Next World Series (Vol. 3): Families First [Second Wind]

by Ewing, Lance K.

  I wanted to be very careful about what came out of my mouth next. My mind was racing with the apparent hiring of two civilians by the Colonel a whole two weeks before the EMP attack.

  I opted to skip the next series of questions I was wanting to ask, and instead went another route.

  “That sounds interesting,” I replied. “So, you guys bounce around the country and set up rings in each FEMA camp?”

  “That’s it,” he replied, “and a year from now we get our final payment and a boat ride to any world destination we choose, to retire in style.”

  I was surprised he hadn’t been briefed on the likely confidential nature of his story. I wondered if their final boat ride would just be straight out to sea, where secrets stay forever.

  I wanted to tell Mike about this new information but decided against it, not wanting to take his attention off his fight.

  My watch read 4:40 p.m., and I was even more concerned about getting home today.

  It hit me right then that if Mike lost, I would be driving myself home, bad leg and all. One blowout or engine issue could prove disastrous for me outside of these protected camp walls.

  “That’s it,” I said aloud, getting a few looks from the other men around. All at once, I realized why the camps were so full. It wasn’t the showers or electricity, or even free food. They were scared out on their own and quickly became institutionalized.

  I had first heard of that watching actor Morgan Freeman talk about it in the 1982 Stephen King novella adapted into the movie The Shawshank Redemption. He was talking to his fellow prison inmates, saying, “These walls are funny. First, you hate ’em; then you get used to ’em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That’s institutionalized.”

  Most of the pre-fights reminded me of the tough-guy matches I had seen on television over the years, where both men would swing wildly until one was either knocked out or both so tired they couldn’t lift their arms anymore.

  Pauly had informed us that Mike’s fight would be the only championship fight happening today, and something told me it would be cleaner, more technical, and harder to win.

  “Do you remember what I always said about your fights, Mike?” asked Joey.

  “Yes, I still do. You told me not to leave the results in anyone else’s hands.”

  “That’s correct, and especially here. You’re the new guy fighting our light heavyweight champion. You can’t just win; you have to beat him. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir, Joey, and thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For taking the time to teach me how to protect Arthur. The last day he was ever bullied was right before you started training me.”

  “What happened to him, Mike?”

  “Pneumonia was the official cause, according to the doctor,” replied Mike.

  “Again, I’m so sorry; he was a great kid,” said Joey. “Let’s get you warmed up. This is the last fight now before yours, and both of these guys are hotheads, so it should be quick, one way or the other.”

  Mike could hear the men being announced over the loudspeaker.

  * * * * * * *

  Chapter Sixteen ~ FEMA Camp

  Trinidad, Colorado

  The wind blew the tent, and the lights inside flickered. Rain out of nowhere pelted the roof of the tent, getting louder by the second.

  “Whoooo Whoooo” came the familiar sound. I had heard it dozens of times before, living in North Texas.

  “Is that what I think it is?” asked Mike, coming around to help me stand with my bad leg.

  “Yep,” I replied. “It sounds just like the tornado sirens in Texas. I guess that sound is universal.”

  It was clear that about half of the men inside understood what was happening, either lying on the ground or running outside the tent. The others just looked around, not having a clue.

  We both got down on the floor, under a solid wooden table large enough to shield nearly ten people. It was killing me not to run outside and see what was coming.

  * * * *

  Before we had the kids, Joy and I had a tornado hit our Plano, Texas, house at 4 a.m. in the morning. We lived on a greenbelt, with large powerlines running straight down it, and were used to strong winds on occasion.

  This night we were awakened by a sound like a freight train running through our single-story home. I remember turning on the television to see a map of my area with bright red warning signs flashing TORNADO. The noise was deafening, with cracking, creaking, and crunching sounds coming from the front living room. We got into the bedroom closet, just as it passed over.

  There was a pause of absolute silence and then the sound of pouring water coming from the three-foot by two-foot hole in the roof, sending water straight into the living room onto the hardwood floors. Surveying the damage, I found two of our 50-foot trees twisted apart and thrown on top of our roof.

  From that day on, I was always the crazy guy out looking around the outside of the house whenever I heard tornado sirens. When asked why I would do something so dumb, I could only respond, “I need to see what’s coming.”

  * * * *

  With the three judges, the referee, Pauly and Joey, we were able to squeeze under the table as the roof of the tent was violently torn off.

  Sounding like a freight train was crashing through the camp, with the high-pitched sound of sirens wailing and men screaming, it was enough for me to close my eyes in prayer and think of Joy and our boys.

  The chaos lasted no more than 30 seconds and stopped just as quick as it had begun, although the sirens ran for another minute or two.

  Looking out from underneath the table, the inside of the tent looked like a warzone. The ring was remarkably unscathed, I noticed, with the exception of one of the top ropes on the east side, dangling over the edge of the platform.

  Minutes later, the Colonel walked back inside the now-roofless tent. “Well, boys, that was fun,” he said, looking up at a nearby clear blue sky.

  Pauly was already up and inspecting his ring.

  “Is she OK?” asked the Colonel, hollering up at him.

  Pauly continued stomping around the platform, replying, “Yes, sir. I think she will be just fine once I get a new rope on.”

  “All right. I’ll be back in about 30. Let’s get Mike and Garcia ready to fight, and move the rest to tomorrow. Don’t start without me, though!”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel,” replied Pauly, who was getting to work on the new rope.

  * * * *

  The Colonel returned in a half hour, sitting down next to me.

  “Is everything OK? The camp, I mean?” I asked.

  “All is good,” he replied. “The mess hall got hit good, but the kitchen and food were spared. The men will have to eat outside for a few days, but everything else looks fine. I could hear Vlad swearing while I was still a good twenty yards from the medical tents,” he added, laughing. “I’m going to miss that guy’s humor—unless, of course, your guy loses.”

  “Just a few more minutes, sir,” called Pauly. “I’ve just about got this rope fixed now.”

  “Take your time,” replied the Colonel. “Just make sure it’s stable. We don’t need anyone getting hurt today.”

  That sounded funny to me, as Mike was literally about to fight for his freedom.

  “We don’t need them twisting an ankle falling over a bad rope,” I almost said, quickly realizing it might not be so funny to the Colonel.

  “I take safety in my camps seriously,” the Colonel said, almost as if he heard my thoughts just seconds before. “How’s your leg?” he asked, looking at my crutches.

  “OK, sir. Your medics got me fixed up pretty good.”

  “How are you going to drive home?” he asked, “if Mike loses the fight.”

  “I don’t really know, sir. I was thinking about that earlier,” I replied.

  “Well, let’s see what happens, and we’ll figure something out,” he continued.

  “Your guy Mike, he’s good,”
said the Colonel. “I’ve sparred a lot over the years, and I can tell he’s going to be a handful for Garcia. He’s a Southpaw—Garcia, that is,” he added in a near whisper.

  “Interesting,” is all I could think to say.

  Pauly did the introductions of the fighters, and Mike’s borrowed shorts said “Great Bambino” on the waistband.

  Mike looked warmed up and ready to fight. He whipped his head side to side, cracking it loudly. Exactly what I used to tell my Chiropractic patients not to do.

  Garcia was no slouch and looked to be in good shape. I knew he was the champion, but not how many fights he had won in the short amount of time the camp had been open.

  Touching gloves, round one started slowly, with each fighter sizing up the other and determining their reach.

  The crowd’s boos started only one minute into the round.

  “These guys booing,” said the Colonel, “don’t understand the finesse of boxing. The first round is so you can flow with your opponent and understand how they move. It’s like dancing with a new girl at a club. You have to follow her moves and slowly introduce your own over a minute, or sometimes more. The more you flow with a guy you’ve never fought before, the better chance you have of getting them to fight your way.

  “These booers here,” he said, waving one arm around the crowd “would rather see an all-out bare-knuckle brawl, where someone gets their teeth knocked out.”

  “I understand,” I replied. “Most of the fights before this could fit that category.”

  “That’s why we have strict rules, including weight classes, 8-ounce gloves for everyone, judges, and a referee. We can’t tell them how to fight, but Joey is teaching classes for the few who want to learn.”

  Round one ended with a few light punches connecting for each man.

  Round two picked up speed, with Mike getting his rhythm down. Landing a clean right hook to Garcia’s nose, he got a smile in return, as blood trickled out of his left nostril.

  Garcia returned punches, with one landing squarely on Mike’s chin, knocking him back a step.

  I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t get knocked out.

  Garcia’s cornerman yelled for him to finish the fight.

  Joey called out to Mike. “We’re OK,” he said. “Jab and move, jab and move.”

  The bell rang, with both men red in the face.

  Joey, putting down the stool for Mike, gave him clear instructions.

  “Garcia is a good fighter, but his cornerman is an idiot. I’ve seen it in his last two fights, where somewhere in round three or four he gets tired of being yelled at by his corner guy and comes out blazing, with his chin out and wild punches. His opponents couldn’t handle the pressure and failed to capitalize on the emotion of Garcia. I think this will happen again very soon and you need to be ready. Pick your shots and you can put him down.

  “Is it enough to win the fight, Mike?” yelled Joey, shaking him.

  “No, sir!” Mike shouted back.

  “What do you have to do?”

  “Beat him!” Mike replied, standing for the bell of round three.

  Halfway through round three, Garcia’s corner guy was screaming at him to finish the fight.

  Garcia’s shots were wider, heavier, and out of sync. Every 30 seconds, he was yelling back at his corner guy, and Mike could feel Garcia was close to snapping.

  “Watch the shots!” called out Joey.

  Round three came to a close, with Garcia and his guy arguing in their corner.

  Mike watched the commotion for a few seconds.

  “Mike, have a seat,” said Joey, pushing him down on to his stool.

  “This is it round four. He’s throwing haymakers, and I’ve seen him knock out more than one guy with just one punch. He’s agitated,” he continued, looking over at the man still arguing with Garcia, never sitting on the stool.

  “Your opponent is 80% on his way to losing his composure,” Joey continued. “You have to get him through the last 20%. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, but how?” asked Mike.

  “Jab, jab, jab. You dance around that ring and just keep jabbing until he snaps. His corner guy will help him along, for sure. When he does, you take your shots, or cover if you have to until there is an opening. This isn’t live TV boxing of the old days. I can assure you this referee will not stop the fight until one of you is down and can’t get back up.”

  “OK, I can do that,” said Mike.

  They came out for round four, with Garcia not touching Mike’s extended glove. Jab, thought Mike. Just jab.

  In any other fight, Mike wouldn’t have worried about his performance, or even getting knocked out, although he never had. This fight was different, with a lot at stake, and he followed his old trainer’s instructions completely.

  “Nice and easy,” Joey called out, as Mike began to jab. Garcia was getting annoyed at the quick pop shots peppering his swelling face. Every few jabs he would throw a wild roundhouse punch.

  Mike resisted the urge to try and end it with one blow.

  With Garcia frequently looking to his corner and still trading remarks, Mike held back several opportunities to catch him off-guard and distracted.

  “This is a good fight,” said the Colonel, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  Being ringside and near Mike’s corner, I heard most of Joey’s instructions and agreed with his strategy.

  Jab, jab, jab continued Mike, and Garcia lost it. Mike knew it was coming, as his opponent sprang towards him, arms swinging wildly with 1:29 seconds left in the round.

  Mike covered, as hard punches connected with his forearms, and occasionally the top of his head.

  He was against the ropes when the punch slipped through, catching him square on the chin for a second time. He felt dizzy and stumbled, looking over at the clock, reading 58 seconds.

  “Finish him! Finish him!” yelled Garcia’s cornerman frantically. Those in the crowd were now all on their feet, chanting the same.

  Joey was just behind Mike and speaking calmly. “This is it, Mike. He is coming in hard and fast. Pick your shots and put him down.”

  Garcia let it all go, swinging wide heavy blows as Mike ducked and weaved.

  His head was clearing now, and he got a quick glimpse at the clock—22 seconds—when he saw his opening. A right-hand uppercut knocked Garcia back three steps, followed by a left jab and a right hook, knocking his mouthpiece across the ring.

  His opponent stumbled backward, as a drunk man might, running faster to catch his balance. Falling into the ropes, the new one held. Ten seconds was called out as Mike landed the final combination, dropping the champion face-first to the canvas.

  The bell rang, with the referee and doctor determining that Garcia could not continue.

  “This fight has come to a close at 3 minutes of the fourth round, by way of knockout by our winner and new light heavyweight champion, Mike,” said the referee, raising his hand.

  Most cheered “Great fight!” with a few boos mixed in.

  “Well, we had better tell Vlad the news,” said the Colonel.

  I agreed, thinking he already knew.

  Mike thanked Joey for the coaching today, and we all headed to the medical tent.

  “You’re going to miss me, Colonel, I know this,” said Vlad, pouring on the accent.

  “I guess I will,” the Colonel replied, shaking his hand.

  The medical staff was sad to see him leave, as he kept the typically solemn hospital lively and almost fun.

  “I’m already packed, since I knew you would win me back, Mike. Thank you. Was it even close?” he asked, though he already knew the details of every round.

  “He’s good, the Garcia guy,” replied Mike.

  “My men have packed some food for you guys to take back to your camp. Let me show you, gentleman, one more thing before you go,” said the Colonel, returning to the room. “Good fight, Mike, by the way. You’re welcome to stay and defend your title.” Mike only smiled, with no respo
nse.

  Spreading a large map on the table, encompassing both northern New Mexico and southern Colorado, the Colonel circled the cities of Raton and Trinidad.

  “Here we are now,” he said, writing the words “FEMA Camp,” and circling it. “And here is your group,” he added, writing out the words “Your Group.”