The Streets

by Tom Sheridan

  Franco circled. Ready to pounce. It had been eight years since that first session when Nelly pinned him more times than a bulletin board. Franco had been making up ground on the ground game ever since he decided to fight. Formally. Street fights and bar fights, Franco had been having those his whole life. One was finally fuckin worth it back in ’97.

  Young Franco was 22 and on a pickup for The Frog. At a dive gym called The Power Plant. Franco breezed past the dude at the desk hooting and hollering about how Franco needed a membership, this and that.

  “I’m thinkin of joining,” Young Franco offered as he carried on toward the back.

  The Power Plant was full of yuge dudes. Goliaths of all grayscale who’d been rocking spiked-out hair, fresh fades, and black beaters well before Jersey Shore. Tatted arms pumped out-of-date free weights. A dude maxed out in Air Maxes. All while The Game strained the training room’s speakers. His ethnically eclectic “Westside Story” telling the gym’s story.

  Franco cut through the coral reef of cock D like Henry Hill bouncing through the Bamboo. There was Willy Momo. Cuz he always wanted to eat mo mo. There was Whitey Bulger. A buff blond. And there was Little Benny. The samallest of his Samoan brothers at five-ten, one ton. There was Five For Five. A five-foot-five five-hundred-pounder. There was Conway. His real name was Tito Chang, but he’d con his way into the squat rack. And there was Bluto. From when he dropped a 45-pound plate on his foot. There was Peggy. A million calf raises wasn’t gonna outdo his DNA. Working out with his wide-shouldered wife, Peggy. And Brother Darryl. Pushing plates with the power of his sermons.

  Franco headed to the back of the congregation. Rolled on the alpha hitting the heavy bag. An HGH experiment who went by the name of Herc. All mohawk and mouth. Barking. Strutting. Bobbing to his Bose headphones. Franco had his money on “Whoomp, There It Is.” And hey, what do you know, Herc actually does a set. To much congratulations by his two bros.

  One bro, the bantam ball of muscle, clocked Franco walking over. Gave Herc a tap.

  Herc sneered. “Kid’s not even a gangster. He’s a fuckin goon.”

  Young Franco bit his lip. “Ay Herc. You owe six hundo. Let’s not make it a big deal.”

  “You want my money, tough guy?” Herc pulled his pockets out. “Kiss the rabbit between the ears.”

  Franco looked at the three juiceheads before him. His mind flashed back to Cape Fear. When DeNiro beats the shit out of a gang of guys. Franco learned a long time ago that shit didn’t go down like that in real life. In real life, there were only two ways shit would go down. Either A: Franco would hit Herc and get jumped. Or B: Franco would hit Herc and simultaneously stun the other two mahfuckas.

  Franco was betting on B. Herc might’ve had everyone else in the gym fooled. But Franco saw his old classmate. The pre-steroid fat-fuck2 that wrestled heavyweight. The heavyweight that always went last when the team’s outcome was on the line. Franco would watch from the bleachers as Herc—Seamus Herkle back then—folded every time. The no-heart hump would lie on the mat, his pale skin puffed from black tights like he was a beached killer whale. Except the only thing this whale killed was his team’s chances. Shamu Herkle.

  And when Franco saw Herc’s goons, he saw past their biceps to their shrunken balls. Their lack thereof evident in how they not only got cut from the wrestling team but doubled down by showing up to matches and shouting drunk shit talk from the back row of the bleachers. Franco, the fiery point guard from the ball team, would try to support the wrestling team with cheers and hollers while Herc’s goons—“Cray Z” and “Smooth B”—would be yelling, The other guy’s got a boner!

  Truth be told, Franco and Joey Yo would crack up at the bar back in the day as they recounted those incidents. But the older Franco got, the less funny and more depressing such shit became. Life’s a party in your 20s and a hangover in your 30s, Franco figured.

  But back in those young 20s party days of ’97, those piss n vinegar days, Franco was as freewheelin as Bob Dylan. Had as much juice as Tupac in Juice. He squared up with Herc, flared his right shoulder forward—look over here—boom. Hit Herc with a left cross that left his eyes crossed. Caught him on the button with the kind of magic trick a boy learns on Bunns Lane. The sleight of hand of throwing hands.

  Next thing ya know, the steroid head’s staggering out, eager to pay. “I’ma go find an ATM.”

  Word around town was that Herc’s boys came out from behind the ellipticals. Hours later.

  Franco strolled out past the dude at the desk with the bad news. “I decided not to join.”

  Out front, Joey Yo caught up to Franco. (Every time Mr. Moran called his name for attendance in eighth grade, Joey would say, “Yo.”) “I was just comin outta the locker—that was fuckin awesome, yo!” gushed Franco’s Boricua goomba as they handshake-hugged. “You should do MMA, yo!”

  “What? Like where the karate guy fights the boxer?”

  “Nah yo. The whole game’s changin. Everyone’s doin everything. Kinda like your scraps on the street. Kinda like how you box with me and wrestle with Youngin. Just with some Bruce Lee martial art-type shit mixed in.”

  The realization hit Young Franco like a ton of bricks. He had Joey Yo show him all about it on AOL. That night in ’97, he saw it clear as day. As he dreamed of the big time over Bud Lights at Big Times. Franco was athletic as hell. Fit as hell. And fought like hell. Things he’d never go around saying sober. But as his blood alcohol crept up, so did his boasting. He was a three-sport athlete back in high school, wasn’t he? Naturally. No guidance, no personal trainers, no nothin. All-County no less. And since then boxing with Joey Yo, a bona fide amateur, and wrestling with Youngin, first team all-county. Franco’s homies helpin him out so he could bring the heat on the street. And cuz the crazy fuck liked it. Liked going blow for blow with Joey Yo despite the 20-pound weight disadvantage. Liked giving Youngin a better run for his money than the Joe Blows he blew away in high school. Not to mention Franco also hit the weights like a beast. Yeah, Franco could see it now back then. Add some martial arts training at 22. His first fights in AC at 23. Regional rep at 24. The Show at 25. Top contender at 26. By 27? Biggie wouldn’t be the only one makin sure his crew was loungin. It was all so Juicy.

  The next morning in ’97, reality set in alongside Franco’s hangover. Alongside his three-year-old son asking Dada to wake up. Alongside his wife reminding him to put on his knit socks. To hit the docks.

  Still, Franco flung himself into the fight game. Got after it every spare minute. Roadwork before hitting the road for work. Workouts as soon as work was out. The wrestling mats on Monday and Friday mornings. Muay Thai on Tuesdays. Weights on Wednesdays and weekends. Thursdays was the worst days. Had to box his beefy bro Joey Yo. Then thought he’d die on Fridays. When Jiu-Jitsu replaced drinking at Friday’s. All because he finally knew, at 22, what he was born to do. Even if he was a bit behind the curve. Even if the mortgage and meals for the family came first. Even if he didn’t have the cheddar for the right trainers. Even if he had to endure injuries—especially hell without the healthcare.

  And Franco had success early on. When he started knocking around in the late ’90s, from underground gyms in Brooklyn to hotel halls in AC, it was nothing his street fights ain’t seen. A bunch of twentysomething ex-wrestlers, cocky kickboxers, and street toughs. A bunch of Kimbo Slices all fighting for their slice of power. Young Franco jacked unskilled juiceheads and one-dimensional dudes alike. And yeah, there were those who brought the heat. But they either lacked the heart to perfect their art or the insistence to go the distance. At the end of the day, the new jack cleaned up Atlantic City like he was the star of New Jack City. The regional banger racked up a record of 6-0. And was headed to The Show.

  By 2000, as The Show grew and its fighters improved, Franco had his first failures. Even then though, it was two steps forward for every one back in his first tries beyond the Tri-State.

  The first true mixed martial artist he ever
mixed it up with was a young buck from Bucks County, PA. A square-jawed buzz cut kid. All-American wrestling pedigree along with a top-shelf team. Even his cutman had a PhD. It was enough to give Franco a PhD. (A playa hatin degree.)

  The young buck had trotted his way across PA. Was giving Franco fits in Pittsburgh. Almost beat Franco every which way—knock out, submission, points. The young buck had refined his craft in all capacities. Except one. Not even sparring can get you ready for a cold-cocking. Either you have a chin or you don’t. As round two wound down, Franco caught the clean-cut kid clean. The uppercut rung his bell at the bell. Franco hunted the bewildered buck in the third. Shot at the deer in headlights and hogtied him with a hammerlock.

  While Pittsburgh’s black and gold faithful gave it up for the Jersey kid black and blue, Franco’s get was barely enough to get his team paid. Still, as the Mustang stole away, he’d take the steal in Steel City.

  Franco’s second fight for The Show was a barn burner in Birmingham. They pitted him against a good old Alabama boy. A husker from the hay throwing haymakers. Franco had crimson tides of blood flowing from his face before he finally encountered a chance to counter. Franco would’ve lost on points, but his left hook was on point. Roll Tide, Franco and Joey joked as they coasted up the coast in the Stang. Nelly and Taz meanwhile packed in the back. All to save a few bucks after claiming their second buck.

  By the third fight for The Show, Franco and his coaches flew coach. For a battle in Seattle. Franco’s ground game was gorilla. He’d never had better hands. But. That fuckin Pride Fighter from Japan. It was one thing to tangle with Taz on a Tuesday in a rundown gym in Woodbridge. It was another to be pitted against a Pride champ and come up with a win in Washington. Franco was unable to work in past the foreigner’s flying feet. He was handed his first defeat.

  The fight had hurt his pockets, too. After all the training leading up to the fight, the travel expenses for his whole team, and the fees for the lawyer, Franco coulda cried uncle when he got to Uncle Sam. But his only bottom line was the outcome of the fight. And it was less than a wash in Washington.

  After that, Franco and Taz straight stepped up the kicks. Worked on straights and step-up kicks. Roundhouse clocked each other around the clock.

  Two more years and 20,000 more miles on the Mustang, Franco had two more wins. His first by kicks on Route 66. Even won the Rage of The Cage Award. It was a nice little payday in Santa Fe. Then a win by submission in Michigan. He was looking pretty adroit as he left Detroit. Sitting at 10-1 overall and ranked tenth in The Show.

  They next pitted Franco against Walid Al-Jassim. Saudi by his sire’s surname. Mixed by his American mother. Brit by birthplace. And a millionaire by any measure. A young old-money millionaire who, at 22, was already accomplished. National team boxer. Jiu-Jitsu world champ. First round finish in his first go in The Show. Sent a distinguished veteran away like he was the VA. Same in his second. So impressive, he had skyrocketed to a tie with Franco for tenth.

  The phenom with the backstory to boot. His father an oil sheik who brought the fight game to his homeland. His mother an Olympic medalist who also meddled as a Rhodes Scholar. The diver met the ox of a man at Oxford. Then dove into the sheets of his London loft. The Saudi and the San Franciscan birthed a British boy. A pampered lad who had it all. And took what he didn’t. When a reporter made comparisons to him and boxing’s “Prince” Naseem Hamed, he responded with a wag of the finger. I fancy I am no Prince Naseem. I am a true prince. I am THE Prince. The London lord ripped the nickname right off the lad from the slums of Sheffield. Like a Redcoat carrying out a search and seizure.

  And Franco would have to match dukes with the duke in London. It was a make-or-break match for the up-and-comers. The winner on the fast track to superstardom. The loser to go from fledgling to flailing.

  Franco was feeling good, his Juicy dreams right on track, as he had his first interview at the weigh-in. The reporter, who reminded him of Julie, asked him what the hardest part of preparing for the fight was.

  “Uh. Gettin a passport,” deadpanned Franco.

  The bantam beauty guffawed. Just like me Julie, thought the Ali G fan as his mind drifted back across the Atlantic.

  Franco prided himself on running to the cage in a rage. Fuck the walk. Fuck the hop step. Let’s fuckin do this. Once there, he’d continue to run and circle. A pitbull marking his territory. For four or five laps. But he barely finished one upon the arrival of The Prince. There was something about Franco’s opponent as he hot-stepped down to the cage and swung his long legs over the edge. Something about the son of the medalist mother in the front row draped in jewels.

  Jewels. Franco’s own Jewels was across the Atlantic with a front-row seat to her mother’s hospital bed. And looking after T. And on-call for work of course. But a win would change all that.

  Still, it was something else about the son who had his father and fourteen other Saudis on hand to lend a hand. Something else about the royal with the regal shoulders and behemoth bank account. And the gift of good looks to boot. Like he grew up with a genie that granted him unlimited wishes. Something about it all. Something Franco couldn’t quite figure that day. Something else that halted him as he copped a look at The Prince and his copper eyes. His eye-popping muscles. As he popped in his corner. Like a rocket ship about to takeoff.

  In his pre-fight interview, The Prince was asked if he would look to lean on his Jiu-Jitsu to take away Franco’s edge as a slugger. The Prince sneered at the notion that Franco had any edge at all. I fancy I’ll smoke the bloke in round one. Take a vacation in Jersey. The real one. The dog’s bollocks. Not the “New” one. The one that smells like a dog’s bollocks.

  When the round-one bell rang, smoking the bloke is exactly what The Prince sought to do. Franco was an aggressive fighter. One who came forward, unafraid to engage. The Prince was a fighter who preferred to counter. Preferred to let his opponents do all the work. Lay out their own rope. Then hang them with it.

  But for Franco, The Prince made an exception. He came forward. Darted from edge to edge. Hit Franco from various angles. Even with Franco’s guard up, The Prince pinpointed jabs that sliced in like a lowercase i and dotted Franco’s head. All at a speed Franco had never seen before. He had taken pride in his fists, but it was The Prince’s causing fits. On top of the angles and the speed, The Prince had cutting combinations. Combinations that anticipated Franco’s reactions. Like Franco was a brand-new Master Lock with the code still stuck on his chest. One The Prince spun into duress. He landed jab after jab. A cross here. A hook there. Franco’s blood everywhere. The Prince had dialed up all the right numbers. But. The Master Lock refused to crack.

  The bell rang. The home crowd cheered their emir’s aggression. Still, the chap was chapped. The Prince swatted the water bottle out of his henchman’s hand. Heel-kicked his stool. Stood with his hands on his hips. There, too, was something about the mauled man across the octagon that made The Prince stare. The mauled man who should’ve fallen to the mat minutes ago. The mauled man with all of three guys in his corner. Them telling the mauled man in earnest that he was still in the fight. Could they bloody see his bloody face? Already the lad huffed and puffed. Already his face was cotton stuffed and puffed. Already the man was wrecked, The Prince reckoned.

  Round two began with more of the same. Only The Prince’s flurries never materialized into a blizzard. Flurries that were enough to cause a delayed opening, but not enough to cancel Franco’s school day altogether. Flurries that were, instead, enough to make The Prince fatigued and frustrated.

  Franco absorbed the combinations and finally sent back some blows of his own. He’d weather a flurry then bomb back with a snowball. Quality over quantity. Then the avalanche. The Prince was too busy attacking to take proper note of Franco switching his stance. Franco informed him with a right hook that split his eye open. A hook that both blurred The Prince’s vision and made the judges see more clearly. And when Franco took an ang
le outside The Prince’s narrowed periphery and dropped him with an elbow, the judges’ vision was 20/20. Round two was Franco’s.

  The Prince backpedaled. In a hurry to find fence before he fell on his bum like some Jersey bum. He landed somewhere in between—one-hopped off his arse and bounced up off the cage.

  Despite the punishing blow, The Prince went on the offensive. Franco shook his head. Should’ve dropped him. Still, he kept The Prince at bay and took the round. He went to his corner with the match all tied up.

  As Franco sat in his stool, he liked his chances in the third and final round. Momentum was on his side. As he hyped himself up, Taz wiped him down. Joey urged him to fight his fight. Keep dictating the action. Then Nelly reminded him of patience. Like he was Phil Jackson.

  The Prince’s corner meanwhile was quite cantankerous. His father Hakeem put his paws on his refusing-to-sit son. Pushed him onto his stool. The imposing Saudi had enough of the gaudy. “Stop trying to knock heem out! Do you hear me?”

  The Prince looked away. Scowled as he fought being toweled.

  The sultan swatted his son’s face like he was the Sultan of Swat. That got the message through. Americans. Trying to talk to their little ones until they’re blue in the face. Hagh! No wonder they’re so spoiled. Hakeem meanwhile spoiled his son with a plot to take the fight.

  The Prince looked up at his baba. Took in every word. Like a baby drinking his baba.

  As they marched out for the final round, Franco was confused by the conflicting advice from Joey and Nelly. So he, too, turned to advice from family. Uncle L. Tellin him, “Mama Said Knock You Out.”

  Franco worked toward the song’s climactic hook with a series of hooks. But he couldn’t quite land a haymaker. He angled in closer—whack. The Prince’s kick took Franco’s leg out from under him.

  Franco found himself fighting from his least favorable position. On his back. From the guard.