by Jack Tunney
Bradley depended on the clinch as the time for the fifth round ticked away. What looked like a turn-around got stalled again, and it was up to me to get this kid back on the road again.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look okay in there. You look like crap.”
“I’m okay.”
“You had a great fourth, and you threw this round away, Bradley. And if you keep this up, you’re going to lose the fight.”
“Yeah.”
“And tomorrow you’re going to cry, Bradley. You’re going to cry when you remember how you started to take this fight back and you handed it back to this big commie bastard. You got to decide right now: Do you want to win this fight, or don’t you?”
He just sat there like an idiot.
“That’s a question for you, Bradley.”
“I want to win.”
“Then you get back in there and fight a full round or I’m going to stop this fight.”
“Yes, sir.”
We got out, and the sixth round started.
“You want my towel?”
“We don’t need the towel yet, Marty.”
“Vincent’s running low on gas, it seems.”
“But Bradley doesn’t want it. If he could put some combos together and get that jab working again, he could win this but he’s not. Look at him.”
I can’t tell you what goes through a fighters head. I can tell you what went through mine. I wanted to win. I don’t know what’s going on in Bradley’s head, but I need to help him get the big picture.
As the round ended, we sat him down. Marty helped his face. I had to help his head.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen to me, Bradley. This guy is running out of gas out there. Can you sense that?”
“Yeah.”
“Now is your time, kid. You got to put this guy away, but you’re blowing it. You’ve only won one round, and you’re blowing it.”
“Yeah.”
“When you see the film of this fight, you’re going to cry because you’re going to see how you could have taken this guy and you didn’t. There’s eighteen minutes left in this fight. You got plenty of time to take this fight, Bradley.”
“Yeah.”
Round seven started, and it was the round I’ve been waiting for.
“Keep it up, Bradley!” shouted Marty, who could see Vincent crumbling.
Here came that vibe again. That knockdown vibe.
“Body blow! Body blow!”
Bradley popped Vincent in the ribs, a sweet shot to the kidneys that made Vincent fall to a knee about one full second after the shot.
“Yes!”
“Do you see, Bradley?” I shouted at him. “Do you see what you can do?”
Vincent got up at eight, spent. But Bradley didn’t answer.
“Put him away,” Marty shouted.
“Go after him. What are you doing?”
Both fighters clinched to end the round, and I did my best to hide my anger at this kid.
“Bradley, are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to be the champ, or what?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you’re not acting like it!” I had to shout at this kid. He had to know how big his mistake was letting this guy out of this round. “You’re just surviving out there. You’re not trying to win this fight. If you were, you would have gone after him after you knocked him down, he was hurt. You could have put him away and we could have gone home with the belt. Stop surviving and just win, for Christ sake!”
Round eight started, and things took a bad turn.
“No!” shouted Marty.
“Get up, Bradley.”
I watched Marty get the towel ready. “We’re not throwing it, yet. We got to see how he looks after this count.”
I looked at Bradley’s eyes, and he was losing focus again. The ref let him go at eight, but to my surprise, Vincent also could not put him away.
“Man, they both look like crap now.”
“Bradley can win this, dammit, if he just takes it.”
The guys were both content to clinch and throw some basic combos. Neither of them had enough left to finish the fight in this round. It was Bradley’s time as the round ended at the bell.
“Bradley, do you want me to stop this fight?”
“No.”
“I swear to Christ I’ll stop this fight if you don’t go in there and take this fight.”
“No.”
“I want to tell you one thing. Vincent is finished, Bradley. He’s out of gas. You can take this fight in this round if you want it. Have I ever lied to you?”
“No.”
“You’re doing just enough to keep him off you. You can’t be content with that if you want to win. There’s a time in your life when it hurts, you want to quit, when you’re that close to the win, but you want to stop.”
Bradley hung his head.
“You can’t. Tonight, I’m telling you no. You’re never going to get an opportunity like this again. You are losing this fight right now. I’ve seen the cards. Even with the knockdown, you’re losing. Go out there and take it from him, Bradley.
He was still looking at the canvas, but he was nodding his head. He knew I was right.
“You’ve come this far. I didn’t think you had the heart to do it, but you showed me you do.”
And I’ll never forget this moment. He turned to me and looked me in the eye. Finally, I got something that hit home for this little bastard. I finally touched his heart with something that actually meant something to him.
“You didn’t think I could do it?” he asked me.
The five second whistle blew as I stood up with Bradley.
“I do now, son.”
I slapped him on the shoulder as I stepped out of the ring
And the fight began.
“What was that?” asked Marty.
“I found it,” I said. “I found what he needed to win tonight.”
Vincent came out strong, laying into Bradley. But Bradley wisely covered up, and found the right moment to counter with a combo of his own. He rocked Vincent, and after they threw a few more punches at each other, Bradley finally caught him with another body blow that staggered Vincent. Bradley followed up with a huge right cross that caught Vincent in the mouth, knocking the Cuban to the ground.
Both Marty and I jumped for joy as the ref started the count. Vincent was not moving.
Sure enough, the referee waved off the fight.
This fight was over.
Marty and I jumped into the ring and grabbed Bradley.
“Get me the chair,” Bradley said. I had to laugh. Marty heard him, too, and immediately went outside for the stool. As the cameras, security, and medical personnel stepped into the ring, we sat Bradley down in the corner. He was spent. I could tell he gave all he got with that last punch.
“You okay?”
“I am now,” said Bradley, smiling.
“You better be. You just helped get my rent paid, kid.
Bradley started to chuckle. I smiled at the little bastard.
“Thanks.”
“No, Octavio. Thank you.”
Gratitude from the little ungrateful bastard. How do you like that?
“You knew you could do it, kid. After getting a taste of reality from that big commie’s gloves, I just had to help you remember it.”
“I didn’t want to let you down, Octavio.”
Look at this kid? One day, he’s all about how great he is. Now, he’s filled with gratitude. I guess I would be, too, if I did what I had to do to keep some big Cuban from whipping my rear.
“Hijo, you did your best, you didn’t give up, and you prevailed. That’s all I ask of you; that’s all I’ll ever ask of you. Go out there and do your best and never give up.”
You know, as all these people go crazy here at the Frank Erwin for Bradley’s victory, I can’t tell you w
hat makes a guy like Bradley a good fighter. Athleticism? Anger? Skill? Arrogance? A spirit of competition? Science? A combination of all of those? Who knows?
What I do know is adversity introduces a man to himself. That’s why I love this sport. That’s why all I can do is let this energy in this arena right now flow through my body. And this oh-so-sweet ring, with its sweaty and bloody canvas and beer sponsors, is one of the most beautiful and true places where a man can test himself and learn some of life’s most valuable lessons.
I know Bradley learned one today. It’s the kind of lesson that can’t be learned in the gym. I know for a fact it’s going to serve him well.
Now maybe he won’t stand me up at the gym when he wants that extra training.
DEDICATIONS
To my father and Tio Martin,
Tanks for introducing me to boxing.
To all boxing fans.
To Teddy Atlas.
To Jeremy LC Jones and Paul Bishop,
Thanks for this opportunity.
BOWIE V. IBARRA
The author of the Pit Fighters series from ZombieBloodFights.com, Bowie earned a BFA in Acting and an MA in Theatre history. He has practiced such combat sports as western boxing, amateur wrestling, jiu-jitsu, capoeira, Krav Maga, professional wrestling, and kickboxing. He is a fan of all combat sports.
Pit Fighters: Baptism by Fire and Pit Fighters: Double Cross are both available at Amazon.com in paperback or for your Kindle. The stories follow a stable of fighters from San Uvalde, Texas who compete in MMA during the advent of the sport in America. Styles include a boxer, Mexican luchador, kung-fu, SAMBO, and street fighting. Get your copy today, and network with Bowie via his official website.
ON THE WEB:
www.ZombieBloodFights.com
ROUND 14
HOMETOWN HERO:
LOSER LEAVES TOWN
ART BOWSHIER
Zantar, the Jungle Boy power-slammed the fabulous Mr. Hero, and ran to the corner furthest away. He let loose with his most awesome Tarzan yell, echoed back at him by the audience.
Zantar climbed the turnbuckles barefoot, posed for a split second and then leapt high in the air to execute the ung-gaw-wha-plash on Mr. Hero. The kid was totally a Jimmy Superfly Snuka rip-off with a bunch of Tarzan thrown in, but it didn’t matter. From his tall, tanned, good looks, to the cut muscularity of his torso, to the leopard skin trunks, to the insane athleticism, he pulled the gimmick off properly.
Mr. Hero, lying prone across the ring was the snarky heel (bad guy) who tried in vain to fool himself into thinking he was the babyface (good guy).
Zantar’s leap carried him across three quarters of the ring to drop down on Mr. Hero. The heavy wrestling ring visibly bounced half an inch with the impact. The sound howitzered throughout the armory where the fight was being staged. The impact caused Mr. Hero to become airborne and flip out of the ring through the space between the bottom and middle ropes.
Zantar howled mindlessly holding his head as if he’d accidentally missed and hurt himself crashing into the canvas floor. The referee stood dumbfounded.
Mr. Hero crawled to an empty folding chair and got up. As wobbly as a drunken sailor, he stumbled around aimlessly.
“I suppose you’re Don Muraco now?” a well-versed fan wisecracked. There was always someone in the crowd who remembered wrestling’s past.
Mr. Hero made the mistake of getting too close to Granny Jones. She is a plant – but still an old school believer – who carries a brick-loaded purse. She unleashes it on Mr. Hero behind the ref’s purposely turned back.
Zantar gets verbally abusive, shouting at Mr. Hero to get back in the ring and fight.
The crowd is fired up, popping to everything.
Mr. Hero wobbles over to a shiny new trash can next to the timekeeper’s table.
Seeing what his foe has in mind, Zantar immediately takes a powder from the ring to the arena floor. Mr. Hero throws the trashcan at the approaching Zantar, who catches it mockingly and tosses it into the ring. He makes bring it on motions with his hands and arms toward Mr. Hero. Whatever Zantar is saying verbally is lost in the roar of the crowd.
Mr. Hero pushes the timekeeper to the ground, picks up the man’s now abandoned chair, and tosses it at Zantar. Again, Zantar catches the object easily and tosses it into the ring.
Furious with frustration, Mr. Hero grabs up the timekeeper’s table, holds it above his head and launches it at his hated foe. Zantar dodges easily and scampers forward.
Desperately, Mr. Hero grabs the announcer’s chair, tosses it at Zantar, then slithers back under the bottom rope and into the ring. Zantar follows him, carrying the ring bell. The ref works hard to get it away, but gets caught up in the legs of the chair in the middle of the ring. Mr. Hero leaps forward and peppers Zantar’s head with a series of punches known as potatoes. Zantar no sells the action.
Mr. Hero begs off and takes another powder to ringside. Zantar follows, and around the outside of the ring they run. Mr. Hero slides back under the ring ropes. Zantar barely misses an ankle grab then gets stomped sliding in after his foe – head, shoulder, back, legs…
The ref finally kicks the folding chairs to the ring apron and sets the trash can in the far corner. Mr. Hero grabs another folding chair, but before he can use it, Zantar unleashes a dropkick sending Mr. Hero sailing toward the corner with the trash can.
Mr. Hero hits the top turnbuckle on the fly and drops into the garbage can butt first – trapped. His double take is classic. Granny Jones is rolling on the floor with laughter.
There was nothing the referee could do – those were the rules of this fight…no disqualification, no time limit, no interference, anyone interfering, gets banned for life…loser-leaves-town for a year – a truckload of stipulations for one match. Even if it is for a long awaited championship match.
Being stuck butt first in a trash can is the final straw.
“Oscar, the Grouch – Oscar, the Grouch,” became the chant of the night. It was humiliating and vulnerable at the same time. Yet, it was very memorable. And memorable meant video sales, the go to thing after word of mouth gets around.
However, what’s in a name? Mr. Hero – at least it wasn’t Mr. Grinder or Mr. Cheesesteak or Mr. Submarine Sandwich. It’s a good thing Chris Hero came back from the WWE, so the name had to go. Mr. Hero had been wanting to drop the name for something more mainstream. Something more original. But, the name had meant money because put butts in seats, and all without giving free tix to a carload of family and friends.
Carie, his wife, was no fan of pro wrestling. He had a deal with his her:
1. Don’t get hurt and off work.
2. Wrestling has to pay for your gas.
3. Make at least $10.00 to eat on the way home since she was not going to cook at midnight.
Clearly his passion had to pay for itself. The only shows he worked for free had to be advertised charity events.
His friends laughed at pro wrestling. They thought he quit a year ago. His mom loved it, but she had passed away during his last tour of Afghanistan. His dad yelled about it being fake, but complained when he felt the referee didn’t see the bad guys cheating. His dad liked it well enough on free TV, but he wouldn’t walk across the street to see it live or, heaven forbid, pay for a ticket. His brother and sisters tolerated it as long as he did not injure himself.
Zantar walked semi-circles around the trash can. Mr. Hero was in a real fix. Zantar grabbed Mr. Hero’s wrist and tipped him and the can over. Mr. Hero landed on his feet and duck walked like Chuck Berry with the can stuck on his behind.
People were in tears of laughter everywhere in the armory. Many rolled on the floor like at a tent revival, only laughing. Zantar leaped to the top rope and did a moonsault (back somersault) landing with a big elbow drop that shot Mr. Hero out of the can like Popeye’s spinach, and nearly out of the ring again.
“Take it home guys.” The referee said, telling them to go ahead with the agreed upon finish of the match.
Mr. Hero fumed a bit. Eight weeks in the making just to drop the belt to a rookie – bringing out and highlighting what the kid could do well and hiding what the kid could not in the ring.
“It’s time to wrestle or get off the pot, boys!” the ref added.
It wasn’t gonna be Mick Foley falling of the top of the giant steel cage, but it wasn’t the Hardys in a drugs-on-a-pole match either. It had been forty minutes of action and skill – unlike the Bret Hart vs. Shawn Michaels sixty minute iron-man snooze fest of headlocks and armbars.
He still couldn’t believe people called that match a classic. Flair-Steamboat in any incarnation was better.
Mr. Hero grabbed a chair. Zantar kicked him in the belly. Zantar snatched the chair away. Chair shot to the left ribcage – headshots with chairs were banned – stagger a bit, bound off the ropes – BBOOOMMM!!! Chair shot to the right rib cage and toss the chair away.
Zantar the Jungle Boy, grabbed the timekeeper’s table and hoisted it over his head. Zantar looked to the audience for a response. The crowd screamed “Yes,” as Mr. Hero staggered back to center ring.
Another belly kick and Zantar unloaded a massive table shot to Mr. Hero’s back. Down goes Mr. Hero…
The referee’s count, “One…two. Three!” The bell Rings…the crowd explodes with cheers…everyone celebrates.
The audience took up the song, “Nanna-na-na…nana-na-na…hey, hey, goodbye.”
The locker room emptied into the arena. Every wrestler Mr. Hero had beaten in the last eighteen months was there. They had Mr. Hero’s duffle bag and a long pole to ride him out of the building astride. All cheering, all laughing.
“Ladies and Gentleman,” the announcer called. “The winner and new champion of Wrestling’s American Rampage Pro (WARP)…Zan…tar, the Jungle Boy!”
Mr. Hero snatched the microphone away from the announcer, but finds it dead.
“Today is the happiest day for the rest of my life…” Zantar yelled out, having been shouldered and carried around the ring displaying the championship belt.
Mr. Hero was grabbed up, hoisted overhead and put out of the ring. Mr. Hero waved good-bye to the crowd as he rode the rail out of the front door of the Amory.