My mind is racing as my eyes scan the small crowd. There near the back is my Rosie, his Rosie. So I decide to tell Eddie something he probably already knows as well. “Eddie, I’m not just the better fighter, I’m the better man.”
“Hector, you about finished?” Mr. Torrez, the garage manager asks.
“One minute.” I raise my arms to tighten the bolts on this boss Mustang. I’m down in the well, hot and sweaty as I change the oil. One day when I’m an MMA champ, a car like this will be mine.
“Let’s go. They’re lining up.”
Last night, my arm was raised in victory as I defeated another fighter in hand-to-hand combat. This morning, it is raised to perform rote tasks at a hot and sweaty job for less than minimum
wage. But I shouldn’t complain. Mr. Torrez kept me on even after he let my dad go. He liked my work ethic, but I got lucky in that he’s also an MMA fan. He pays me only a fourth of what I make in cash, and the rest he sends directly to Mr. Hodge to pay for my training.
“Line ‘em up, and I’ll knock ‘em down,” I whisper to myself. Last night was the first of many victories in the ring. Outside the ring, though, it seems all I have is a string of losses.
After work, as I walk toward the dojo, I try to call Dad several times to invite him to church with me and Mom. He’s missed the last three Wednesdays, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Maybe on my birthday next week, he’ll get it together. On that day, I legally become a man in the eyes of the state. Maybe Dad can become one again in the eyes of his son.
On Saturdays, Mr. Hodge runs a full day of adult MMA classes. Normally I work all day Saturday until church, but with my first fight coming up, Mr. Torrez cut my schedule. Then, after I graduate at the end of next month, he said he’d hire me full-time and put me on the books.
Walking into the dojo is such a sensory experience: the smell of the sweat, the sound of smacking flesh, the rough texture of the mats, and the sight of men and women fighting. Fighting not because they’re angry but because they want to help each other get better.
I see Nong thinks the same. He’s off in the corner drilling with Marcus Robinson. Robinson fights at the smallest weight class—flyweight—but he’s dominating Nong just like he dominates the dojo. He’s turning pro soon. The night of my first amateur fight is the night of his last. He’s got a perfect record.
“Hector, can you come here?” Mr. Hodge asks. “I’m glad you’re here. I was about to call you. What are you doing later tonight?”
“After church, same as always—nothing.” He laughs because he thinks I’m joking. But since Eddie, I haven’t made any friends who could then just stab me in the back. Since Rosie, I haven’t been interested in a girlfriend who could break my heart. My world is as small as the cage.
“I need to get you and Nong back into the cage to get you ready for your fights.”
“Really?” I’m excited to be in the cage again, but I’m disappointed it will be with Nong. The only way I’ll continue to improve is to face better fighters, even if they’re not my size.
Mr. Hodge reads my face. “Don’t worry, you won’t be in the cage against Nong.”
“Oh. Who?”
He points toward Marcus. “You won the other night because you fought a sloppy fighter and because of personal issues,” Mr. Hodge says. “When you step into that cage in a few weeks those conditions won’t exist. You won’t need to be good or great; you’ll need to be perfect.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, get changed and I’ll put you to work.”
“Yes, sir.”
As I’m in the locker room changing, Nong walks in. He’s dripping in sweat.
“Good workout?” I ask.
“I’m just getting started,” Nong says. “You fighting Marcus tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“It’ll be so much fun to watch myself get humiliated again. I can hardly wait.”
“Wasn’t it you who said defeat brews the tea of victory?”
Nong laughs. “Well, actually a fortune cookie said that. But let me tell you, Hector, it’s bitter tea. I knew this sport was tough physically, but it’s the mental part that really gets you.”
“Nong, come on. It was just one fight.”
“I can’t stop thinking about my mistakes.”
“Learn from them.”
“Yeah.” He paused. “I guess I’m afraid that I can’t.”
I shake my head. “Nong, you’re the smartest guy I know.” That might be a bit of a stretch, but not much. In school, I’ve taken the easy route, while Nong manages both MMA training and AP classes. He’s Clark Kent at school and Superman at the dojo.
“A smart guy wouldn’t get his brains kicked in,” Nong counters.
“You lost a fight. It’s no big deal.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Why?”
“Because you won.”
I don’t know how to answer that, so I finish changing. I’m just about to close the locker when my cell rings. Dad’s ringtone.
“Dad? Are you okay?” I ask. It’s the way I say hello to him these days.
“Where are you?” he asks and then coughs.
“At the dojo, why?”
“You want to get dinner tonight after church with your mother?” Another cough.
I curse under my breath. I need to fight Marcus, but I haven’t seen Dad in weeks.
“You look like you’re bracing for a kick in the face,” Nong says.
My eyes are closed, teeth clinched, and fists coiled. I need to decide. In the ring, you don’t choose, you let instinct take over. Outside the ring, things are a lot more complicated.
“One second, Dad.” I cover the phone and tell Nong my dilemma, one he knows nothing about. His dad drives him to and from every class, and he says his whole family supports him. Whereas nobody believes in me except Dad, who I’ve lost all faith in this past year.
“Ask him if likes Chinese, get takeout, and bring it here.” Nong says. He doesn’t know that Mr. Hodge doesn’t want Dad back in the dojo. I wonder if that applies if he’s sober, so I ask.
“Dad, I’ll see you only if you’re sober,” I say as I coil my fist tighter. “Are you sober?”
The next thing I hear is a dial tone ringing like a siren in my ears.
After church, Mom takes me out for fast food and then drops me back at the dojo. Part of me wanted to see Dad’s car in the parking lot, but the other part is so angry at him that I wouldn’t want to see him tonight.
“Mr. Hodge?” I yell. The dojo is dark, with only the setting sun lighting it. “Where are you?”
I head over to the small office and turn on the light. Mr. Hodge’s desk is perfectly organized, as usual. Lots of his medals and honors hang on the wall. But he’s vanished.
“Mr. Hodge?” I shout again.
The lights turn on, and I see Mr. Hodge standing on the far side of the gym. He’s not alone. Marcus Robinson stands next to him. Behind them is the cage. It almost glistens.
I quickly change, say a prayer, and head toward the cage. Marcus is waiting. Mr. Hodge hands me my gear. When I put in my mouthpiece, I feel a rush of adrenaline. As I stand across from Marcus, I decide the best I can do is play to my strength and let instinct take over.
“Amateur rules: three three-minute rounds,” Mr. Hodge says as he comes into the cage with us. “I’ll act as referee. Protect yourself and have a good fight.”
Before I can throw one punch, Marcus crashes a left, then a right, and then another left into my head. He probably could take me down anytime, but he’s letting me fight my fight.
“Defend yourself, Hector!” Mr. Hodge shouts.
I’m trying to throw, but Marcus is too quick. It’s like he’s on fast-forward as he circles, throws a jab, then a kick and another jab. Everything he throws connects, and each hurts worse than the one before. He circles me and punches from all sides. He’s a black blur of fury.
“Work, Hector, work.”
&nbs
p; I start throwing, but it’s like trying to punch a ghost. The next time he throws, I duck under and lean in. I get him in the clinch and start lifting knees, but they seem to have no effect. He’s dirty boxing, and even though he’s forty pounds lighter, he powers me against the cage. The cold mesh sends chills down my spine while Marcus sends an uppercut to my chin.
“Hector, you okay?” Mr. Hodge asks.
“What?” I mumble.
“An uppercut like that, you’d better defend against, or you’ll get the same result.”
I shake my head, which is full of cobwebs. I taste a mouth full of blood.
“Your lip got busted.” Mr. Hodge hands me a towel. “Let me see your mouth.”
I take out the mouthpiece and open up. Mr. Hodge smiles. “Your teeth are all there.”
“Sorry,” Marcus says, but he says it to Mr. Hodge, not to me.
“Well, the protective headgear isn’t perfect,” Mr. Hodge says. “Even in amateur MMA fights with bigger gloves and headgear, you can still get knocked out.”
“I’ll take it easy next time.” Marcus says.
“I don’t want it easy,” I mumble. “I wasn’t knocked out. Let’s go.”
Marcus and Mr. Hodge laugh. “That’s the spirit,” Marcus says.
“Hector, how do you feel?” Mr. Hodge asks and then starts checking me for signs of a concussion. Mr. Hodge won’t let anyone fight who is hurt. He says he’s protecting himself, but I know it’s more than that. We’re not just his fighters. We’re more like family. Then again, just because you’re family, that doesn’t mean you care. Case in point: Victor Morales.
“I’m okay, but I have a question.”
“What’s that?” Mr. Hodge asks.
“Can we go again?” Mr. Hodge smiles a little. Marcus helps me to my feet as his answer.
We touch gloves and start again. I can’t match his speed or striking. My only chance is to somehow get him to the mat and work a submission. He’s not going to be sloppy like Eddie or the other guys in the dojo can be sometimes. He’s going to be near perfect. We circle each other, but once again, he’s the aggressor bringing the action to me.
I shoot for a takedown, but he sprawls away, pushing me down with his hips and throwing a hard right in the process. I scramble to my feet, but he trips me and we’re on the mat. He lands hard shots as I work my way into full guard. I’ve got control of his body, but he’s beating up on my head. I’m deflecting most of the shots, but every one that gets through hurts and drains my energy. On top of me, his body feels like that of a flyweight, but his hands are heavyweight. Gravity is a fighter’s friend.
“Work, Hector, work.” Mr. Hodge shouts, then claps his hands.
I eat an elbow and try to get up, but I’m pressed against the cage. It’s digging into the top of my head while Marcus’s elbows slash at my skin. Sweat, or maybe blood, gets in my eye.
“Work, Hector!”
Marcus fights for side control, and when he leaves the mount, it’s my only chance. I quickly wrap my right leg behind his neck and move toward him.
“I don’t think so.” Marcus pulls his neck away, grabs my leg, and starts to crank it.
“Enough,” Mr. Hodge says stopping the fight before I either tap or limp for a month.
I’m prone on the mat. I wipe the sweat from my eye. It’s mixed with a little blood, but I’m pushing back the tears. Not from pain but from frustration and humiliation.
“Just because something worked in your last fight doesn’t mean it will work again,” Mr. Hodge says. “You’re an athlete, Hector. Use the instincts you’ve learned through drills.”
My first instinct is to flee from this cage and never return, but that’s wrong. The first lesson that Dad taught me was to stand and fight like a man. I accept Mr. Hodge’s help to get back on my feet.
“I’m ready,” I say and touch gloves. This time I don’t circle. This time I bring the fight right to Marcus with punches, kicks, and knees. He blocks most of them and returns with strikes of his own. He shoots for a takedown, but rather than sprawling and dragging him down like the book says to do, my instinct takes over and I lift my knee into his face. Marcus is stunned and tumbles toward the mat. I fall on top and get behind him. I’ve got his back, and for the first time, I’m in control.
“You’re out of control, Victor!” Mom screams at Dad. They sent me to my room, but it’s not like I can’t hear this fight. It’s just a replay of all the others. If my mom only has fifteen speeches, my parents only have one fight. It’s always about my dad’s drinking.
“I don’t need your opinion on everything!” Dad shouts in return.
“You need to get help. Go to AA. Do something. Your family would support you.”
“I don’t need your support or your help. I need to get a job!”
“You need to stop drinking. That’s why you lost your job,” Mom reminds Dad. Dad started having problems at work, getting angry all the time about the smallest things. He always drank, but sometime in the last month, it got out of control. He’d miss work, and when he came into work both late and drunk after a few weeks, Mr. Torrez fired him. Dad threatened to hit Mr. Torrez, which earned him a night in jail. For my sake, Mr. Torrez said he wouldn’t press charges. He said while I could stay working, Dad wasn’t welcome in the garage anymore for any reason.
I felt like Mr. Torrez was making me choose between my dad and my job. I needed them both. But when Dad told me that I had to quit my job at the garage, I knew who was right, and it wasn’t him. Dad hasn’t spoken to me since then when he’s been sober. When he’s drunk, like now, he speaks to me—if yelling is considering speaking. I get either silence or shouts; anything in between is gone.
“Victor, your family is worried about you,” Mom says. My older sisters are both away at college, so I don’t know how much Mom’s told them. I haven’t mentioned anything to them.
“I don’t need their worry. I can take care of this myself.”
“But we can help you. Your family supports you. We just can’t support your behavior.”
“You’re just like my parents. You don’t believe in me. You think I’m a loser.”
“Victor, you’re not a loser!”
Dad’s voice drops. “A man without a job is a loser.”
“No, but a man who loses his family because he won’t quit drinking is not much of a man.”
“Are you saying I’m not a man? Is that what you’re saying?”
Mom starts to cry. “Victor, you’re not a man or a husband right now. You’re just a drunk.”
“I’ll show you what kind of man I am!” Dad shouts way too loud and angrily. I open my door and run into the other room, where Dad stands in front of Mom. His right hand is a cocked fist.
“Stay out of this, Hector!” Dad shouts. “This is between me and your mother.”
I’m frozen, unsure what to do. This is new. My parents argue all the time lately, but I’ve never seen Dad threaten Mom with violence. Mom’s eyes are squeezed as tight as Dad’s fist.
“Just go, Victor. Leave us alone,” Mom says through tears. Dad looks at me.
“Dad, you need to leave.”
Dad steps toward me and puts his hands up in a boxing stance. “You going to make me?”
I look at Mom, then back at Dad.
“You think you can take me, big fighter boy?” Dad shouts. He’s moving his hands in the air like he’s ready to fight. “I used to be a champ. I used to be somebody, you know.”
“I know. You used to be my father.” His eyes flare and he takes one step closer.
“Dad, don’t make me do this,” I say as I assume my fighting stance. “Dad, I’m younger, faster, and stronger than you. You’re drunk and I’m sober. How do you think this ends?”
Dad stares at me, then back at Mom, and walks out the front door without saying a word.
“Some party, huh?” Nong says as he joins me in the bathroom of the Pizza Hut.
“I guess,” I say as I finish washing my
hands. I hate parties of all kinds. Parties at school that are just excuses for people to get drunk and be stupid. Parties at home when only one member of your immediate family shows up. And parties at Pizza Hut, like this one.
“Could have been worse. We could be at Chuck E. Cheese’s!”
“I never went to one of those.”
“You ain’t missing nothing, cuz,” Nong says. “We did one for my little cousin. Only good thing is all the video games there. I rocked all of them.”
I laugh. “Of course you did.”
“Wish I could’ve rocked Marcus like that,” Nong mutters.
I share a little, telling him how I got Marcus in a rear naked choke.
“Did he tap?”
“No, he fought out of it and pretty soon I was on my back again.”
“I spent more time looking at the ceiling and mat than his face,” Nong jokes. He slaps my back and heads toward the toilet. I head back out to the party.
“We thought you’d fallen in,” Meghan says. “And all of my hard work for nothing.”
“Thanks for putting this together, Meghan,” I say, almost embarrassed.
“If I had my way, everybody would be here and it would a party.”
“Would there be streamers too?” Jackson jokes. Except for being a fighter and super secretive, Meghan is a pretty girly girl. Although most girls don’t have kicks to the head that can put your lights out.
“No, just the four of us is good. We’ve been through a lot together,” I add.
“Like my pops said about basic training. Going through it binds people together,” Jackson says. “When times are tough, you need backup. You need your comrades in arms.”
“So how does it feel to be eighteen?” Meghan asks.
“No different except I can vote and fight amateur,” I say, then reach for another piece of pizza. I decided to go off my training diet for the party, which is easier since Mr. Hodge isn’t here. Meghan invited him, but he said he couldn’t make it. I guess because he doesn’t want to play favorites.
Triangle Choke (The Dojo) Page 4