Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  I’d told Khajee she didn’t have to come to the fight with Santana, that I could handle myself. But after four days in the hospital, Than wasn’t showing any change, and according to Khajee, he’d have wanted her to be there. “Besides,” she told me, “I could use a good distraction.” Dr. Ngoyo had suggested that sometime soon, they might be looking to transfer him to a hospice. I thought this was a good sign, and said, “That’s great,” but then Khajee explained to me what I guess they explained to her, that hospice care is meant to ease your suffering. No one expects you to leave there alive.

  Blalock steered along the quiet main street, where most of the shops were closed at this late hour. We passed an old theater that somebody had converted into a movie house. Out front, on the marquee where there should have been a title, red letters spelled out “For Sale. Great Potential.” To my surprise, we cut down the next alley and parked in the back, amidst a dozen expensive cars that by now were familiar. At the rear entrance, I greeted Grunt with a raised hand and he actually opened the door. If this was a sign of some respect or a sort of mocking gesture, I couldn’t tell.

  Before leading us backstage, Blalock offered me a series of clichés, the kind of thing only guys who never fought would say like “Don’t forget how much effort you’ve put forth, how hard you’ve worked for this,” and “Give it your all.” Once he was gone, I said to Khajee, “I’m so glad he said that. Otherwise, I might not have tried.” When she laughed, I realized it had been a while since I’d heard that sweet sound.

  The first match was between an unknown guy from Virginia and a jiujitsu artist Khajee had seen around. They were warming up on two-thirds of a mat rolled across the stage, where I suppose at some point people put on plays. Out in the audience, the crowd settled into their seats. Khajee and I were watching from offstage, behind these huge musty curtains. Across the way, on the far side of the mat, I saw Santana and Badder side by side. They were looking at me, and Badder made one of his warrior faces. I hooked my fingers inside my cheeks and puffed them out like a kid, stuck out my tongue and waggled it. Badder scowled and started forward, but Santana held him back. Again, Khajee laughed. “Come on,” she said. “They’ll start soon. You should change.”

  “But I’m perfect just the way I am.”

  My third-grade joke fell flat, maybe because we both knew how far it was from the truth.

  We bumped around backstage, past a paper-mache spaceship, an enormous plywood rainbow, and some old-style garbage cans painted blue. Behind a grand piano covered in dust, we found a quiet corner, and I slipped off my sweatpants, exposing the gym shorts I was wearing beneath. I tugged my shirt over my head and began to stretch. The air was chilly.

  “How you feel?” Khajee asked me.

  “A little tight,” I said. “But ready.”

  “Good,” she said. “Cause I’ll tell you this about Santana. He’s a damn dirty fighter. You’ve got to keep an eye on him.”

  “Dirty how?” I asked.

  She told me about a time, a few months back, when she’d seen him bend a guy’s fingers until they broke. Also, she warned me that if he was riding on top and could sneak a hand around to the chest, he might jab a finger into the nerve cluster just inside the rib cage. “As for his fingernails,” she said. “He keeps them sharp like that so he can scratch you or gouge your eyes.”

  “Nasty,” I said.

  “Nasty and quick,” Khajee said. “Santana’s even faster than Dominic. So listen. No games with this guy. Any way you can, get him down. Don’t stand toe-to-toe with him, don’t lock up. Stick and move, glide away.”

  “I don’t glide so good, Boss.”

  “Just stay out of his range until he gets frustrated, tries a spinning back fist or something fancy. Then shoot in, take out his legs, and bring him to the mat. That’s where you’ll have the advantage. Ground and pound.”

  I twisted and felt my spine crackle. In the back of my head, I wondered if Khajee knew how Santana earned those scars crisscrossing his face, but it seemed an odd thing to ask. “When are you going to let me box?”

  Khajee rolled her eyes. “When you face a wrestler. If you find yourself up against Badder, box all you want.”

  I swung my arms in great loops, cracking my shoulders loose. Khajee trailed a finger along the dusty top of the piano. “That was Marco’s problem,” she said quietly, her voice little more than a hush. “He didn’t know the kind of fighter he was.”

  I’d never heard this name before, and I gave it some thought before speaking. “Marco was Blalock’s last fighter,” I guessed.

  Her finger came to a dead stop, and she nodded once, heavy.

  “You trained him like me?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And he stayed with you and your uncle.”

  “He did. Same couch and everything. You get exactly one more question.”

  This whole time, Khajee avoided eye contact. I wasn’t sure of the source of tension in the air, but I decided to take a stab at it. “You and this Marco guy, you were kind of … special friends?”

  Khajee’s eyes flashed to mine, and her face looked incredulous. “Like I was his girlfriend or something?” She was smiling coyly. “I’ll tell you, Mac, you’re not so good at reading people, are you?”

  “What?” I asked. “What am I missing?”

  She shrugged and told me, “I don’t like boys like that. Do you understand?”

  The truth dawned on me. “Oh,” I said. “Oh. Oh. Sure, right. Great. Yeah, I wasn’t up to speed on that. Sorry and all.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Not like lesbians all wear a big sign or anything.”

  I chuckled uncomfortably, not because it was funny but because it felt like I was trespassing suddenly. “Course not. So like, are you seeing anybody right now?”

  She grinned a funny grin. “Nah. I broke a girl’s heart last summer. Or she broke mine. I guess both.”

  She was quiet then, and I turned to the wall and started doing a little shadowboxing, in part to move us back to safer ground. But Khajee didn’t seem to feel awkward. She set a hand on my bare shoulder, causing me to pause. “I’m glad you know,” she told me.

  “Me too,” I said, not sure how else to respond.

  “You didn’t get mixed up with Sunday’s side work because you … thought there was something between us, did you? A couple times lately, you seemed —”

  “No way,” I said, facing her as I fudged the truth a bit. “You’re my boss,” I said. “My coach and my friend. I’m glad to help.”

  She seemed relieved by this, for a moment. Then she bit her lip and said, “But you shouldn’t keep doing this. Sunday is dangerous. He’s worse than crooked. He’s malevolent.”

  I thought about this, then said, “Your SAT vocabulary’s impressive, but I think I’m pretty clear on who I’m dealing with.”

  “I’m not kidding around,” she protested.

  “Me neither,” I said. “And I’m not just doing it for you.” Long term, I still hoped for a payday to change Mom’s life, but for now, Than came to mind, the way he’d just taken me in without asking any questions, accepted me into his home. The guy fed me and sat with me for hours trying to share what he knew about fighting. “I haven’t known him long, but Than treated me good. Like a father really. I owe him.”

  I fell quiet and felt heat rise across my neck.

  Khajee said, “When you talk about your dad, you seem so angry.”

  “I am angry,” I snapped. “Want to know something I never told anybody before? Sometimes during a match, when I’m pounding somebody good, I imagine it’s my old man. Some of those kids I hurt on purpose — not to get points, just to inflict pain — it was my father I was thinking about.”

  Khajee considered this, didn’t take her eyes off me. “You realize how messed up that is, right?”

  “Why do you think I haven’t told anybody?” Ms. Flintock, our school counselor, would crap herself with joy at details like this.

 
Khajee stepped closer, took my hand in both of hers. “I was mad at my father. My mother too. I was mad at them for leaving me alone, for dying.”

  I turned to her.

  “I know,” she said. “It doesn’t make sense. But I was a kid. For all his faults, Than helped me let go of that. You’ve got to let go too, Mac.”

  Sunday’s voice came booming from the stage area, and soon the gong sounded with the now familiar opening. The first match was about to begin. I pulled my hand away and said, “We should get going.”

  “Okay,” Khajee said, and we headed that way. We joined a small huddle of folks off to the side, right where we’d been before. Khajee fitted my gloves on and I slid off my sneakers, just so I was ready to go. Across the way, Santana and Badder hadn’t moved. Next to Khajee, some senior citizen in a Hawaiian shirt was applying tape to a kid’s shoulder. The kid had sideburns and a somber face. I took him to be Badder’s opponent. Khajee and I found a good spot to watch the opener from just behind a tripod camera. Since we were around people now, I realized I couldn’t ask a question that had cropped up in my mind. Where was Marco now?

  The first match went long, like fifteen minutes. The two guys locked up and spent a lot of time trying foot sweeps as setups, basically kicking each other in the ankles and shins. They’d break, box a bit, then lock up again and go back to it. A handful of rowdy fans in the balcony began to boo, and finally, out of desperation, the shorter brawler tried a hip toss that failed miserably. The thing about wrestling is that every offensive move, if done poorly, exposes you in some way. In this case, after the kid missed his throw, he basically dropped facedown with his opponent riding him to the mat. After a lame attempt at a choke, the brawler on top turned and went to work on one of his legs. He folded it up, heel to butt, then wrapped it inside a double arm lock and cranked the leg back into his spine. It looked like he’d snap him in half. The kid on bottom howled and slammed the mat with both hands, signaling his submission. The fans suddenly were in love again. They applauded and cheered and cried out for more. In this case, more meant me and Santana.

  After the mat was cleared, Sunday didn’t waste much time getting out there into the spotlight. He worked the crowd a bit, then swept a hand toward stage right, where Santana was waiting in the wings. He bellowed, “Bow your heads and put your hands together to welcome … the Saint!” Not one to miss his cue, Santana tore onto the stage executing his favorite kata, more choreography than fighting, but still, he was impressive. From his performances at the gym, I recalled the routine’s moves — the opening punch, the elbow strike, the leg sweep and front flip, all with the same battle cries. Maybe he thought he’d intimidate me, and Lord knows the audience ate that crap up, but I wished I had a scorecard from Dancing with the Stars so I could hold up a 6 and frown.

  Khajee slipped in my mouth guard, retightened the Velcro straps on my gloves. Sunday waved an arm in my direction and yelled, “And fresh off the hottest debut in Brawlers’ history … the unpredictable Wild Child!”

  I had no fancy entrance prepared, and I considered doing a moonwalk just to mock Santana. But I figured Sunday might not like it, and besides, I’d never tried it in my bare feet. So I plodded toward center stage without fanfare.

  At the mat’s edge, Santana took a long draw from a blue water bottle, and I noticed he didn’t wear a mouth guard. Maybe he figured he wouldn’t get hit. Anyway, he joined me in the center, and accompanied by the gong, the audience cried out, “No mercy! Prepare! Brawl!”

  Instead of a full-out assault though, Santana greeted me with a gesture I recognized. He held one hand flat like he was praying and set his other hand, locked in a fist, into that palm. Like this, he bowed at me deeply, showing respect. Caught off guard and not thinking, I echoed his movement. For this courtesy, I was rewarded with a whipping front kick right to my face, and I snapped back just in time to miss a follow-up spinning back fist, which slid within inches of my chin. Santana took an angular fighting stance and raised his eyebrows. Game on, I thought.

  He orbited me, arms constantly windmilling, staying out of range. Every time I advanced, he retreated. I tried stepping side to side to cut off the mat, but he was too quick, and he just slid away. This went on long enough that the rowdy balcony bunch began to complain. Antsy from the previous bout’s absence of action, they wanted us to mix it up.

  But Santana reacted in a way that shocked me. He stopped moving, stood totally still, and waved me in. This was a trick, I thought, but he adopted a standard wrestling pose and came slowly forward, arms extended and hands out. Cautiously I slid into the lock up, each of us dipping forward. Our heads rested on the other guy’s shoulder, one hand gripping a neck, the other cupped to a tricep. We tugged each other and I began to probe for my opening, which I could feel would come quick from this familiar position. Santana shoved his cheekbone into mine, nothing more than irritating but enough of a distraction that I shoved back. We were crouched low, eye to eye and nose to nose. He lifted his chin, pursed his lips, and I had the absurd thought that he was about to kiss me. One of my prophetic flashes rushed over me but made no sense, because all I saw was pitch black. How could the future be only darkness?

  The next instant, something splashed across my eyes. A stinging burn forced me to wince, and I took a knee. I blinked back the tears and looked up, but my vision was engulfed in a sightless sea. Instinctively, I tapped my hands together in a T shape, signaling the ref that I needed an injury time-out, but all that came from the black void around me was a chuckle. Santana said, “You forget where you are? This is Brawlers, and there’s nobody here to save you.”

  The first shot was a foot or a fist smashing my cheek with enough force that I dropped to all fours. In the next instant, something sharp and hard — an elbow? a knee? — ignited my ribs, and I rolled sideways. On my back, I tucked into my guard position, but I kind of played possum a bit, acting more hurt than I really was. I even moaned. I was hoping to lure him into attacking me on the mat. If he came down here, tried to get an arm bar or something, I could get hold of him. And once I had a good grip, even in the dark, I had no intention of letting go.

  But Santana didn’t press his advantage. Instead of grappling on the ground, he circled me, swinging a foot into my arm, my thigh. All I felt were the impacts, and I just did my best to protect my head. This whole time, my vision didn’t clear at all, and I wondered what the hell he spit at me — lemon juice? Whatever it was, my world was nothing but darkness. In that blackness, I could sense the fear taking shape. It was right on the edge of the dark, eager to swarm in, consume me as it had my boyhood self. Knowing it was all in my head didn’t make it easier to keep it at bay.

  Another blow to my head brought me back to reality. Somehow, maybe because I wasn’t tracking Santana’s movements as he took his cheap shots, the fans caught on to my predicament. Somebody yelled, “Hey! Wild Child can’t see!”

  This brought a mixed reaction from the audience. There was scattered applause and a few whoops, I guess of excitement, but there were more than a handful of serious boos. Santana was losing the crowd. He stopped kicking at me, and I thought maybe there’d be an official break in the action. But then I remembered what Khajee had told me. Once a brawl began, it only stopped when one fighter submitted or was unable to continue. It occurred to me that in my state I might be disqualified, so I rolled my arms toward my chest and yelled, “Come on! Come get some!” just to let them know I still had fight in me. The crowd responded with a surge of clapping, and somebody called out, “Saint sucks! Can’t finish off a blind man?”

  “Keeya!!!” cut through the crowd’s banter, and things got quiet. I realized that, angered by the crowd, Santana had decided to go for a kill stroke. He was going to focus his chi by executing his kata and finish me off. I was in the dark, helpless, and sure that childish dread wanted to flood my world with terror. My heartbeat sharpened. But also, on the fringe of that abyss, I thought of something Than told me — that sometimes you see things better i
n the dark. With this thought, I relaxed, focused, and a new future took shape.

  I could hear Santana’s feet stomping the mat, then his screams of “Hu! Hu! Hu!” In my mind’s eye, I pictured him doing his kata, now retreating after the front kick and elbow blows. Moments later, I heard the silence that meant the foot sweep, and sure enough something cracked into my head, a worthwhile substitute I guess. Dazed and groggy, I managed to get to all fours, and I knew the finale that was coming — that front flip into a downward stomping kick. And I tried to gather myself, thinking if I timed it right I might explode upward, arms extended, and catch him in midair. But in that split second, the darkness surged, and doubt dragged me down, dragged me back — into the mothball closet, huddled in the corner listening to my mom cry out for help while I did nothing. While I did nothing.

  Santana’s blow landed like the judgment of a just and angry God, and my head nearly came off. I collapsed, curled up on my knees with my forehead on the mat, and he began pounding my back and ribs — with elbows or knees I couldn’t tell, but it felt like my organs were being grinded. Somehow these blows mirrored the beating I imagined my mom took while I hid in safety.

  I tried to calm myself and clear my mind, tried to think of Than and just breathe, but I couldn’t stop the images, couldn’t help but hear her wailing, and the pain of this was more than I could bear, worse by far than any beating. Right there on the mat, I began to weep, and I covered my face to hide that shame.

  Maybe I thought about giving up, it’s true. Maybe I deserved to be hurt, and this punishment was my penance. But something else happened because of those tears. My vision came back to me. It was blurry, sure, but as I blinked I realized I was looking at a fuzzy Khajee, just off stage kneeling down, yelling, “Mac! You’ve got to get up! Get up!” Yet with the darkness dispelled, I was back in control and my mind had cleared, so I knew her advice was wrong.

  Instead, I slumped down, flattened out, and even extended my right arm as bait. Santana saw his chance and halted his assault. Faced with a defeated opponent, I knew he’d gloat, and sure enough he stood over me, considering his next move, which I’d already planned for him. He couldn’t resist the arm bar, and when he leaned down and reached in, I was ready. I sprang to life and spun, snatching his hand and yanking him down. As he fell, I drove an elbow up to meet him, and it caught his jaw flush. It didn’t suck to hear that popping sound.