The Savage Sinner

by Harlan, Christopher

  “I almost did,” I tell him. “It was hard to keep cool—especially when he was yelling inside of the gym and disrespecting Matt. He’s lucky that he didn’t get his ass kicked.”

  “Fuck. That guy has always been a legendary asshole.”

  “Which is fine,” I say. “There are a lot of assholes in this game, you know that—and a bunch of them are worse than Johnny Altino.”

  “This is true. I met a few of them in Vegas—guys I always looked up to that turned out to be total douches.”

  “Right. It’s just part of the game. What got me bent out of shape is the fact that the girl I’m interested in actually had sex with that guy. I know that sounds shallow as fuck, but that’s been eating at me.”

  “This girl?” Lucas asks. “Are you two a thing?”

  “We went out once, and she kissed me at the end of it.”

  “Wait, she kissed you?” he asks. I nod. “Huh. And you’re going out again?”

  “We are.”

  “And how did she react when you told her all of this, then?”

  “She apologized for not telling me about Johnny. She explained that she didn’t want drama brought into my life, and she told me that if I wanted to end things there were no hard feelings.”

  “That’s a great girl right there. I assume you turned her offer down.”

  “I did. I’m not letting Johnny fucking Altino dictate my love life. No way. But it’s honestly a headache I don’t need.”

  “Hopefully that’s the end of it, then. She doesn’t know about our camps, does she?”

  “Nah,” I answer. “I didn’t want to get into all that.”

  What Lucas is talking about is the rivalry between our teams. New York Fight Club and Brooklyn Fight Academy have a history—their founder, Dan, and Matt used to be team mates and trained under Matt’s father at our gym, but Dan’s ambition got the better of him so he broke off and started his own place. That kind of thing happens all the time, the only difference is that when Dan started his own gym in Brooklyn, he took a bunch of the New York Fight Club fighters with him, which is considered totally unethical. A few of those guys went on to make a name for themselves. But Matt and Dan have hated each other since—and Dan just happens to be Johnny’s coach.

  “Probably better not to relive all of that drama. There’s time to get into that later.”

  “That’s about the last thing I feel like talking about with her. Anyhow, she doesn’t care about the fight world drama—she wants to write my story. She thinks people will find it interesting.”

  “Oh yeah, I meant to ask you about that. How’s it going? Is it like therapy? Asking about your fucked-up childhood and shit?”

  “It wasn’t that fucked up.” He looks at me like he should when I say something that stupid. “Alright, fine, it was fucked up, but you don’t have to say it out loud.”

  “Fine,” Lucas jokes. “How is it talking about your totally not-fucked-up childhood?”

  “You’re an asshole, first of all—let’s just get that out of the way right now.”

  “No arguments here.”

  “And no, it’s not like therapy—it’s cool, actually. I mean, granted, talking about my not-fucked-up childhood and teen years brings back some things I’d rather not think about, but she’s right—there’s more to this than just fighting. And, if I want to be a success, then I have to give people something to cheer for once I make it big.”

  “Well look at you,” Lucas says. It sounds very big brother-ish.

  “What?”

  “You sound like me. I like it. You’re finally learning something it took me a long time to realize.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask. “And what’s that?”

  “That you need to be ambitious in all ways, Damien. We all want to break the other guy’s face, but not enough guys think past that. Ambition, in all ways. You will be big, too. You’re the best of all of us.”

  “Stop it with that. I’m not the UFC fighter.”

  Lucas has been saying this forever—that I’m the most talented guy at the gym. That, if I trained seriously, I’d be the most accomplished of anyone, including him. Literally, since the first day we’ve trained together, he’s gone out of his way to let me know that I’ll be better than him one day. I can’t tell you what a rare thing it is to have a friend like that.

  “You will be. And not only that. You’ll be a champion one day. Trust me, I know these things.”

  “Oh yeah? I didn’t know you had a crystal ball.”

  “Don’t question these things young grasshopper—especially when my crystal ball tells me that you’re going to be rich and famous.”

  “I thought you said I was going to be a champion.”

  “You will. But after this girl—what’s her name again?”

  “Harper.”

  “Right. After Harper writes this piece on you, and you win a few fights, Conor McGregor will be jealous of your fame, trust me.”

  “I hope you’re right, man, I really do. I want more than I have. I want to be the best.”

  “Me too—let’s do it together.”

  We all need a friend like Lucas Esparza—he’s the man. “Sounds like a plan. Now all I have to do is win.”

  “Well how about we get off our asses and go practice then. Nothing crazy, just some light work to prepare.”

  “I hate last minute fights.”

  “Me, too. But that won’t stop you from fucking the dude up. Let’s get to the gym. Sound like a plan?”

  “After the coffee, of course.”

  “Oh, hell yeah. Always after the coffee.”

  19

  Saturday night

  Fight Night

  I wish everyone could feel what I’m feeling right now. The rush. The nerves. The energy. There’s nothing like fight night—nothing in this entire world.

  I’d never admit this out loud, but I’m a little more nervous than normal because of what a short fight camp this has been. The only good thing is that I didn’t have to cut weight—that’s the worst part of being a fighter, hands down. Luckily for me, I don’t balloon up like some guys in between fights—I always hover within ten pounds of my fighting weight of 170 lbs.

  But it’s not my weight I’m worried about—it’s facing a legit guy who’s an ex UFC fighter, with only two weeks of training.

  Even with my nerves, I’ve got my people with me—Lucas, Matt, and Harper is down by the cage reporting on the fights. I need to knock this fool out, if not for a potential title shot than at least so I can take Harper our for some dim sum in Queens. The shit you think about before a fight!

  I hear the roar of the crowd as the fight before mine comes to end. It must have been a submission or knockout because crowds don’t cheer like that for decisions, no matter how good the actual fight was. I look at Matt as the crowd goes nuts for so long that we can all hear it through the locker room walls.

  “You know what this means, right?”

  “Don’t even think about it,” Matt cautions me. He knows me too well.

  “Why not? You hear them, right?”

  “Of course I hear them. Everyone hears them, but tonight isn’t about some drunk fight fans yelling, it’s just about getting the win. That’s the only thing that gets us where we want to be, don’t get flashy out there, you hear me?”

  “Yes, Master Splinter. Nothing flashy.”

  Matt knows what I want to try, but he’s also the conservative old school one in a lot of ways. He just wants me to get the job done, especially against this guy.

  Glover is known as a fast starter. Some guys are. Others take a round or two to get warmed up and get their timing right. Not Glover. He has ten first round finishes because he blitzes guys and they can’t handle his pace, but I’m ready for that.

  Of all the thoughts running through my head, I keep thinking about the fact that Harper is going to see me. Now, I know she’s seen me fight before, and probably live in this same arena, but knowing where we are now, and that whateve
r happens tonight is going into the article she writes on me—all that adds a level of stress that I’m not used to.

  But then again, I’m a professional—and when it’s game time, it’s game time.

  “You ready my man?”

  I nod at Lucas. I don’t need any words. He knows its time to for Damien to go away for a while, and for “The Sinner” to introduce himself to Glover Elias.

  I start to make the walk as my music plays. It’s a walk most people will never get to experience. I remember watching a video once of Mike Tyson. It was one of those compilations on YouTube where they spliced video footage of him fighting with an old interview as a voiceover. Most people were terrified of Tyson when he was in his prime, including almost all of his opponents. He was an intimidating man and fighter, known for his ability to knock people out with a single blow, but, in this video, he spoke about how scared he was making that walk from the locker room—he’d imagine all of the ways that he was going to lose and how embarrassed he was going to be when his opponent defeated him in front of huge crowds.

  But then, he shifted his tone. He talked about how his confidence grew with every single step—how the imagery in his mind shifted from imagining how he’d lose to imagining how he was going to win. And by the time he made it to the ring, he felt unbeatable.

  I can relate, because, by the time I’m walking into the cage, I feel unstoppable. I don’t know what it is, but I just feel something I’ve never felt in my fight career before. It might sound arrogant, but something inside me just knows how the next few minutes are going to go. I have no business feeling like this—it’s been a while since I’ve fought, and even longer since I fought MMA in the States, so I’m not sure where all this is coming from, and frankly I don’t give a shit.

  I go to my corner and wait. Matt and Lucas wait on the outside of the cage, giving me words of encouragement and trying to pump me up. I appreciate it, but right now I’m pumped up enough as is. I’m just happy to be back in here again. This is my home. This is where I belong.

  Glover makes his way to the cage, his music blaring while the crowd erupts. He has a lot of fans from his UFC days, and he gets a huge pop as he emerges from the back. Two minutes later, we’re facing each other, waiting to be introduced. Our motivations are the same—we each want to win, but our purpose for being here is different.

  He’s trying to make a comeback—to wrack up enough wins that he gets called back to the UFC. I’m trying to get there in the first place. Sorry, Elias, you had your shot. This is my time.

  The baritone voice of the announcer rings out, signaling that it’ll only be a minute before we get to lay hands on one another.

  “Aaaand now, fighting out of the blue corner, a striker, fighting out of Queens, New York, Damien “The Sinner” Reyes!” I put my arms up and take a bow. Your turn, Elias. “Aaaand now, fighting out of the red corner, a former UFC contender. Fighting out of The Bronx, New York, Glover Elias.”

  We step back against the cage as the referee steps forward. “Are you ready?” he asks, turning to me. I nod. “Are you ready?” he repeats, turning to Elias. “Then fight!”

  He does exactly what I expect him to do—rush as me in a full blitz attack. Before I know it, he’s on me, literally running past the center of the cage to meet me, swinging with a wild right hand meant to knock me out. He must not respect my striking. Bad mistake. I instinctively duck underneath his right hand and grab a body lock around his waist, dragging him to the floor with a trip. I end up on top, but not for long. He scrambles back to his feet faster than I expect, and then we’re back to where we were, only he’s slowed down already.

  We dance around, feeling out each other for timing. I put my jab in his face a few times just to see how he reacts, and I land every time. I keep circling. He lands a few of his own jabs and dives on my leg for a takedown. I defend, stuffing his head down towards the floor with my hands as the momentum of his shot lands my back against the cage.

  He’s working really hard for a takedown, but I’m a hard guy to take down. I use all the right techniques, stuffing his head and spreading my legs far apart so that he’s in the wrong position. He’s using a lot of energy to try and force this, so I let him, land a short elbow here and there when there’s an opening. I crack him good on the side of the temple and he lets go of my legs, backing up and putting his hands up again. Something tells me he’s done with the takedown attempts for now.

  We keep feeling each other out—each of us landing shots on the other, but nothing so serious as to run away with the round or hurt one another. Eventually the bell sounds, and we go back to our corners.

  “Nice round.” Lucas is always super positive when he corners, but he’s honest enough to tell me the truth if I was doing something wrong. Ditto with Matt, who jumps in right after Lucas.

  “That shot isn’t there. He wants to take you down but can’t. I don’t think he’s going to try again. Too much energy.”

  “Agreed,” I say.

  “So I want you to outwork him this round—put your hands in his face and make this experience very uncomfortable for him. Give him a reason to get out of there.”

  “Yes, coach.”

  The sixty seconds passes, and I get off the stool and look over at Glover. He looks tired already, and that gives me the energy I need to do what I do best. We meet in the center and I start boxing him up right away. Two jabs in a row, followed by a right that stuns him. He staggers back, not expecting me to throw a power shot so early. I follow to the cage until his back is against it. I start throwing combinations faster than he can defend, and he starts to go into a defensive shell.

  And, once I see him cover up, I go for the kill—I start landing punches at will, landing jabs, crosses, elbows, and low calf kicks, all in unpredictable patters that are coming at him too fast for him to defend. I keep going, taking the risk that I might punch myself out of energy with the belief that he’ll fall first. After a barrage of blows, I slip an unexpected uppercut that lands flush. His head flies upwards and, for a second, I think that I’ve knocked him out.

  But Glover is a tough son-of-a-bitch, and he doesn’t go down—instead he does what we call in the business ‘desperation wrestling’—that’s when a guy who isn’t really a wrestler decides to dive and grab a leg because they’re so dazed that they don’t know what else to do. In most cases, it isn’t even a conscious thing, guys just go into survival mode when they’re rocked because it’s the only thing they can think to do. It never ends up well.

  I see the slow take down attempt coming because I know I’ve hurt him. He lazily reaches out as he falls to the ground to grab ahold of my leg, and I put all my weight on him, following him to the ground and landing a few short shots so that I end up on top of him in a dominant position.

  This is the beginning of the end.

  He’s hurt. He’s rocked, and now he’s got a fresh and motivated killer on top of him, ready to reign down hellfire. I start to strike as he covers up. As he covers his head with his arms, I slide into the full mount—one of the most dominant positions there is. Lucas used to call it the ‘big brother’ position. If you have an older brother you know why—basically I’m straddling his torso, my legs on either side of his rib cage. There’s not much he can do from this position, especially when he’s tired and hurt. He turns his back—huge mistake!

  Not that I’m not enjoying this little beating, but I want this to be over and collect my win. As soon as he gives his back, I wrap my right arm under his chin for a rear naked choke. I can feel that he’s done because he doesn’t do anything you’re supposed to do in this situation—he doesn’t try to break my grip, or separate my hands, or even buck out. He just kind of lays there, mercifully letting me get a squeeze on his neck. Before I can count to three, he’s tapping his hand on the mat, signaling his giving up the fight.

  The ref taps on my shoulder but I’ve already let go—nothing worse than a dirty fighter who holds onto a submission for too long. I separate
my hands and get to my feet. The crowd is roaring and I can see my team jumping up and down. I raise my hands and hoist myself up on the cage—arms in the air.

  I forgot what this all feels like—not just the rush of the fight, but the feeling of total victory—of knowing that all the hard work has paid off, and that I’m one step closer to my goals. Matt and Lucas come in the cage to help me celebrate. Lucas lifts me up by the waist and carries me around the cage for a victory lap as I keep my arms up and wave.

  When he puts me down, the referee calls us over the for the official decision. Our corner men take a step back. Glover and I stand on either side of the ref as he holds each one of our wrists down at his sides. The announcer steps in.

  “Ladies and gentleman, the winner of this bout, by submission due to a rear naked choke, Damien “The Sinner” Reyes.” The crowd starts to cheer as the ref raises my hand up high. After the ref drops my hand, I hug it with Glover in a show of respect.

  “Good fight, brother. It was an honor.”

  “You too, man. You’ll be champion one day.”

  After I talk to Glover, I shake all of his coaches’ hands and me and my team walk out of the cage. I take it all in as much as I can—the sounds, the smells, the sensations that are surrounding me and lighting my body on fire. The adrenaline is still pumping through me, and I feel ready to take on the world.

  Now that I’m out of the cage, there’s only one person that I want to see, and I see her now. Now that I’m on the floor, I see her on the other side of the cage, and as soon as we make eye contact I wave her over. She looks amazing, but she always looks amazing.

  I don’t even have time to react before she’s in my arms, squeezing me harder than any woman ever has. “Oh my God, congratulations, you were like a god out there.”

  A god. Wow. That’s high praise. “I don’t know about all that, but I felt great, and I’m happy to get the win.”