by Jeremy Brown
“The thing is—and this is going to sound stupid—for a guy like Jairo, not going out there and fighting, even in this state, would be worse than getting his ass kicked.”
“You say a lot of dumb things. Sometimes crazy. That is insane.”
“You throw in the towel now, he doesn’t even get a chance to get right. Give him the chance.”
“The chance to die?”
“Marcela, he’s a warrior. You stop him from fighting, even when he knows he shouldn’t, you might as well bury him. Nobody ever said it was smart. It’s just true.”
“So we just let him go out there alone and be destroyed?”
She turned and walked away before I could say anything, which was good.
I don’t think she’d like the answer.
Jairo stayed in the bathroom for close to forty minutes. I kept a light sweat going with Gil, watched the live feed, and tried to sit still while Hollywood wrapped my hands.
He pulled the gauze and tape out, said, “I’m not even gonna ask,” and gave me the knockout wrap. Hard and tight, molding my fists into piston heads.
I checked my phone every five minutes. Nothing from Rubin.
After the fourth time, Marcela peeked around my arm. “What are you expecting?”
“Good luck wishes from the guys back home. Roth, Terence, you know.” The lie slid out and flopped on the floor, glared up at me with one harsh eye.
“Back home.” She touched my hand and walked away.
Carol and her headset leaned through the open door. “Jairo Arcoverde, walking in two minutes.”
Edson darted into the bathroom.
A minute later the Arcoverde men came out. Javier first, Jairo behind him in a fresh green Arcoverde gi with his gloved hands on Javier’s shoulders. His head sagged. Antonio had his hands on Jairo’s shoulders and spoke to him in low Portuguese. Edson brought up the back of the train.
They filed to the door and waited.
Marcela stood with her arms crossed, shifting her weight side to side. Her desire to grab Jairo, keep him safe with her was palpable. She’d turned the TV off, saying she refused to watch this happen. To her, it must have been like watching Jairo walk blindfolded toward a thousand-foot cliff.
I checked my phone one last time.
Nothing.
I tossed it in the bag, zipped it up and said to Gil, “Follow my lead.”
“Your what?”
Carol waved Javier forward. “It’s time, gentlemen.”
Javier plowed into the hallway, dragging Jairo, Antonio, and Edson.
Gil said, “Woody.”
I ignored him and waited until the Arcoverdes cleared the door and turned right into the hallway. I winked at Marcela and caught up to Edson, put my taped hands on his shoulders and kept pace.
He turned, confused, then his eyes widened.
I held a finger to my lips and waited for Edson to make his choice: Realize I was the only hope is brother had, or succumb to ego and family pride and pull Antonio around.
Edson—not the smartest Arcoverde by a stretch—nodded once and faced forward.
So he thought it was a good idea.
Which made me think it might be a terrible one.
Too late now.
15
The crowd sang in Portuguese louder than Jairo’s entrance music and leaned over the railings along the path to the cage, trying to get a blessing of Arcoverde mystique. I caught some faces screwing from elation to confusion—outright disgust a few times—when they saw me in the convoy.
Gil stuck to my ribs and yelled something, but it was lost in the chaos of the arena. It sounded like “This is fucking crazy, what are you doing you idiot,” but that couldn’t be right.
We plowed into the staging area cageside. Hollywood was there, along with Vern and a couple referees to give Jairo clearance to take those last few steps. The ones that counted the most.
Preston was already in the cage, bouncing his back against the fence and taking lazy swings with both arms. He frowned at me and I waved back. The referee was Brubaker, considered by most fighters to be the best one in the business for letting a fight go right to the point when it needed to be stopped.
Good and bad. If Jairo got in a tough spot he’d take a hell of a beating, but the ref would give him plenty of time to get out of it.
Javier pulled Jairo’s black belt and gi top off and folded them over his arm. Jairo tried to untie his gi pants but his hands shook too much. Javier yanked the heavy canvas cord and scooped the pants up after Jairo stepped out of them. He wore tight mid-thigh fight shorts with the Arcoverde logo on one leg, no other sponsors.
Antonio spun him around for one last look, eye to eye.
Jairo saw me and Gil. His mouth fell open.
Antonio turned. Fury pulled his face toward the center. The crowd rampaged around us. I could barely hear the Portuguese he spat but it made Edson take a step back. Antonio pointed toward the prep rooms.
I shook my head.
He moved closer. “Go back!”
I stepped next to Jairo, told him, “Don’t think. Don’t wait. Destroy him.”
Antonio tried to push me away and did a damn fine job of it. I slammed into the cage apron and had to grab the outside of the fence to stay standing. Gil caught my arm and held a palm toward Antonio, who was still coming.
“Hey, assholes!” Eddie’s teeth were clenched hard enough to fuse together. “What the fuck is going on?”
“A fight,” I said.
The crowd sang and stomped and cheered. Somewhere underneath the racket I heard Jairo’s music start over.
Eddie leaned into the tension between Antonio, Gil, and me. “What are you two doing out here?”
I said, “I’m cornering Jairo.”
“You’re fighting next, jackass.”
“Right.”
Eddie asked Gil, “You’re okay with this?”
Gil kept his eyes on me, nodded.
“I am controlling this,” Antonio said. “I am the cornerman. It is not up to him.”
Eddie glanced at all three of us, then studied Jairo. He looked like someone had stripped him and pushed him out into subzero weather, even worse than when Eddie had seen him in the prep room.
“You’re right,” Eddie said. “It’s not up to him.” He waved Jairo over and held two fingers up, shouted, “You get two cornermen. Who’s it gonna be?”
Jairo found another shade of pale.
“I am all he needs,” Antonio said.
“He gets two,” Eddie said.
Jairo pointed at me.
His father lunged again and messed up Eddie’s faux hawk before Gil could wrap Antonio up.
Eddie put a finger in his face. “I’ll have security drag your ass out of here, Antonio.”
Javier and Edson flanked Antonio.
A half-dozen brutes from Warrior security moved in behind Eddie.
The crowd likely had no clue what was happening, but they could see Banzai Eddie disrespecting a national treasure. He may as well have pulled one of the massive Brazilian flags out of the crowd and pissed on it. The arena shattered into boos and war cries, oaths of vengeance and blood feuds.
In the center of it all, I put my arms around Jairo and spoke into his ear.
Antonio must have realized he was on the verge of getting kicked out. He shrugged Gil off and smoothed his shirt, pulled his shoulders back and regained his regal posture. He said something to Javier and Edson, who struggled to break the stare-down with security before carrying the Arcoverde banner around the perimeter of the cage to Jairo’s corner.
Eddie said, “Well, that was some bullshit.” He turned to Hollywood. “Fix my hair.”
I finished talking and gave Jairo a squeeze. The bear hug he gave back pushed the air out of me and threatened a few ribs. He bowed to Antonio and stepped onto the launching pad.
Vern rubbed Vaseline onto Jairo’s eyebrows and cheeks so he wouldn’t get cut early in the fight, before he was slick with sw
eat. The refs checked behind his ears for pre-existing damage—sponsors didn’t like ears getting torn off on live TV—scanned his tape and gloves, fingernails and toenails.
Verified his cup and mouthguard.
The ref held a hand toward the open gate. “Fighter is ready.”
We’ll see.
The fighter announcements were a blur. The arena hated Preston and loved Jairo, I know that much. The deafening sound of it crashed around the civil debate Antonio and I had below Gil, Javier, and Edson, who draped Jairo’s banner over the fence and shot worried glances down at us.
“You say nothing to him,” Antonio said. He had a handful of my sweatshirt.
“I’ll tell him what he needs to hear. Long as you don’t tell him to stop and wait, he’ll be fine.”
“Don’t tell me what is right for fighting.”
“Just go wait outside.”
“What? You want to go outside? Let’s go! I leave you there!”
“Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me what to do! Don’t tell my son what to do!”
“Let go of my shirt.”
He released with a stiff shove. “Go to hell, you and your shirt.”
It may have been the first time I’d heard Antonio swear. Small victories.
Jim Lincoln, the Warrior announcer, pointed into our corner and cycled up to a bellow as the crowd chanted “AR-co-VER-de.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, making his debut in the Warrior cage. . . . He’s a worldwide Brazilian jiu jitsu legend, six-time Brazilian Champion, and four-time Abu Dhabi Champion. Fans of Brazil, it is Jairo . . . Arcoverde!”
Antonio huffed in my face while the crowd went insane.
“You’re missing it,” I yelled.
He blinked. Gazed up at his son bathed in the lights and the adoration of thousands as he stood alone, preparing to fight another man who had trained specifically to do him great harm.
Antonio put his hand on me again. I didn’t mind—it was the only thing keeping him upright.
The guys packed up the banner and dropped off the apron next to us.
Gil said, “I can do this instead. You go get ready.”
I shook my head.
“I figured. We’ll be close by.”
Javier and Edson hugged their father, followed Gil to the small cageside corral for trainers.
I could barely hear Antonio muttering resentment at me while Brubaker walked into the center of the cage and pointed at Preston.
“Fighter, are you ready?”
Preston nodded.
I realized Antonio was saying prayers, and they weren’t for me.
“Fighter, are you ready?”
Jairo nodded.
“Fight!”
Preston launched from his side of the cage with his hands low. Jairo stepped to his left and waited, glanced over his shoulder at Antonio, who barked something in Portuguese.
Jairo stepped to his right.
This was alarming. If Jairo moved to his right it would let Preston set up the distance and timing to unleash that crushing overhand.
I cupped my hands and yelled, “Go left.”
Antonio jostled against my shoulder and snapped a command. It didn’t seem possible Jairo would hear us over the crowd noise, but he must have. Because he froze.
Preston moved in, right hand cocked. He seemed eager to engage but wary of a trap. Jairo stepped back and bumped against the cage. Preston angled to his right, setting up the punch.
This is how it would go.
Preston crushes Jairo with the overhand right.
Jairo goes down and Preston hammerfists him until the ref jumps in.
Or, Preston rushes in after the overhand and clinches Jairo against the cage, gets into some dirty boxing until he drags him down into side-control with his body perpendicular to Jairo’s, all his weight sunk onto Jairo’s chest.
Then it’s butcher shop time—short, heavy punches and elbows until the ref decides it’s enough or Jairo taps.
Either way, Jairo gets hurt and the Arcoverde name is stained forever.
I gave zero fucks about the legacy. But between getting some new scars or having his family sullied, Jairo would start cutting.
“Move left! Left!”
Antonio took a deep breath and opened his mouth. I hit him under the ribs with a quick left hook and heard the wind come out in a rush. It was a sneaky punch, slipped between us and the apron. Invisible from behind unless you had X-ray vision.
Antonio grunted and gaped at me with shock and accusations.
I ignored him and yelled when Jairo sidestepped to his left. “Keep going, circle, circle.”
Jairo skipped sideways around the cage. Preston followed and threw a few right jabs that fell short.
Antonio clutched my arm and wheezed, “I’m going to kill you.”
“Save it. After the fight.” I was going to need a spreadsheet to keep track of all the Brazilians who wanted to throw me a beating.
Preston lunged right and cut into Jairo’s path, sending him back the other way. As soon as Jairo stepped right, Preston returned to stalking with his fist cocked.
Even with his wrestling pedigree it was obvious Preston wanted to keep the fight standing. He’d had plenty of opportunities to shoot in for a takedown and dismissed every one.
As always, the strategy came down to two options: Figure out what you’re better at and force him into that fight. Or figure out what he wants to do and beat him to it.
Both Jairo and Preston were better off with the first one. It was going to come down to which man could force the other into the fight he didn’t want.
So far, Jairo was in a fight no one would want and Preston had done pretty much everything he’d wanted to.
Then it got worse.
Preston landed the overhand right.
It smashed Jairo in the left temple and pulled his legs up like a curtain. He landed on his right hip and splashed onto his back, arms flopping.
Antonio gasped and reached toward the fence like he was going to climb it and drop down between Preston and his son, absorb the impending punches so Jairo wouldn’t have to.
He’d never make it.
Preston dove in and knelt between Jairo’s dead legs. The first hammerfist glanced off Jairo’s cheek and spent most of its impact against the canvas. The second landed flush against his ear.
Brubaker crouched next to them, poised to intervene, and yelled, “Do something, Jairo. Defend yourself.”
My brain panicked, flooded with what Jairo needed to do. “Cover up! Roll! Wrist control!”
Worse than worthless.
Jairo’s eyes were pinched shut, arms flailing to defend his face from the machine-gun strikes from Preston. I doubted he heard my chaotic cues or could even think straight.
Antonio pulled a white towel out of the corner bucket.
I nodded even though he didn’t consult me.
Then Jairo’s legs clamped around Preston’s waist. His ankles crossed and he bucked Preston forward, off balance.
I twisted to my right and snatched at the trailing corner of the white towel as Antonio hurled it into the cage. It fell onto the apron in front of us. Antonio swiped at it and I pinned the cloth down.
“Wait!”
We watched Preston tilt forward and post his hands on Jairo’s chest to keep from falling. Jairo grabbed both of his wrists and held them there like they’d been welded. His face was swollen, red, and completely calm.
I grinned.
With that overhand right, Preston had done the one thing Jairo needed to turn off his damned brain.
Now Jairo Arcoverde was working on pure muscle memory.
Poor, poor Preston.
Preston tried to push his way out of Jairo’s guard, found himself locked in concrete. He pulled his feet in and stood up, stacking Jairo onto his shoulders and the back of his head.
Preston was in a good spot to drop punches if he could get a hand free. He yanked and tugged, lifting Jairo off th
e canvas a few inches and dropping him down. I feared a powerbomb was imminent—that Preston would haul Jairo all the way up into the air and slam him on his head—then Jairo released Preston’s left wrist and reached for his left ankle.
Preston wasn’t stupid. He saw a leg- or anklelock coming and stuck his left leg out like a kickstand beyond Jairo’s grasp.
Jairo was moving before his foot hit the canvas. He pulled his legs into a butterfly guard, knees outside Preston’s hips and the tops of his feet against Preston’s inner thighs. His right sole scraped down Preston’s left leg and held it up, stopped just above his knee and drove it back. Jairo lifted with his left foot, torqued to his right, and captured Preston’s left wrist again as it came down to stop the fall.
Jairo kept the sweep going, rolled into a full mount with his knees clamped against Preston’s ribs and his head tucked under the brawler’s chin, facing away from us.
It was a blur of technique that took less than one second, start to finish.
The crowd went berserk. Antonio thumped a fist on the apron and grabbed a handful of my sweatshirt, though he didn’t seem to notice.
Preston kicked his legs and tried to roll left, right, but Jairo didn’t give him an inch of space. He locked in and sank his weight onto Preston’s chest. I’ve been in that spot with Jairo before. It feels like treading water in a riptide, then someone hands you a sack of cannonballs.
Being a former wrestler, Preston liked being on his back about as much as crocodiles like being tickled. He shoved Jairo’s shoulders and tried to punch his face and head, but Jairo was too close to allow a good shot. His hands fought for control of Preston’s wrists, and Preston managed to land a few short right hooks that wouldn’t do any damage but were enough to make Jairo turn his head to face us.
His eyes found me, flicked over to Antonio.
And waited.
Antonio froze, his fist still full of my sweatshirt while he studied the position.
Preston bucked and slapped punches into Jairo’s ear.
Brubaker had to yell so they could hear him. “You guys gotta work. Do some work or I’ll stand you up.”