The Streets

by Tom Sheridan

  The Prince mounted him like a London bobby mounting his horse. He worked the reins and tried to submit his steed any which way. Franco barely broke the arm bar attempt. Barely slipped out his tri when The Prince tried a triangle. Between each attempt, The Prince worked in some ground and pound. But when the London bobby went for a kimora, his bronco finally bucked him.

  Franco got up and again went right after The Prince. Like 50 Cent and Tony Soprano once said, I am what I am. To keep The Prince guessing, Franco mixed in some kicks. He landed a kick to the calf here. A kick to the knee there. Kept The Prince off guard enough to mix in some jabs. Put the fight back to a toss-up.

  Franco then shot on The Prince. Put him on his back. More easily than anticipated. Franco didn’t even have to go down with him. The Prince looked content to lay on the canvas all night. Two minutes left and he’s lying there like a turned-over turtle. Franco had yet to see anything like it. This turned-over turtle he should’ve left for roadkill. To be run over by the judges’ cards.

  Franco then got distracted by another animal altogether. The boo birds that infested the London arena. Franco imagined the booing crowd as a horde of angry soccer hooligans. Hooligans who put up their hard-earned pay only to get a shit show. Franco circled The Prince. Tried to work in past the gangly palace gates. For a clean shot to the crown. The clock winding down. Franco angled in farther. Dropped a couple hammers. Then got caught up in The Prince’s scissors. Franco had slipped the slightest bit. On a mixture of the very blood and sweat he beat from The Prince. Or. From the very blood and sweat left in the wake of a cunning snake.

  The Prince’s legs went taut as they taught Franco a lesson. Don’t fancy me for a turned-over turtle. Or any other reptile I reckon. I’m a Venus flytrap. The flytrap from another planet twisted Franco to the ground. Twisted on Franco’s ankle. Twisted as Franco refused to submit. Twisted as the winner of the third round twisted. Twisted as the trajectory of Franco’s entire life twisted. Twisted until the pop at the bell.

  Franco didn’t even need to hear the announcement. That The Prince won by a split decision. As Franco lay there with a split ankle. Just two minutes ago, he had the win wrapped up. As the EMTs strapped Franco to the stretcher, it looked as if his career was wrapped up. Franco would never forget the date. Saturday, September 8, 2001.

  Franco was laid up in a London hospital for the next few days. He spent the time outside of surgery sleeping and staring at the specks in the ceiling tiles. Counting the craters as his career cratered. He finally got so homesick that he turned on the TV. Tuesday. Another day he would never forget.

  The damage done that day lingered in Franco’s ligaments seven years later. Nonetheless, Franco was ranked number ten once again. After seven years of sideways like he was Paul Giamatti. Worse than sideways if he was being honest. He was post-surgery. Post-prime. Post-divorce. And on the final fight of his contract.

  The last time Franco was sitting at ten, The Show had given him a shot to turn into a top contender. This time? It was a kiss of death match. The Show had their young stud, Rafael Barbosa, all set for his own pop at The Prince. All Barbosa had to do was fly into Newark and blow away some local bum they called The Bunns Lane Brawler. Then, after the fight, the victorious Barbosa could call out the headlining Prince and create some bad blood that would fuel the next Pay-Per-View. The Show wasn’t doing Franco any favors by putting him on the Newark card. They were sending a hitman to bury him in the swamps of Jersey.

  But The Bunns Lane Brawler had other plans. He had plans of pulling a Micky Ward, who after many setbacks, reached the fight game’s highest award. Franco had made big changes since his fight with The Prince. As soon as his plane landed back at Newark in the wake of the chaos caused by 9/11, he took his loser’s purse and went right to the top Jiu-Jitsu academy in the area. (Before that, an instructor had been coming to the high school mats to teach Franco the basics. Didn’t even make ’im take off his Asics.) The owner, Bobby Bogans, tried to cast him off. At least till Franco got his cast off. But Franco crutched over and folded himself in a folding chair. And watched.

  If Franco had ever seen a genius, it was Bobby Bogans. Fuck that nerd Francis Freeman that—or who as that fuck would tell Franco—locked himself in his room for four years until he knew how to spell every word in the dictionary. Then rubbed it in to fifth-grade Franco when he bounced him in a spelling bee. Bobby was a born genius. From his flipper-sized feet to his mile-long legs to his concrete core to his almond eyes to the top of his bald brown dome. A genius from Bunns Lane who didn’t discover his ability until his 20s. Bobby came up as a track runner (the only sport he could afford) and a self-defense fighter (the only way he could afford to survive on Bunns Lane). He had looked out for little Franco on the Lane. Until Bobby ghosted the day after his high school graduation. Never even bragged about going to Fort Bragg. Served eight years for the country that served him Section Eight. He came back and tagged along to a Jiu-Jitsu tournament with an army buddy. Bobby entered on a whim. And walked away with a win.

  He worked graveyards in the graveyard as he honed his Jiu-Jitsu. Until about 32. When he was so fuckin brazilliant they started calling him Bobby Brazil. The African-American with the South American name. Teaching an art from Asia. By 35, Bobby had fulfilled his father’s wishes of being a man who could stand on his own two feet. By opening a business tying people up with his own two feet. He never once lamented what might have been. If it was a different situation he came up in. He loved what he did. Had his academy open around the clock. Yet he’d always say he hadn’t worked a day since he dug his last ditch. Not to mention he had found a channel for all his professional fighting ambitions. The kid from the Lane. Who came to him. Saying fuck the crutches. Let’s do some clutches.

  And there Franco was in ’08 circling Coach Nelson. Sizing up the coach only seven years his senior. With a bit more height and hulk. A gorilla as they’d call him in the Jersey clubs. Not that the Ninth would go to one. Between the AD job, the family of five, and all the coaching and community service, Coach Nelson barely had enough time for the fighter before him. He batted Franco’s head with bare hands that felt like bear hands. Tried to knock Franco off-kilter and set up the kill.

  Franco’s lead ankle was ailing. If only he could borrow the legs of the brick shithouse before him. Built upon behemoth calves that only God could give. Of course God was good to Coach Nelson. He had been good to God. Good to The Wood. Good to his family.

  Franco switched his lead leg from right to left to alleviate the ankle. He took the opportunity to surprise Woodbridge’s archangel as he shot from a new angle. Coach Nelson sprawled. His tree-trunk legs planted roots as deep as his family’s. He tried to bear hug Franco at the hips. But Franco dove even deeper. Like a sub on the hunt for Red October. He torpedoed in. Scored a direct hit.

  Nelly scrambled to his feet. Upped the aggression. Pawed at Franco’s head. Grabbed at his arms. Deked forward.

  But when the bull charged, Franco sidestepped and hip-tossed him. A martial arts matador back at the height of his craft. Franco’s fight was fifteen days away and couldn’t come fast enough. Julie would be watching with T. He was sure of it.

  At the current moment, though, someone else was looking for attention. The Frog had hopped in. The Frog with his Armani suit, Ferragamo boots, and pockets full of loot. To keep them full, he’d hired Franco. Fourteen years before. Told the kid from the closed-down restaurant he’d get him some temp work down the docks. Franco, the 19-year-old with the newborn, couldn’t be more grateful. Of course he’d take the shifts. And yeah, sure, of course he’d do The Frog a favor.

  The first favor was so fuckin easy. Ay Franco. I gotta pick up an envelope, but I ain’t got the time is all. You go get it. Keep a C-note for yourself. Easiest hundo Franco ever made.

  But it’s all about the comeback. Fourteen years later and The Frog is still coming back. “I need you down the docks.”

  Normally, Franco wouldn’t m
ind getting down the docks. MMA was still finding its legs in the aughts. For the fifty fighters who made a living in the octagon, there were five hundred ham n eggers who could barely afford ham n eggs. Five hundred ham n eggers on day jobs. Busting up buildings. Busting up bar fights. All busting their humps. All in the name of getting in the octagon and busting someone else’s. At that moment, that’s exactly what Franco wanted to focus on.

  The Frog kicked back against a padded gym wall. Watched as a brother bouncing through the halls popped his head in. “Nelly!” called the brother with a deep voice and a departing peace sign. Nelly. What a joke. When The Frog went to school, they called their coach—the current one’s father—Coach Nelson. Always. Over the years it had devolved to Coach. Or Nelson. Or, at the very least, Coach Nelly. Now? Just…Nelly. Same name as that clown rapping with the Band-Aids on his face. The Frog could practically hear Thomas Nelson the First turning over in his grave.

  The Ninth meanwhile gave the kid a wave and took Franco aside. The veins in his neck bulged like a sequoia come to life. His beet-red head a volcano ready to blow off his buzz cut. Like Franco was Beavis and he was Buzzcut. “The heck you think Barbosa is doing right now?”

  “Got my roadwork in. Got some good mat work in.”

  “While you’re down at the docks doing whatever the heck you’re gonna be doing, Barbosa is gonna be practicing seven ways to submit you.”

  Franco couldn’t look Coach Nelly in his emerald eyes. Fuckin things looked like they were gonna shoot lasers. Franco looked down at Coach’s paws. On his hips as he sweated through sweats. Waiting on a response. Franco clocked the clock. If he left now, it’d be too early to catch T. Franco then snuck a glance at The Frog.

  The Frog’s Ferragamoed foot rested against the padded gym wall as his gold medallion rested against his chest hair. His cavernous eyes cruised the cave of a gym. Save for the glance at his Rolex that took place at the exact moment Franco glanced over. The Swiss watchmaker wasn’t the only one with precision timing.

  Franco’s eyes sunk even lower. To Coach Nelly’s red Nikes. “I’ll get a workout in tonight. Tomorrow gonna get an extra throw with Yo. Right now, I gotta get down the docks.”

  The wrestling session was over. And it was The Frog who scored the final takedown.

  TRACK 3. THE KID

  TJ (AKA T) WALKED the streets that same wicked winter day. Concerned about his beef with Ray. His journey began not on Bunns Lane but on the other side of town. TJ now lived at the same house Julie grew up in. The one on Bucknell Ave she had boomeranged back to. With T in tow and without Franco.

  TJ wiped freezing rain from his eyes as he walked down Rahway Ave alone. Far removed from his old friends on his old side of town. He strolled past apartments that arose out of the swamps of Jersey. Past the vinyl-sided Marco’s Hair Hut. Where TJ would nod with approval despite the butcher job by ole Marco Soto. Cutting hair like he was playing Marco Polo. TJ walked past the little church with the little congregation and the little sign that read: Ye shall be born again. Wasn’t reincarnation only for Hindus? TJ then wondered what he’d turn into after Ray stomped him to death. Hopefully a bull. If it wasn’t all bull.

  The five-foot 14-year-old freshman wanted to think about anything but what lay ahead. Ray threatening he was fuckin dead. So TJ’s mind drifted, as it often did, to when he was a kid. To 1998. When life was great.

  It wasn’t just him, right? All of America was doing better back in ’98. The peace. The prosperity. The country was doing so good, in fact, that all anyone worried about was Slick Willie’s willy. Then again, Pac and Biggie didn’t make ’98. That’s the thing about the streets, TJ figured. Always gotta watch your back on the streets. At least 2008 TJ wasn’t worried about handguns. Just Ray’s guns. Those buffed-up biceps. Choked by chain link ink. On a dude six-two without shoes.

  So as the winter wind blew TJ down the block, his mind blew back. He felt like he had the perfect childhood. Childhood. He loved that word. When he heard it, a highlight reel of images ran through his head. He saw his memories from a distance. Like they were out-of-body experiences. Was that magic? He didn’t know. The time was.

  TJ’s first image: Franco and Julie. Each of them holding one of TJ’s hands. Standing on the Seaside boardwalk in front of one of those balloon dart games. Sun shining down on their smiling faces. Franco and Julie were only 23 at the time. Older adults adored the young couple taking the kid for the day. The cool young aunt and uncle. Getting some practice in. That little boy standing between them. Wearing the Yankee cap. Squinting in the summer sun. Smiling his missing-tooth smile. He couldn’t be theirs. He was. Before anyone could even imply accident, they’d call him their miracle.

  Dad’s hair—faded to a shave on the sides no doubt—glistened in the summer sun. A few curls higher than the others as if they were little masts atop the SS Franco. Atop aviator shades copped for a copple dollars. Ray could ban the sun but not knockoffs, Dad would joke. His smile accentuating his chiseled jaw. Softening his hardened look.

  TJ cringed as he trekked up the trestle over the tracks. Ray-Bans. If only they’d ban Ray. Back to back in the day. Those Seaside summer days. Even Mom would be tan. Darker yet was her long hair that dangled down, constantly threatening to pop her bubble butt.

  Franco would slip his arm around her waist and give her a squeeze. Then say what he liked most about her, with his hand in front of his own chest, was her big…heart. He’d use that one if he wanted to see her smile. The one she kept hidden. Cuza the front tooth gap that revealed her social gap.

  And if Dad really wanted to win the A-student over, he’d say her most beautiful body part was her brain. Although TJ suspected Dad had her brain number two to her eyes. Franco was always saying how hers put his own to shame. Those haywire hazel jobs he had. A smattering of brown, blue, gray, green. A blotchy battlefield where Franco’s entire ancestry met. Fighting for survival.

  Julie meanwhile had big blues that, from little TJ’s vantage point, took up half her head. Especially on days down the shore. When the summer sun would shrink her pupils to pepper. Inflate her irises to blue moons. Blue moons that, off the ocean’s reflection, would turn turquoise. It was a day like that that Franco came up with his nickname for Julie. His Jewels. Cuz she had one in each eye.

  Meanwhile, 2008 TJ’s big browns batted as he cut away from the cutting wind. Into the clay pits. A wooded patch once home to Woodbridge’s clay economy. TJ had learned in fourth grade about the shift from farming to industry in the late 1800s and how the Woodbridge clay pits were the basin for the manufacturing of millions of tons of bricks that built Newark, Elizabeth, and beyond. The bricks that built The Bricks. Must’ve been pretty good bricks, too. Local brick houses still stood stout as ever. Still, TJ preferred the clay pits’ current function. A haven of kid bike jumps, teen fire pits, and adult magazines.

  TJ hobbled down uneven terrain onto the soaked soccer field. He hopped puddles. Mucked through mud. Grasped for grass. He continued onto campus, wishing like hell it was back in the day. But all he saw was Ray. Wearing a T despite the cold day. Chain link ink on full display. So back went TJ. To back in the day.

  The second image from TJ’s memory: Franco’s brand-new blue ’98 Mustang. The sparkles in the fresh factory paint. The alloy wheels. The Armor-All’d tires. In the ten years following, TJ came to know that Franco didn’t care much for material shit. But he splurged on that Mustang. TJ eventually figured that Franco got it for what it stood for. Whether he realized it or not. American made. Tough and fast. Meant for the streets. No hood ornament. No bells. No whistles. No bullshit. It was Franco’s Ferrari. No. To Franco, it was better than a fuckin Ferrari.

  Franco told TJ on one of them lazy boardwalk strolls that he could afford it because he was getting a lot of dock work back then. And once Franco, fresh off his first wins, started figuring the fight money in his future…forgetaboutit. He’d rap along to Biggie blasting out of a t-shirt shop, strut along the plan
ked wood, and tell TJ, It’s allll good.

  Save for the Mustang’s expired meter. A sentimental reminder to TJ that the family was too busy having fun to get back on time. Julie would work herself into a panic over the expired meter as they doubled back on the boards. She always knew what time it was, even before her first cell phone. The sun’s directly overhead on a July day, it’s about 1:15. The lifeguards are packing up, it’s 4:00. The rides are lighting up the night something special, it’s 9:00. Time to get to the car. Julie would drag TJ as her flip flops clacked along to her little strides. Franco would trail behind, telling her, Relax. It’s a beautiful night. Have a soft serve. Soft serve sounded good to TJ, so they’d outvote her. Then Dad wouldn’t even get one! That cracked little TJ up. TJ and Mom would chow down on their half-orange (arr-inge), half-vanilla (vanella) custard cones while the fledgling fighter fasted. Then they’d all cram into a photo booth and get a strip of four photos. It would start with Julie giving an annoyed look at Franco. The next two would be snapshots of them tickling and hugging the ice cream-mustached TJ. The last would be one of Franco and Julie kissing. The top half of TJ’s mug poking into the picture.

  One time, they slipped out of Seaside at sunset. Cruised over the Tunney-Mathis at magic hour. Cabin cruisers cut through the Barnegat below. The cottage-clustered coastline lay ahead. Backlit by an amber sky. Little TJ would swear he was in the Mediterranean for a minute. While the moment moved Dad to music,

  Forget Vegas n all the lights

  Miami n those white hot nights

  Just gimme a summer

  In Seaside Heights

  TJ would ask Franco where those lines came from. Franco said he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it. TJ knew. Franco heard it in his own head. It was born in his bones. A hereditary trait that just waited for the right moment to reveal itself.