“At eighteen you can enlist for military service,” Jackson says. “I’m ready to go.”
“Aren’t you nervous? I mean, what if you get sent off to war?” Meghan asks.
“That’s what soldiers do; they fight wars. They fight and die for their country.”
“I think the only people I’d fight and die for are my family,” Meghan says before she takes a big sip of diet soda. Jackson shakes his head like he feels sad for her.
Nong comes back, and the four of us talk about the same thing we always do: MMA. I look around at the other tables—some people I recognize from school—and wonder what silly things they’re talking about. We’re talking about foot sweeps and butterfly guard, while at the next table, I bet they’re talking about prom dresses and graduation gowns.
“Is everyone having a good time?” Mom says as she walks up. She’s alone. I prayed that Dad would be with her—and sober. And everything would be back to normal. That would’ve been a great birthday gift, but no.
Mom smiles. “I wanted to have one slice, since I’m paying for this.” Everybody but me laughs. That’s the real reason I didn’t want Meghan to invite anyone outside of our “fantastic four.” Mom couldn’t afford it. Since she and Dad aren’t actually divorced, he’s not forced to give her any money. Not that he probably has any anyway.
With Mom at the table, we talk about graduation in two weeks instead of the fights Nong and I have in four weeks. Mom still hasn’t said if she’ll watch my amateur debut.
A few minutes later, my boss, Mr. Torrez, makes a surprise visit. It’s nice to see him, although it’s odd not seeing him in greasy overalls.
I introduce Mr. Torrez to everyone. Since he likes MMA, he asks lots of questions. He and Nong get into a big debate over the best fighters of all time. Jackson chimes in every now and then. If Shawn was here, we’d be talking MMA history until this place closed.
“Hey, Meghan, can I ask you something?” I say in a low voice. She leans over to me.
“Do you really believe what you said?” She responds with a puzzled look. “You know that the only people you would die for are your family.”
“Of course,” she says. “Don’t you think your family would do anything for you?”
I look at Mom, and I think about Dad, but I can’t picture him without the bottle anymore. I just shrug.
I’ve got to stop my family from falling apart, but I’m not sure how. I need to figure out how to win my first fight before I take that on. For all the training I put in, I still feel helpless when it comes to fixing things at home.
“It’s all about sacrificing for what you love, you know?” Meghan says. “Look at us. While other kids our age are out having a good time, we’re in a gym getting beat up. And we like it. We love the competition.”
“Getting that W.”
“Well, no, I don’t know. If it was just about winning, all of us would’ve quit that first year when we were just human punching bags. Nong would’ve quit after getting killed last week. Yeah, we want to win, but it’s the thrill of the fight itself. At least, it is for me.” She looks up at me. “What is it for you?”
I’ve trained for three years, but I stumble for an answer. Why am I doing this? Jackson wants to be a Ranger, Nong wants to be a star, and Meghan wants to be the toughest girl on the planet. But what do I want? What am I fighting for?
Mom takes care of the bill and leaves to let us hang out more, but the party is breaking up. Mr. Torrez takes off a few minutes later, never winning his argument with Nong. Jackson and Meghan pour into Nong’s Honda, but I wave them off. I need to walk home. I need to answer Meghan’s question.
I look at my phone. I haven’t gotten a birthday call from Dad yet—maybe I turned it off or somehow missed Dad’s calls. But the screen lights up right away. It was on, and it has no missed calls.
As I round the corner to my house, I visualize Dad’s truck in the driveway, but it’s not there. What is there, however, is a white SUV that I don’t recognize. Is it a police car? Is Dad in trouble? I sprint toward the house.
When I get to the SUV, I can’t see inside the tinted windows. I knock. The window rolls down, and her words sound as sweet as ever. “Happy birthday, Hector,” Rosie says.
“I said happy birthday, Hector,” Rosie repeats. Her long black hair and red lips are as beautiful as the last time I saw her. “Did someone make you deaf?”
One thousand words cram into my head, but none escape. I just shake my head no.
“I’ve wanted to talk with you for so long,” she says. When I still don’t say anything, she rolls up the window, gets out of the SUV, and walks toward my front porch. I follow her.
When I find words, they come out sounding angry. “Does Eddie know you’re here?”
She drops her head. “Yes, he suggested I come over.”
“Why didn’t he come too?” We sit on the porch with plenty of distance between us.
“He’s already said he’s sorry, but now it’s my turn.”
“Not exactly,” I spit. Rosie waits. “Besides, you’re late. A year too late.”
“I couldn’t face you,” Rosie says. “You don’t know what it was like.” She still can’t look at me; instead, she’s studying the grains of the wood porch.
“What what was like?”
She bites her bottom lip. “To be caught in the middle of something.”
I show no emotion and no agreement. I just turn and look at my door. My broken home.
“Look, I don’t know how things happened with Eddie. They just did,” Rosie starts. “I loved you, but I never saw you. You were so busy all the time.”
“So was Eddie.”
“But he found time for me,” Rosie says. “That’s how it started. I’d call him to find out about you since you’d never tell me. And then he told me a story about you and Meghan.”
“I never cheated on you!” I explode. “He lied if—“
“He didn’t say you did, but … I don’t know, somehow things got away from me.” Her voice cracks. “I got to thinking, what if you did cheat on me? What if you did leave me for someone else? What if you betrayed me?” Tears are rolling down Rosie’s cheeks. I’m as silent as steel.
“So, I guess I cried on Eddie’s shoulder, and somehow, well, things changed.”
“They sure did.”
“What’s that thing they always tell you before you spar, protect yourself?”
I nod.
“That’s what I was doing,” she continues. “If I broke up with you first, then you couldn’t hurt me.” She catches my expression. “I know, stupid.”
More silence from me. More tears from her.
“Eddie knew it was wrong, and so did I, but it just happened. We wanted to tell you. We just didn’t know how. I mean, how do you tell someone that you’re breaking their heart?”
“That’s what a man would do. That’s what Eddie should’ve done.”
Rosie dabs her face with her sleeves. “He told me what you said after the fight, how you’re a better man,” Rosie says. “You can’t just say something like that, Hector. You need to prove it.”
“Prove what?”
“That you’re a better man. A good man forgives and holds no hatred in his heart. So can you forgive me for what I did? Can you forgive Eddie?”
I am the cage; I am hard and cold and unforgiving. “I can’t.”
“Hector, come on.”
Does she really expect me to just let it go? After what they put me through?
Rosie sniffs. “Is there anything I could do or say that would make you change your mind?”
“No.”
She shakes her head, then starts toward her SUV. As she opens the door, she turns around. “Until you forgive me, you won’t be free of this. Your anger is just another cage.” She climbs in and starts the car.
I look up for answers, but the sky gives back only darkness. I’m still staring at the vacant sky when Rosie backs out of the driveway and roars back out of
my life.
“Hector, I’m praying for your safe return tonight.” Mom says as she hugs me good-bye. Then she crosses herself. “I can’t bear the idea of you getting hurt.”
“That won’t happen,” I assure her. “Tonight will be fun.”
“I still don’t know how you can consider fighting fun.” Mom shakes her head again.
I remember Meghan’s words. It’s not the fight; it’s the competition. It’s the rush of testing your speed, strength, and strategy, and knowing that the best athlete wins every time.
My phone buzzes, and it’s Nong letting me know he’s outside to pick me up.
“Mom, you’re really not coming? This is my first big fight. It’s the most important day of my life. I need you there.”
“I’m sorry, Hector. I just can’t do it. I’ll support you any other way I can, but not this.”
She hugs me tight and tells me she loves me. I don’t say anything.
Nong and I arrive at the arena hours before the fight, as required. Mr. Hodge and Marcus are waiting for us. Mr. Hodge looks nervous for us.
Mr. Hodge motions for us to follow. We walk by other fighters, but I don’t see my opponent. I’ll meet him at the weigh-in. I try to talk to Nong while we wait, but he’s silent. When he’s nervous, he talks too much. When he’s scared, he says nothing.
They call for flyweights. Marcus takes off his shirt and hits the scale two pounds under the max. His opponent is also two pounds under but looks a lot lighter. I kind of wish I wasn’t fighting so I could watch Marcus put on a clinic against this kid.
The featherweight class gets called next, and Nong walks slowly up to the scale. He drops all his clothes except his briefs. The judge shakes his head. The scale says 148; Nong is over by three pounds. He won’t be able to fight tonight. The veins on Mr. Hodge’s neck look ready to explode as he grits his teeth. When we weighed in two days ago, both Nong and I were two pounds under. I worked hard since then to drop a few more pounds since speed, not girth, is my game. Nong puts his clothes back on and stares hard at the floor. The judge calls over Mr. Hodge, and they consult. Nong walks back toward the locker room. Marcus looks like he’s ready to strangle him.
“Where are you going?” Mr. Hodge asks Nong.
“Back to the locker room,” Nong says.
“The locker room is for fighters, and you’re not fighting tonight,” Mr. Hodge says. “Sit in the hard chairs with the civilians.”
Nong slinks away. I think back to the fights we’ve watched at Shawn’s house. “Mr. Hodge, I’ve seen on TV how they’ll let him weigh in again. Maybe he could sweat it off or do something gross?” I ask.
Mr. Hodge puts his hand on my shoulder. “You’re supposed to make weight at the first weigh-in. That’s my rule. You break my rules, and you answer for it.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I know, Hector.”
Being disciplined has come easy lately with the fight looming. “How could he be so lazy?” I ask.
“He’s not lazy,” Mr. Hodge says. “He’s scared.”
As predicted, I weigh in at 183, two pounds under middleweight limit. Mark Martin, my foe, comes in right at 185. He looks a lot bigger; I’ll match his muscle with my speed.
I head back to the locker room. There’s plenty of time before my fight, so I grab a seat. Mr. Hodge and Mr. Matsuda sit next to me. “Let’s go over the plan of attack,” Mr. Matsuda says.
“Overhand left, uppercut right, kicks to the body, and chokes on the mat if it goes to the ground. But if I keep moving, he can’t take me down. When he tries takedowns, I answer with strikes.”
“And your plan for defense?”
“He’s more experienced in the cage. So, first, I won’t let him bully me into the cage. If he does, push back with knees. Keep moving. Be aggressive and dominate.”
“And on the ground?”
“He’s won all his fights by decision, so he might not have a strong submission game. If he gets me on the ground, I’ll try to work a submission from underneath like the triangle choke.”
“And what if none of that works?”
“Then I let instinct take over and know that the better athlete will win, and that’s me.”
“With as hard as you’ve trained, I can’t imagine that won’t happen.” Mr. Hodge pats my back. He always seems to know the right thing to do or say out of instinct. I wish I could be more like him, both inside and outside the ring.
I start jumping rope to loosen up and shake out the butterflies in my stomach. I’m about to hit one hundred reps when my phone rings. It’s Dad’s ringtone.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask. I haven’t seen him in a month. I don’t even know where he lives. I wanted to mail him tickets for the show, but that was impossible. “Where are you?”
“I’m outside.”
“Outside the arena?” I ask. “You came to watch me fight?”
“Of course,” he answers. From his short answers, I can’t tell if he’s drunk.
“Dad, are you sober?” There’s a long pause. When we do talk, I ask him and he never answers. Then I ask him to go to AA, and he refuses or has excuses.
“Hector, I need to see you before your fight.”
I should focus on getting ready, but I do want to see him. “Okay, there’s a door that says Fighters’ Entrance in the back. I’ll meet you there.” I don’t see Mr. Hodge, which is good because he would not be happy about this distraction. I head to the back door, and there’s my father. He’s in a faded jean jacket and a cowboy hat.
I reach to hug him, but he backs away. “I have something for you.”
He hands me a shallow cardboard box. I open it. Inside is a gold robe with black lettering that says “Victor ‘Macho’ Morales.”
“Wear it with pride, like I used to.” He takes it from me and drapes it over my shoulder.
“Dad, when are you coming home?” I ask. He stares blankly. “There’s an AA group that meets on Saturday nights at—”
“Hector, a man handles things himself. I don’t need help.”
“Dad, remember when I started this training? And Mom hated the idea? You defended me, and you said you knew I wouldn’t let you down. Do you remember?”
He nods his head very slowly.
“Do you believe in me?” I ask. “Do you believe I’ll win this fight?”
“Of course, Hector. You’re the son of a champion.”
“Well, since this is amateur, there’s no prize or anything. So why don’t you give me one?”
He gives me a skeptical look. “Hector, I don’t have any money.”
“No. If I win, promise me that you’ll go to Saturday Mass with me. Not Mom, just me. That’s all I want. Can you promise that?”
He stares at the ground again and then mumbles “Sí.” Before he walks away, I hug him. After a few seconds, he hugs me back, and I hear him sniffle. He once told me that real men don’t cry, so I guess that makes both of us little boys right now.
Marcus waited to shower after his fight so he could help warm me up before mine. Not that he needed a shower since he said he barely broke a sweat in his one-minute high kick knockout. All the fights are ending quickly with knockouts or submissions. None have gone to the three judges.
I put in my earbuds, turn on the music, and just for a moment allow myself to dream like Nong says he does. I imagine this is my entrance music. There are thirty thousand people in the arena, not a few hundred. But all that matters is one: my father.
“Hector, it’s time,” Mr. Hodge says. I hand my phone and buds to Marcus, who stuffs them in his warm-up jacket pocket. Then he helps me with my dad’s robe. As I walk to the ring, Mr. Hodge is behind me on my left and Mr. Matsuda is behind me on my right, and I’m the sharp, cold, steely point of this triangle as I head into the cage.
HECTOR MORALES MARK MARTIN
AGE 18 21
HEIGHT 5'8" 5'11"
REACH 71" 73"
Record 0–0 3–3
&nbs
p; The bell rings to start the first round. We touch gloves and both take fighting stances. We circle for a few seconds, but I don’t want to wait. I throw the first punch, an overhand left that connects but doesn’t hurt him. My uppercut is blocked. Before I can throw a kick, he delivers a hard side kick high in my ribs. I press forward, punch after punch, backing him into the cage.
Martin ducks underneath, and he’s got me around the waist. Before I can fight it off, he changes levels and puts me on the mat. I keep my hips moving and my hands busy so he can’t work into the mount. He’s trying to force me into the cage, but I push back and manage to get back to my feet. We’re back in the stance, and I’m moving my head as I throw punches to avoid the uppercut. I throw a knee when we go into the clinch, but it gets me off balance and I’m on my back. Again, he tries a mount. I slip it and regain my feet. I press the action, but he keeps backing up. I try for the overhand left. He responds with a high kick that connects solidly, and I’m thrown. My back is on the mat, and he’s on top of me. I try to scoot, but I head toward the cage, and now I’m trapped. Mat beneath, cage behind, and his elbows and fists on top.
“Move, Hector, move!” Mr. Hodge yells.
When Martin’s head comes close, I lift my leg and try to get it around the back of his neck, but he fights off my triangle choke attempt. As he does, it opens up his face, and my instincts tell me to take advantage of it. From the bottom, I hit three quick jabs that rock him back. We’re both on our feet again.
“Ten seconds!”
I fake a punch and try for a takedown. Bad move—he blocks it and uses my forward momentum to toss me with a shoulder throw. I hit the mat hard again as the bell rings to end the round.
In between rounds, Mr. Hodge reminds me of my game plan and gives his version of a pep talk. “You lost that round, so you’ve got to win this one. Stop letting him take you down, Hector. Be assertive and dominate.” No sugarcoating, but I know he’s right.
Triangle Choke (The Dojo) Page 5