“Woah, woah, time! Lucas what the hell are you doing?”
“Hitting him, coach. It’s what we train to do, isn’t it?”
Once I get my wits back, I look up. Matt’s in the ring and in Lucas’s face. “Don’t get smart with me, asshole. We don’t train like that here—it’s not the dark ages.”
Lucas lowers his head like a kid in trouble. “Sorry, coach.”
“Not to me.”
That’s when Lucas looks down at me. “Sorry, man. I got carried away.’
“It’s all good,” I tell him. He reaches down and pulls me up. “But I owe you one.”
“No,” Matt says. “You don’t. This is not that kind of gym. And, if you want to train like that, you either need a ticket out of town or a time machine, because no one trains like that anymore.”
He’s pissed. Really pissed. Matt’s a pretty level-headed guy, but there are few things that’ll set him off. Gym etiquette and culture is one of those things. He takes that very, very seriously, and prides himself on a culture of camaraderie and brotherhood rather than competition and trying to get better by hurting one of the other guys. He won’t tolerate that at all. Lucas is getting a harsh reminder of that.
“Session’s over!” Matt yells.
“Coach, I’m okay.”
“I didn’t ask you, Damien. And you don’t know if you’re okay, you just got dropped and dazed in what was supposed to be a light sparring session. We’re done. You want to keep punching each other in the face? Take it outside and box the shit out of each other in the parking lot—but you’re not taking any more shots under my watch.”
Matt storms out of the room. Lucas and I stand there like two brothers whose Dad got sick and tired of his boys fighting. Lucas pulls out his mouthpiece, “Well I guess I fucked that right up, huh?”
Lucas is a good guy, I know he didn’t mean anything by that shot. “It’s all good, man. We’re competitive. We tag each other now and then, but we can’t take it too far, Matt’s right. We could end up injuring one another and jeopardizing our careers. Especially for you—you can’t risk not being able to take a fight if it comes up.”
Lucas reaches his glove out. I tap it. “Yeah, you’re right, and I’m sorry. I let my ego get the better of me. Sorry for that shot. You alright?”
“I’m good. It’s not like I have a fight scheduled or anything, so I wouldn’t worry about dropping me.”
“That’s not totally true.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lucas pulls his head gear off. “I was in Master Splinter’s office talking about my contract with the UFC when he got a call. I guess he didn’t tell you yet.”
“Tell me what?”
“Not my place to say, man. I’d go talk to him.”
“Because he seems like he’s in a real friendly mood, right?”
Lucas smiles. “When is he ever? Go ahead, you’re the victim here. I’m the one who needs a waiting period.”
“Good point.”
I head out of the sparring ring and into Matt’s office. He still looks pissed. “Matt?”
“What is it?”
“Not that you need another reason to be pissed right now, but Lucas just mentioned that maybe I should talk to you about a fight you have for me?”
“Is that what he said?”
“Not exactly. He said you got a call about me. I just figured it was probably about a fight. If I’m wrong, I can. . .”
“You’re not wrong, kid. I was going to bring you in here after sparring, so I might as well tell you now.”
“Tell me what?” I ask.
“I spoke to a local promoter. Not my favorite human being in the world, but he’s a solid guy when it comes to booking. I told him you were looking to get back in there asap. Guess what he asked me?”
“If I could pass the medicals?”
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner.”
“You told him yes, right?”
“I did, yeah. Then he offered me two different fights. The first I passed on because I figured you wouldn’t be interested. I said yes to the second, pending your final okay. I have the contract if you’re interested.”
I get happy at the thought of getting back in the cage, but I’m curious who was up on the chopping block. “Who’s the guy you passed on?”
“A can.”
“Are you sure?”
Matt looks at me and rolls his eyes. “You gave very specific directions, right? Well, I followed them.”
“I appreciate it, but I’m just curious, who’s the guy?”
“Ben Graham,” he says. I can’t help but laugh.
“Graham? I’m sorry for even asking. How old is that dude now?”
“Too old. Not only that, he’s on a three-fight losing steak. One submission and two knockouts—all in the first round.”
“Jesus. Time to retire.”
“That was true about three years ago. Now you know why I passed. No cans, right?”
“No cans. Who’s the one you said yes to then?”
“Sometimes this is a game of extremes, you know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“The first offer was a guy three years past his prime who I could probably beat if you gave me about an hour to warm up.”
I laugh. Mostly because he’s telling the truth. “And the other?”
“Glover.”
I hear the name and my adrenaline gets going. Glover Elias is a former UFC fighter who got dropped from his contract after losing two fights in a row. Since then, he’s racked up five straight victories, all spectacular.
“Glover, huh?”
“Look, if you want an easier comeback fight, just say the word.”
I stand up and grin at Matt. He knows what that grin means. “Now that is a hell of a thing for you to say to me. Who the hell wants an easy fight? Get me the contract.” I start to walk out when Matt’s next words stop me in my tracks.
“There’s one last thing. A little bit of a catch.”
I turn around. “Of course there is. Tell me.”
“It’s a short notice fight. If you take it, it’s high risk. But, if you don’t, I’m not sure when another one is coming. What do you want to do?”
“How short is this short notice?”
“Two weeks.”
I don’t believe my ears. “Two fucking weeks!”
“I know. It’s no time. How’s your weight?”
“175.”
“So you only need to lose five pounds. That should come off from training camp alone.”
“I’d hardly call two weeks a training camp, but I know what you mean.”
“Look, if you don’t feel up to it, I can call back and. . .”
“No. I’ll sign the contract. I’ll collect another body, and I’ll be on my way up the ladder. That’s the way it’s going to go down.”
“Is that right?”
“Well, I left one part out.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to knock him the hell out and add it to my highlight reel.”
9
Harper
I feel like such a bitch for lying to Damien.
I know that I, basically, just met the guy, and I guess we all tend to tell little white lies during the course of our day. . . shit, I’m rationalizing. I shouldn’t have lied. I’m not even sure why I did, other than I’m not ready to share family secrets with guys I just met.
What I told him is sort of true, I guess.
I am driving my brother somewhere, only it isn’t to a physical therapy office. Even though Damien makes fun of him, good old Roy helped heal my brother’s back. But it’s not his back that’s the issue anymore. It’s much worse than that.
I don’t know much about this place except that it has a good reputation. I did some research behind the scenes—ex fighters mostly. A few of their wives.
This is the kind of doctor no one wants the press to know that they’re seeing—the kind that fighters hide at
all costs. Because of the shame and the stigma involved, it was hard to find out good information about the doctors. I had to use all of my skills as a reporter to contact fighters and family members who were cool enough to speak to me, as long as I promised that it would be completely off the record.
It’s for my brother, I told them. It’s urgent.
That led me here, to Dr. Kirkpatrick. It took me a week to convince my brother to even let me bring him. Fighters are hard headed. They like to think that they’re invincible. It’s the ultimate double-edged sword. It’s what makes them great, but it’s also what leaves them in a state like my brother is in.
Like I said, fighters think they’re invincible.
But those of us who love them know better.
I hope this doctor can help us.
10
Damien
She shows up to lunch looking sexy as hell. She’s wearing a dress that fits her body in just the right way.
“This time I get to actually take you out to lunch. We’re making strides, you and me.”
“Anywhere you want to go that won’t make my nipples hard enough to cut glass is a step in the right direction. I legit thought I was going to die in there—naked and surrounded by weird nitrogen smoke.” All of the words she just said vanish except ‘nipple’ and ‘naked’, and, even though she keeps speaking, my entire mind is occupied by that thought.
“Don’t worry, you’re still alive, hard nipples or not. And tell me it didn’t feel amazing when you stepped out into the normal temperature of the room. It was a rush, right?”
“You’ve got me there. That part felt incredible. It’s the almost going into hypothermia part that I could live without. If they could find away to get that rush without pretending I live in the Siberian tundra, they’d have a golden egg on their hands.”
“They already have that—they’re called drugs. No freezing required. Euphoria. But I don’t recommend it.”
“My only drug is caffeine, so let’s get me some already so I can think of the best questions to ask you.”
“You mean better than ‘why do you fight’?” I can’t help but smile.
“Shut up. I was freezing at the time. I’m at a non-dying body temp now and I’ve had time to think, so we can build from the ‘why do you fight’ line.”
“Cool. I look forward to it. Let’s build.” The waitress comes over and we get two cups of coffee. I need some also, that was a hard training session. I’m still feeling a little dinged up from getting dropped the other day by Lucas. That kid can hit. Whoever his first opponent in the UFC is will be in for some real trouble. Speaking of fighting. . . “Oh, I meant to ask, how’s your brother’s back?”
She’s digging in her bag, looking for the pad and paper she has in her hand now. When I mention her brother, she stops what she’s doing and looks at me sharply, as though she wasn’t expecting the question.
“Better, thanks.”
“What’s his name, I forgot to ask.”
She hesitates again. I can’t tell if she doesn’t want to talk about him, or she’s just surprised that I’m asking at all. “Michael,” she says.
“Michael?” I ask. It just occurred to me that I might know who he is if he’s a local fighter. “What’s your last name again?”
“I’m not sure I ever told you. It’s Silva. We’re Brazilian.”
Silva. That surname is like the Brazilian version of “Smith”—there are countless fighters, some famous and some not very well known, with that last name. “No shit? Mike Silva’s your brother? I saw him fight five years ago. I didn’t know he was still in the game. But I’ve been away for. . .”
“He retired for a while,” she says abruptly. “A few years, actually. He took a comeback fight not long ago. You might have been away at the time.”
Mike Silva was a hell of a fighter. I say ‘was’ because I really didn’t have a clue that he was still fighting. We were in the same weight class, but he was an established guy when I was still up and coming, which is a nice way of saying that he was already at the tail end of his career when I was young in the sport. I wonder why he came back. The last time I saw him fight he got brutally KO’d.
“Yeah, I probably was. I’m glad his back is feeling better. Those injuries are no joke.”
She’s being super weird about her brother. Her whole facial expression changes as I’m talking about him. “Thanks. He’s doing a lot better. Sorry I couldn’t make your first proposal for lunch.”
“I understand. We’re here now, right? Don’t worry about it. Ready to probe my deepest inner thoughts?”
“I’m a good prober.”
I’m sure you are, Harper. I’m sure you are.
“Cool.” I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes like the answer to life, and I feel my energy start to build, not just from the black gold working its way through my system, but from sitting across from this beautiful girl, ready to talk all things fighting.
“I wanted to start with your background. Your origin story.”
“Origin story,” I laugh. “That makes me sound like I’m Iron Man or something.” I laugh again. “How far back are we talking here?”
“As far back as you’re comfortable talking about,” she offers.
“I’m an open book. There’s nothing you can’t ask me about that I won’t tell you, so you’re going to have to decide what origin story means. Are we talking childhood? My first fight? Give me some criteria and I’ll give you the story.”
She leans her back against the booth and thinks about my question. “I guess as far back as it takes to talk about where your love of fighting comes from.”
“Love? Let me stop you right there, Harper. Love’s got nothing to do with it.”
“You don’t love to fight?”
“Absolutely not. Not even a little bit.”
She looks at me, puzzled. “I’m confused. Mike always talked to me about how much he loved the game. All the fighters I see interviewed talk about their love of fighting. How can you do something so dangerous if you don’t love it?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I tell her honestly. “But I know that ‘love’ is the wrong word for how I feel about what I do.”
“Can you explain how you do feel?”
“I can try,” I say. I stop to think for a minute. “Don’t get me wrong, there are definitely aspects of being a fighter that I do love—the training, the camaraderie between the guys in the gym, the excitement of going to battle, but I don’t love the actual act of fighting. It’s more like something that I need to do.”
“Need to do?” she asks.
“Is that you probing?”
“Think it might be. Answer the question.”
“Yes, ma’am. I guess I mean what I mean. I need to fight. It’s not something that I want to do.”
“You keep saying that, but why do you need to fight? No one needs to fight, do they?”
“I do,” I tell her. “I’m not sure it’s something I can explain. Can I ask you a question first?”
“Sure. Ask away.”
“Was your brother an athlete?”
“Yeah,” she tells me. “Collegiate wrestler. D2 school.”
“See, that’s the difference between me and a lot of guys. I know gyms worth of fighters who were just like Mike—they were either college wrestlers, or boxers, or did competitive Karate or Tae Kwon Do. Those guys love to fight.”
“I don’t get it,” she says. “What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that I didn’t choose to fight when I was a kid. Fighting found me. I just adjusted so that I could survive. It wasn’t about being an All-American, or winning some tournament, or going to the Olympics one day. If I hadn’t learned how to defend myself, I wouldn’t be here talking to you.”
“Where would you be?”
“Jail, most likely. Maybe worse.”
She takes a sip of her coffee and raises an eyebrow like she’s really interested in what I’m saying. �
�This is great stuff.”
I smile and laugh. “My fighting to survive a terrible childhood is great stuff?”
“Well no. The fact that that happened is awful, but from a storytelling standpoint it’s gold. Plus, you seem to be a normal, functioning adult who’s not dead and not in jail, so it worked out in the end, right? Can’t hurt to talk about it.”
“Fair enough,” I tell her. “I’m definitely functioning. Normal, though? I’m not so sure about that one.”
“What’s normal, anyhow?”
“Not some tattooed savage who fights other men in a cage. I know that’s not normal, but, like you said, it makes a good story. I have no problem telling you about it. Where do you want me to start?”
“That question again, huh?”
“It’s your story,” I remind her. “I just need your guidance as to how you want to write it, so guide me.”
“Okay,” she says. “Tell me about the first fight you were ever in.”
“Oh, that’s an easy one. Sixth grade. Tommy McDermitt.”
“You remember the kid’s name?”
“You ever been in a fight, Harper?”
She smiles. “Like a fight-fight? A fist fight?”
I nod. “Yeah. A fight-fight.”
“Never.”
“Figured. If you had—especially if the fight in question was less of a fight and more of a good old-fashioned ass whooping, you’d remember the kid’s name also. Good old Tommy.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine,” she says.
“What?”
“You getting your ass kicked. Damien “The Sinner” Reyes doesn’t seem like the type.”
“Twelve-year-old me wasn’t “The Sinner”, trust me. Twelve-year-old me was a scared shitless, bullied kid. I was prey before I was a predator. But that’s what got me to my first martial arts class. That, and my father.”
“Oh, your dad was a fighter also?”
I almost spit my coffee out. “If by ‘fighter’ you mean abusive drunk with a mean right hook, then yeah, in that case, a lot of the men in my family were fighters.”
The Savage Sinner Page 6
