by J. D. Oliva
Anne's bare feet scaled up the bars till her head touched the ceiling. She checked the knot at the base, and the knot around her neck. They weren't going anywhere. Neither is she.
Soon, the family would be together again. She would walk through those pearly gates and find Jim and Alyse waiting for her. Then they'd be a family again. Except for Jamie. Jamie had to stay here. For now, anyway.
Anne let go and took a step off. She was right. The sheet was perfectly taught.
Yesterday
XVI
They say the walkout is the most gladiatorial part of Mixed Martial Arts. It's the part where the fighters take the long walk from the locker room/dressing area, or in this case, a back toilet that looks like it hadn't been cleaned since the Bush Administration.
Which one?
Does it matter?
Anyway, in the walkout, the music blares, and the fighter is led to the cage by his trainers. All while trying to focus on the fact that in just a few minutes, another man is going to try to hurt you. He's going to go to great lengths to make sure you can't breathe, or walk, or use your arm. Unless you surrender before passing out or having a bone snapped. It's brutal and beautiful, but as Chris Shane started his walkout, he wondered if it was really for him.
He grew up on a wrestling mat on Chicago's Northside and was a two-time high school state champion at Notre Dame Prep. He had a college scholarship to Owens State University, but washed out his sophomore year after some unresolved family issues. Life changed after his father died last Christmas. The reasons behind it still didn't make sense, but it was in the past, and he was trying to move forward.
At only twenty-one, Chris, the son of a Chicago Police Detective and news reporter, was trying to restart his life. He probably should have gone back to school, maybe found another wrestling program. But he didn't. He tried living with his mother out in L.A., but it didn't work. Something about the SoCal sunshine felt off to him, and after only two months, Chris left.
But in Los Angeles, after a bad job interview at the AXIOM facility in Culver City, he wound up in a dojo learning some basic jiu-jitsu. He took to the sport like a natural, as would any high-level amateur wrestler. Still, when life called on him to leave L.A., he made the decision to jump into the cage and turn himself into a Mixed Martial Artist. Other than watching UFC on TV with his friends, he didn't know much about the sport, but the idea of punching and choking people out for a living sounded perfect.
He found a gym back home and started training. When a call came in the dojo two weeks ago looking for anyone who could make the one-hundred sixty-five-pound weight class for an impromptu fight, Chris lept at the chance. His trainers told him he was nowhere near ready to have an actual fight, but Chris shut them out. He needed to be something other than a barista serving coffee to spoiled rich-kids on the Loyola University campus. More than anything, he just wanted to punch something. His trainer had to continually remind him punching is the worst part of his game. You're a wrestler.
Of course, Louie Brajas, his trainer, was right. Chris sucked at boxing. Sure he could take anyone in the gym down to the mat and had enough rudimentary jiu-jitsu to submit just about any of them. But when it came to striking, Chris was out of his league. Brajas knew it, that's why he refused to support Chris' decision. He wanted Chris to train for at least another six months before even thinking of taking on a fight. But, Chris didn't listen. He took the fight down in St. Louis. Chris hopped in the 2013 Ford Taurus, which was a gift from Mommy. After all, nothing says, I'm sorry I abandon you and let you live with your crazy-ass father, more than a car.
Chris taped his hands on his own, with no help from a trainer. He built the game plan on his own, with no help from a trainer. Then, he sat in the back, waiting to walk out to the cage without a trainer. But as the opening chords to Tool's Stinkfist rang out through the mock arena set up inside the St. Charles Convention, Chris Shane had only one thought.
"What the hell am I doing here?"
Rather than answer the question, he walked out to the cage. Without a trainer, Chris walked alone. The rest of the fighters on the card had t-shirts and fight shorts inscribed with something personal or had sponsor graphics. Chris had neither. His fight shorts were plain black, and instead of a cool looking t-shirt, he just wore a gray Property of the Chicago Police Department shirt with block letters. A tribute to his late father, who would probably ask, "what the hell are you doing?"
Chris stepped through the cage and looked at his opponent, a twenty-five-year-old fighter named Dylan Reed. He was lean, and obviously cut a good deal of weight to make the fight. He had badly bleached hair and a crappy beard, the kind of patchy monstrosity that doesn't quite connect in all places. Chris should have laughed at the punk and his cocky smile, but the cauliflower ears told a different story. Growing up in wrestling, Chris knew nine out of ten times, a guy with ears whose cartilage had been shattered and healed improperly, wasn't someone to mess with. Yet, here they were about to fight.
The two fighters walked to the center of what, based on its circular design, couldn't be called an octagon, but ring didn't sound right either. With the fencing around the perimeter, cage would have to do. These were the thoughts dancing around inside of Chris' head. Not focusing on whatever half-ass game-plan he cobbled together on the six-hour drive from Chicago to St. Louis, but wondering how he should refer to the fighting space. 'Cause that's important.
The bell rang, and the realization of where he was finally settled in. In the back of Chris' head, he heard Dad's voice saying Coach Brajas' words.
"Don't get punched, dumbass!"
Chris picked his hands up and moved forward with a slight bounce in his step, similar to how he did back his days at Norte Dame, only now his hands were up, protecting his face. Dennis Reed bounced around the cage like Ali, or more appropriately, Anderson Silva. He had a perfect tan and an arrogant smirk Chris would love nothing more than to smack off his face. Too bad that wasn't the plan.
Chris faked like he was going to throw a left jab and instead shot in on a picture-perfect double leg takedown. Chris lifted his opponent high into the air so the whole crowd could see Dennis Reed's feet go up over his head. Chris drove his opponent down to the mat so his back landed hard on the ground. Rolling on instinct, Chris immediately attacked Reed's wrist, trying to set up a juju gatame, which was nothing more than a fancy Japanese name for a basic armbar. Unfortunately, Reed was more than a fairly basic jiu-jitsu fighter and quickly countered Chris' attack and rolled back to his feet.
The opportunity may have been slightly squandered, but as Chris moved back into his fighting position, he had a little more bounce in his step. The takedown came pretty easy. Any time Chris touched Reed's leg, he could take him down. The fight was set for three rounds of three minutes apiece. If he could get a few takedowns each round and keep enough distance to not get caught with any punches, there's a pretty good chance he could win this thing. Heck, there is still a chance Chris could catch him in that armbar. The smile was wiped from Dennis Reed's face. The double leg did the trick. Now, it's Chris who's feeling good. With his hands up in the air, he stalked his opponent, looking for another opening to hit the double. That's when he saw his opportunity. He had space. Chris lowered his level and took another picture-perfect shot that would no doubt—
CCCRRAAAACCCKKKKKK
Chris was unconscious before he hit the floor. He never saw it coming.
Told you not to get punched.
XVII
When Chris' eyes finally opened, they were flooded with light pouring down from overhead. He blinked a few times, realizing he was lying on his back. That's when he saw Dennis Reed perched on top of the cage, pumping his arms to the sparse crowd making as much noise as a hundred and fifty people could. He was celebrating. Chris rolled to his side and pushed himself up off the mat. What happened?
Your dumbass got knocked out, he heard Dad say in the back of his head.
Oh.
"You okay, kid?"
The heavyset ref asked.
Chris nodded, still unsure about what happened.
Dennis Reed jumped off the top of the cage and walked back to the center of the mat, where he hugged Chris.
"Great fight, baby," he said, winking at Chris.
His comment was almost as phony as his smile. Chris immediately wanted to whoop his ass. But he had the opportunity a minute ago, and this is how things wound up.
The ref brought the two of them together and grabbed each of them by the wrist. The announcer shouted Dennis' name as the winner on the over-modulated PA system. The crowd may have been small, but they sure did love seeing Chris get his ass kicked. The ref raised his opponent's hand, and Dennis Reed continued celebrating for the fans.
Chris' whits returned, and with them came the shame and embarrassment of defeat. By this point, he knew the flavor very well. He pulled out his mouth guard, grabbed his Property of CPD shirt, and headed back to the back room that was supposed to pass for a locker room. A few people jeered him as he walked to the back, but he wasn't paying enough attention to really make out what any of them said. No one was going to be as hard on him as himself.
When Chris reached the dimly lit back room, the other fighters on the card gave him space. He pulled off his gloves and tore away at the tape covering his right hand. As he was about to pull the wrappings off the left, he paused. Damn.
Chris ripped off the rest of the tape and took a quick look at the scar in the center of his palm. "The V stacked on top of a triangle," he always described it. The last gift he ever got from Dad, although it's not fair to blame the old man for that one. He was gone long before the thing on Christmas Eve. No need to hang on to that baggage. He unzipped his bag and found his towel, shampoo, and change of clothes. The one thing he didn't see was a shower.
"Great fight, kid!" Dan Valenti said.
Valenti was a 6'4" 305lb. behemoth, who back in his day, was a bad dude. But that day was a long time ago. Now he had a belly and gray temples. He could probably still whoop a lot of people though. Dan was the fight promoter who called the dojo back home looking for fighters. He's a nice guy and seemed on the level with everything. He told Chris this was an amateur fight, and he'd get paid no money, only a chance for exposure. Chris sure did get exposed. So, Dan was true to his word.
"Yeah, right," Chris said.
"A lot of guys lose their first amateur fight. You can lose a hundred amateur fights, and none of them will count toward your pro record. Maybe next time you come down, bring a cornerman. Maybe a coach. Probably would help."
No shit.
"Yeah, I'll do that. Look, Mr. Valenti is there a shower I can—"
"Sorry, kid. The venue doesn't have any. You can use the sink over there though," he said, pointing to a rusty, steel basin with a leaky faucet in the corner.
"Thank you, sir," Chris said.
Dan put his large hand on Chris's shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up, kid. Clean up. We rented out the Marriott bar across the street. Come have a couple beers and some pizza. All free."
"I dunno. I think I might hop in the car and head home."
"Home is Chicago, kid. That's dumb. Stay and relax, get drunk with the boys. We got some rooms there. It wouldn't kill you to get a good night's sleep too."
Chris didn't drink. He just turned twenty-one, but still held on to the no-drinking rule. It was the last strand of his fading Christianity. Or that's how he sold it to himself.
"Pizza sounds good."
"Good man!" He said, slapping Chris on the back. Easily the second hardest shot he felt tonight.
The promoter walked out of the mock-locker room, and Chris headed over to what he guessed was the sink. Shaking his head, Chris pulled back on the hot water handle and watched waves of rusty, brown liquid pour out.
"Perfect."
Chris did his best to clean up. Fortunately, the knock out punch caught him on the jaw, so there were no real bumps or bruises. Only the ones to his ego, and they weren't going away. He did his best to take a poor man's shower in the muddy water. At least he smelled better. Chris threw on an old Owens State Wrestling t-shirt and a pair of jeans with his blue Asics shoes and walked out of the St. Charles Convention Center. He opened the back door to his Taurus and tossed his bag inside before looking back at the building.
Chris lost enough wrestling matches in his life to know the burn in the heart of an athlete. That sting stays with you during training, reminding you to wake up and run in the morning, even if all you'd rather do is pull the covers up over your head. The sting is what separates the greats from the average dudes.
If Chris had gotten beaten like that when he was wrestling, not only would he not be heading to a bar for free pizza, he'd punish himself for that performance with wind sprints in the parking lot until he couldn't move anymore. Then he would have gotten up and done ten more. The sting is what made him back then. It's the only reason he had two state titles and a Division I scholarship he promptly squandered.
Looking at the dumpy convention center, he felt none of that. Yeah, he was embarrassed, but the last thing he wanted to do was climb back into the cage and fight someone else. But shouldn't that be the only thing on his mind? Shouldn't he want to kill the next guy in his way?
Hmm, bad terminology. Maybe he didn't want to kill the next guy because he already had killed someone, and it didn't feel too good at all.
Chris hoped MMA would help him find the guy he used to be, but it didn't. Sure, the training was a blast, and getting on the mat and rolling around again always helped him find his center, but competing didn't fill that void like he thought. He always heard you need a killer instinct to be a fighter. Well, when he was in a fight-or-flight situation, he figured his killer instinct would show up. But inside the cage, it was nowhere to found. About as present as his boxing skills. Maybe this isn't for him after all.
Looking across the street to the Marriott, Dennis Reed and his entourage yelled and laughed as they walked through the front door. The clown actually wore a pair of Prada Sport Sunglasses. At night. Looking at this dweeb, who honestly just caught him with a lucky shot, should have infuriated Chris. But it didn't. It only made him embarrassed.
Get in the car and go home, Dad said.
It was a good idea, but Chris wanted pizza.
XVIII
Chris walked through the entrance to the Marriott bar. Immediately, Chris was bombarded by the muddled sounds of music and people yelling. His acid reflux acted up, and he chocked back down the free Gatorade Dan Valenti had in the coolers. The entire environment reminded him of those parties he avoided in high school and learned to hate in college. In the back of the bar, twenty different pizza boxes were laid out on a table. Chris beelined there and filled his paper plate with as much sausage and pepperoni as he could stack.
"Hey, Shane, you gonna eat the pain away?"
Chris never heard that voice before but was sure it belonged Dennis Reed. He looked over his shoulder and saw him and his posse. Four guys dressed in designer jeans and collared shirts with loud patterns that probably cost way too much for how ugly they were, clung to Reed.
There was also one girl with her arm around the night's victor. She looked Hispanic, with dyed blonde hair. Six-on-one isn't favorable odds. Chris swallowed some more pride and turned back toward the food.
"Oh, come on, brother, I'm just fucking with you. Come over here," Reed said.
"You better be cool to my boy, or he's gonna whip that ass again," one of the underlings said to the cheers of the posse.
Chris wanted to punch the clown in the face, but again, six-on-one.
"Man, shut up," Reed said to his friend. "For real, come here, Shane."
Best to get this over. Chris and plate of pizza walked over to the crew where he went face-to-face with Dennis Reed for the second time tonight. This guy may have beat him, but it didn't mean Chris had to genuflect in his direction.
"Good fight, bro."
There were no words Chris could have sa
id to sum up all his feelings about the forty-eight-second knockout. Instead, he nodded a thank you.
"You got a nice little double leg. I got scared for a second."
"For real, yo!" The same Pip Squeak chimed in.
"Good thing y'all wrestling boys don't have jaws." Reed threw a fake slow-motion punch at Chris' jaw.
"Yeah, I gotta work on that."
Chris wanted to slap his hand away, but that six-on-one thing. The posse thought the comment was hilarious. Then he looked over at the girl on Reed's shoulder. Something about her eyes caught his attention. The rest of his crew had a good old time, all while she just smiled.
"I can help you," Reed said. That surprised him. "I'm turning pro soon, and I need sparring partners. You got good wrestling skills," He slightly tugged on Chris' old shirt.
Why in the world would he want to be anyone's sparring partner, especially this guy? Still, best to be polite and move along.
Fuck off is what Chris wanted to say.
"I'll think about it," is what came out of his mouth.
"My man!" Reed offered him a shot glass full of something. Chris isn't a drinker, but for some reason, he took the drink and threw it back. It took everything he had no to gag all over everything. He wanted this whole thing to be over and figured partaking would make it happen quicker. When Reed handed him another glass, he figured he played it wrong, but, in for a penny. Chris threw back the next drink. This one went down a little easier.
Next thing he knew, Pip Squeak draped his arm around Chris' shoulder. Did he just join the posse? The third shot glass came his way, and he guessed it meant yes. Number three went down, and his head started to spin. A little pizza might help.
A lot of time flew by, and who knows how many more of those awful shots Chris put down. His brain was goo, but he had some fun. Maybe these guys weren't so bad.