair spray to the bottoms of her feet. No toenail polish. Her feet blend in with the ground better without it. Then she’ll go through bits of her Kata off to the side. Slow motion first, then at game speed. On the mat, her mind goes blank, her vision blurs and sound mutes. She lets her body do the thinking. 

The last time she was on the global stage, at the 2013 World Championships in Liverpool, she failed to medal. For her first Kata, she went head-to-head against the reigning world champion. Two key things went wrong: She hadn’t known that in Europe judges look for speed in completing your Kata as well as precision. And she failed to roll her neck at the exact instant she reverse punched. That was enough for her come home empty handed.

“It took me so long to watch the tape from that competition,” she says. “At least two weeks. But now I’m even more eager and anxious to prove what I could do.” 

At the ARC, after the group does a set of kicking high and tight near the ears, Alli offers a piece of advice: “Try not to blink when the foot comes up. That’s what your opponent looks for when sparring. If they see a blink, they have an in for an attack.” It is the wisdom of an experienced fighter. She’s gone up against the best in the world, felt the pressure of representing a nation. Even at the ARC, her mind is on Chicago, Liverpool, Colorado, Poland. 

With 20 minutes left in the session, the group agrees on free sparring to finish up practice. Alli smiles behind her mouth guard and tightens her belt. The pairs are created and three different shaias — sparring matches — happen at once. A Judo or Tae-Kwon-Do fight would be more physical. A shaia in karate is mostly mental, more like a chess match than a wrestling match. More mind than muscle. Each shaia begins with a bow. As the matches go on, fatigue starts to set in.

“Man, I need to run more,” she’ll say after they finish.

In her last shaia with Charlie, after he connects to the side of her head, she sets her feet for her final combo: First she kicks left, connects above his waist, then pivots on her left foot, connects right just above his belt, then roundhouse kicks near his chest, a final hit — thwack. She lets out a booming “Kiai” — the short yell martial arts fighters often make — and literally kicks the sweat off of him. Charlie stumbles back as the perspiration rains down onto the clean wood floor.

The shaia is done and they each bow. 

Water bottles open and close, the Velcro of their pads rips open in unison, and they all gasp for air. Alli quickly regains her breath and ponders the difference fighting here versus abroad. The trainees in Japan, Germany, Poland, they’re preparing every day like this. They don’t have midterms or 9 a.m. classes, med school applications to finish. Overseas, it’s competitive karate as one’s life or no karate at all. Alli doesn’t want that. She’s looking forward to the time when she can do karate for the pure spirit and joy of it. Just one more competition, one more chance at the hardware, and she will be done.

“And that” — she says about the opportunity in Poland — “is as good as it’s ever gonna get.”

Patrick can be reached at [email protected].