The two fighters come to the ring. Like me, they’re middleweights, between 171 and 185 pounds. One’s black, one’s white—well, mostly green from tattoos. The black guy, Malone, is so built it’s like his muscles have muscles. He looks as if he’s been chiseled from dark marble, like Jackson.
“I got ten on the brother,” Jackson says. We shake on it. We bet push-ups, not money.
“You always bet on the black guy,” Nong says, then laughs.
“That’s because they most always win,” Jackson counters.
“Until they face an Asian, then we’ll see,” Nong says. It’s an argument between them going back to our first class together. It’s not about race, it’s about style. Me, I’m a striker. My hands are like those racing movies: fast and furious. And before I even started training for MMA, Dad taught me footwork that every fighter in our dojo envies.
“Pay attention!” Mr. Hodge shouts. I glance at the program. Malone has six pro fights with five wins. Davidson, the other guy, is in his third fight and has yet to earn a W.
I can barely hear the ring announcer because the sound system is so bad. This small show is nothing like you see on TV. Like in every sport, I guess you have to start at the bottom.
The bell rings and the fighters touch gloves. Malone is aggressive, while Davidson backs away. Malone throws a couple of jabs and hooks, but Davidson’s reflexes are sharp. Malone tries knees and even a spinning heel kick, but nothing connects with any authority. Davidson moves like he’s dancing on hot coals, and Malone can’t touch him.
“Come on, let’s see some action!” Meghan shouts. She starts clapping, but she’s not cheerleading. She probably would’ve made a good cheerleader, actually, or school-sports superstar, but she’d rather fight. But inside the ring, she’s as tough as any of us guys.
“Single leg, single leg,” I hear Mr. Hodge mutter. He can’t stop teaching, and he’s right. Whenever Malone throws his right, he telegraphs it by putting his leg out front. Davidson’s got to snatch it, take him down, and put the hurt on his body. That’s what I’d do, what I will do soon.
Meghan keeps shouting, and pretty soon others in the crowd get restless. Mr. Hodge shakes his head in disgust. “This is MMA, not pro wrestling. It’s a serious sport, not just a show.”
Malone lands a high kick on Davidson’s chin, which staggers him. Malone presses, but Davidson ties him up against the cage. Nothing’s happening and the ref separates them.
“He’ll try it again,” Mr. Hodge says. Malone lands another high kick and it’s a rerun.
“Now!” Mr. Hodge shouts. After a few jabs that miss, Malone goes for another high kick. Davidson ducks it as he shoots on Malone’s vulnerable left leg. Malone hits the mat hard and Davidson’s on top of him. He’s got him in full mount. Malone tries to pass guard, but Davidson’s got perfect position as a rainstorm of rights and lefts crash off Malone’s face.
Meghan’s cheering, while Jackson slumps in his seat when the ref stops the fight. TKO. As the ref raises Davidson’s hand, I crack a smile thinking about Jackson owing me ten push-ups.
“Hector, what do you learn from that fight?” Mr. Hodge asks in his master’s voice.
“Speed and smarts matter more than muscle.” Mr. Hodge nods like Yoda. Right I am.
“You use your opponents’ aggressiveness against him,” Mr. Hodge says to us all, but he only looks at me. “The thing that makes someone strong can be their greatest weakness as well.”
“Where’s the cage?” I ask the tall black guy next to me. He just shrugs.
“Don’t you know anything?” a voice says. I turn to see a stout Asian guy.
“About what?” I answer.
“In Missouri, you can’t get into a cage until you’re sixteen, even to train.”
“And you can’t even fight amateur until you’re eighteen,” a white kid chimes in.
“I won’t need no cage to beat you two,” the Asian guy says. The guy next to me just laughs, but I don’t know what to think. Dad warned me it might be like this. He says the first day in anything is just like dogs meeting each other: everybody’s sniffing and lifting their legs.
“Pretty tough talk from a little man,” I counter.
The Asian guy laughs. “A skilled little man can beat an untrained big man. You wanna throw hands?”
“Students, face front!” A voice shouts from behind. The three of us and the other seven teenagers at the MMA dojo do as we’re told. “Form a line, shortest to tallest. Now!”
“It’s like the army,” the guy next to me whispers.
“And no talking!” The voice grows louder as it grows closer. It’s almost a growl.
Everybody shuts up when the bald, middle-aged man steps in front of us. He has a faint blond beard and is wearing a white gi with a green sash. He says nothing for a long time as he inspects us.
“Welcome to the first teen camp at the Missouri MMA dojo. I am your instructor, your master, and you are here to learn from me, understood?” The veins on his neck look like small blue snakes.
“Yes, sir!” Black guy snaps. Others say it but with less enthusiasm.
“I am Mr. Daniel Hodge, and I’m a retired MMA fighter. I have black belts in karate, jiu-jitsu, tae kwando, and judo. In high school, I was a wrestling and Golden Gloves boxing champion. In the army, I was also a wrestling and boxing champ.” He stops and looks us square on. “What are your credentials?”
The Asian guy steps up first. “Nong Vang. Green belt in karate and black belt in judo. You can call me Nong, the Ninja Warrior. I was also state champ in football last year.”
“Team sports don’t matter here,” Hodge says. “This is one-on-one combat.”
Other people start listing their credentials, which are numerous and more than mine. Well, any credential is more than I got. I’m sizing everybody up, but I’m distracted. Where’s Eddie? He was supposed to ride his bike over here with me, but he was late, as always. Hodge doesn’t seem like a guy who’s okay with anybody being late. Or overweight. Eddie’s so dead.
Only the black dude and I are left to speak. I start, “My name is Hec—” But I’m cut off.
“Jackson James. The only belt I got is the one holding up my pants.”
Everybody laughs, except Mr. Hodge. “Then what brings you here?”
“I’m gonna be Army Special Forces. The recruiter said MMA would help prepare me.”
“He’s right. I will make you more than fighters. I will make you athletes. I will—”
The door to the dojo opens, and Eddie walks in, slowly. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You Eddie Garcia?”
Eddie nods. Hodge looks at me. “You’re Hector Morales, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble.
“What are your credentials?” Mr. Hodge
asks.
“I don’t really have any, but my dad taught me to box. He was a champion like you.”
“A striker,” Mr. Hodge says and then turns toward Eddie. “You look like a wrestler.”
“Heavyweight on the JV team. I was undefeated,” Eddie says; he lies.
“A wrestler and a boxer,” Mr. Hodge says. “Let’s have them fight and see who wins, okay?”
Hodge directs us toward the mat in the center of the dojo. Is he serious? I’d read on the Internet that the first practice was normally just a workout. Is he really going to have us fight?
“I’d bet on the cute one,” a voice shouts from behind us. A female voice.
I take my eyes off Eddie and turn around. There are three girls standing against the back wall. Like us, they’re all dressed for combat. Are they in the class with us? While I always like meeting females, I’m not sure how I’d feel about fighting them.
“Thanks for your support!” Eddie yells. I guess he’s decided he’s the cute one.
“No talking!” Hodge shouts at Eddie.
“I like the skinny one,” another girl says. Hodge glares in her direction. Two of the girls are giggling, while the third one—a
tall, thin brunette—glares at them.
“Good thing Rosie’s not here. That girl would have a fight on her hands,” Eddie whispers. I try not to laugh. “Rosie would kill for you, Hector. She loves you something awful.”
“This is how this sport began,” Hodge says. “MMA started when people decided to test age-old questions. Who would win a fight between a wrestler and a boxer? Between a judo expert and a kickboxer? The first fights were battles of different styles, but the sport’s evolved.”
“UFC 1 was in November 1993,” a white guy says too loud. He’s tall and skinny, but he looks soft. I should be thinking about fighting Eddie, but instead, I’m sizing up all the other competition.
“So, the question is not which is the best martial art. But what is the best mix of martial arts: striking, submission, and wrestling. This is the holy triangle of MMA,” Hodge says. He never stops moving as he talks. “All of you are strong in one or two sides of the triangle, so we will build on those and improve your skills in other areas to make you a complete fighter. You will work harder than you’ve ever worked. You will work hard because there is no other choice if you want to become a champion. Let’s get started.”
“Hector, tap,” Jackson shouts at me. We’re on the mat. He’s locked me in a rear naked choke, his bicep and wrist starting to cut off the flow of blood to my brain. It’s only a matter of time before I choose to surrender or lose consciousness.
“Tap!” Mr. Hodge screams. Him, I listen to. I pound my hand on Jackson’s leg.
I feel a little dizzy as I start to stand, so Jackson reaches his hand out to help me up. “Good fight,” I whisper. It’s a lie—good fight for him, bad fight for me.
“Excellent execution, Jackson!” Hodge shouts, then bows to Jackson in respect.
Jackson returns the bow and heads off the mat. I’m cringing inside, waiting for Hodge to yell at me, but instead he puts his hand lightly on my shoulder and speaks almost in a whisper. “You need a plan of attack before every fight, and then work it. Hector, what was your plan?”
I’m breathing heavy and it’s hard to talk. “Knock him down and take him out.”
He laughs. “That’s always your plan and that’s why you lost. Jackson knew what you were going to do so he could stop you. But he’s also thirty pounds heavier and a lot stronger. When you get into the cage for the first time, it will be against someone your size.”
“But I’ve beat everybody here my size,” I say. Two years I’ve been coming to this dojo, and no middleweight has taken me out. When I lose, it’s almost always to someone bigger. But I’ve beat bigger guys too. I’ve beat Jackson before, and then, of course, I beat up Eddie.
“I’ve come up with a solution for that,” Mr. Hodge explains. “I talked with Josh, who runs a teen program at MMA Academy.”
I don’t react. I’ve heard that’s where Eddie trains now. Since he left school, since he and I … well, I don’t know much about him. The stab wound in my back is still fresh one year later.
“He’s got several students like you who are only going to get better through actual contests with people their own size and skill level. So next week, he’s going to bring over a few of his students and we’ll have kind of a scrimmage game, understand?”
“Master Hodge, look at this!” Nong shouts. He’s doing Bruce Lee moves against the punching bag: flying knees, spinning back fists, and other show-off karate moves.
“Nong, get serious!” Mr. Hodge shouts.
“I’m seriously ready to get into that cage,” Nong says. His eighteenth birthday is only a few days after mine, so he’ll be the second one to fight. Jackson’s next and then Meghan.
“Then stop screwing around,” Hodge says.
“I’m not. I’m getting ready,” Nong says. “I watched Hector, and I knew what he was going to do. The only way to win in this sport is to do the unexpected. Everybody knows that you teach the ground-and-pound style, so that’s what they’ll be looking for. Well, I’ll have a little surprise for them for sure.” He throws a perfect spinning heel kick that rocks the bag.
“Let’s go,” Hodge says and motions for Nong to come over. “Shawn, get in here.”
Shawn Hart is still a skinny white kid like the day I met him. He still knows more about the UFC than anyone. He plays sports at school, so he doesn’t train full-time. He’s flyweight, the smallest MMA weight class, while Nong is featherweight, still a few classes below me. Before Shawn steps on the mat, Hodge whispers something in his ear as Shawn puts on his sparring helmet. Nong puts on his helmet, straightens his gloves, and looks like a hungry wolf.
“Get it on!”
Nong rushes Shawn and starts throwing kicks, but Shawn blocks them. Nong leaps in the air with a high knee that connects against Shawn’s chest. Shawn staggers back but stays standing. Nong loses his balance and hits the mat. Shawn pounces on him and gets a full mount. Shawn punches with his hands and uses his legs to control Nong. Mr. Hodge blows the whistle.
Shawn and Nong get up. Shawn smiles while Nong stares at the mat.
“Nong, someone in your weight class would have pounded you, but you grounded yourself,” Hodge says. “You can’t give away anything, am I right?” Nong nods in agreement.
“Like at UFC 77 when …” and Shawn is off and running. If his hands and feet were as fast and strong as his memory, he’d dominate this dojo. We all have our reasons for being here, but I think Shawn more than any of us, except maybe Nong, loves the sport itself.
“Everybody here,” Hodge yells. We stop our drills or exercises and huddle around the mat. Times like this make MMA feel like a team sport. Not that I’ve ever played one.
“As you know, we have four fighters about ready to enter their first amateur competition. They’ll be taking on fighters more experienced but, I guarantee you, not better trained. So to get them ready, I’ve lined up fights with another dojo’s teen program. We’ll meet at the MMA Academy next week, and then the week after, they’ll be on our turf. Inside our cage.”
“Who fights first?” Nong asks.
“Next week you and Hector. Then Meghan and Jackson the week after.”
Nong slaps my hand with a high five.
“You’ll see what it’s like to fight people who don’t know your strengths or your weaknesses, nor do you know anything about them. Well, with one exception.”
“What do you mean?” Jackson asks.
“I think Hector may know his opponent.”
“Who is that?” I ask.
Mr. Hodge pauses and then says, “Eddie Garcia.”
“Do you want to go out to dinner?” Mom asks as we drive home from Saturday night Mass. Despite everything that’s gone on in our family, I never miss Mass with Mom. Ever since Dad left, I pray before we go in that he’ll be either in a church pew asking for forgiveness or in a chair in the activity hall where I saw that a Spanish-language AA group meets at 7:30.
“Sorry, Mom, I can’t. I’m going over to Shawn’s to watch a UFC pay-per-view.”
Mom looks disappointed. Maybe I should feel guilty, but I don’t. I actually feel more guilty spending time with her, like that’s betraying Dad. I’d like to live with him. Maybe I could get him to change. But Mom needs me, and I don’t even know where he is. She works two jobs. I still work at the garage to help pay for my training, but I feel guilty there too since Dad’s not there anymore. It’s like he’s a ghost every place I go.
“Have you filled out those scholarship applications yet?”
“Mom, I told you, I’m not going to college. I’m going to train full-time for MMA after I graduate,” I say. I’d drop out now, except that would disappoint both my parents too much.
“You can’t make a living doing that,” she reminds me for the hundredth time.
“But it’s what makes me feel alive.”
She shakes her head. “Hector, that’s the saddest thing I ever heard.”
“You telling me that you kicked Dad out was the saddest thing I’d ever heard.”
Mom looks at me sharply and then turns back to the road. Her jaw is set. “I had no choice. He wouldn’t choose his family,” she says. “I wanted him to be a husband. I needed him to be a man.”
“He is a man.”
“No, Hector. Just being a male doesn’t mean you’re a man. Being a man means a lot more. It means putting your family first. It means making hard choices and sacrifices.”
“How can you say that about Dad?” I ask. Mom stares straight ahead, her lips tight. She’s done talking. For the first time in a long time, I think about calling Eddie. He could tell me what it feels like to be an orphan. While his parents died, mine are slowly slipping away.
“Hang on!” Nong shouts at the TV. A bunch of us from the dojo are at Shawn’s house watching an episode of Fight School before the UFC pay-per-view. It’s a reality show about people training to be MMA fighters. Nong’s excited about the one Asian guy on the show, but his guy is on the bottom getting pounded by a mean-looking white dude with a red Mohawk.
“He should grab an arm,” Jackson says before he sucks down a protein shake.
“Kimura?” I ask. It’s probably the most painful MMA submission, a real muscle shredder.
“That’s named after a real person, you know,” Shawn adds.
“One day, they’ll name a move after me!” Nong says. He breathes a sigh of relief as his fighter manages to escape the second round. It’s a three-round fight, and by my count, it’s even. Like in so many fights, the third round will be decisive.
“The Nong Vang fly and flop,” Jackson says as he pats Nong on the back. “Like how you’ll fly across the room and then flop on the mat when I hit you with my fists.”
“In your dreams.”
Jackson laughs. “It’s like that great Pride fighter Cro Cop said, ‘Right leg, hospital; left leg, cemetery.’ Same with these.” Jackson kisses his fists.
“No, it will be the Nong knee knocker.” Nong leaps up and throws a straight kick. Nong believes if you take out a man’s knees, you take away his power. If you take away his power, you take away the threat. It’s good in theory but rarely works in reality. Maybe if Nong would practice more and screw around less, he’d perfect his technique. Sometimes I wonder why Mr. Hodge puts up with Nong’s nonsense. Then again, we’ve all given Mr. Hodge plenty of challenges.
Triangle Choke (The Dojo) Page 2