by Jack Tunney
“And people drink this, why?” Nick asked with a shrug.
“Well, they say it provides a feeling of euphoria, sedation and altered levels of consciousness,” Miles replied. “And that might be true, but it also causes seizures and fatal respiratory depression. Only a fool would drink it.”
“You’re smarter than you look,” Nick said.
“Umm…thanks?” Miles said, with a shrug.
“The towels and plastic wrap are right there,” Nick said, nodding toward the granite island in the center of the capacious kitchen.
Miles grabbed the items and the two men headed back to the living room. Baba Yemi pointed toward the coffee table. Nick and Miles placed the items on the table within Baba Yemi’s reach.
Baba Yemi reached into the pot and pulled out a handful of paste.
“Man, that smells like lean,” Hector chuckled.
“Lean?” Baba Yemi asked.
“I’ll explain later, grandfather,” Nick said.
“Okay,” Baba Yemi replied with a shrug. “Actually, this is a poultice of herbs and honey wine my father showed me and his father showed him. This paste will heal any injury – fracture, dislocation, bruise or abrasion in a tenth of the time western medicine will.”
Hector’s jaw fell slack. “The doctor said my knee would take about twelve weeks to heal, so…”
Baba Yemi snorted. “We can heal it in ten days.”
“I’m ready, then,” Hector said.
Baba Yemi rubbed the warm poultice onto Hector’s knee, massaging the thick paste into the joint.
“I don’t feel any pain anymore,” Hector gasped. “None at all!”
“After I apply the plastic wrap, rest here for a few minutes and then you can go. You won’t need the cast, or those crutches, anymore.
“How can we repay you?” Miles asked.
“I think Nicholas has an idea how,” Baba Yemi said. “Isn’t that right, Nicholas?”
“I guess so, grandfather,” Nick murmured.
Baba Yemi shot a stern glance at Nick. “Nicholas!”
“Okay,” Nick said, rolling his eyes. “I am going to open a school. I’m going to teach African martial arts there. I think it will give the youth in this city much needed self-discipline and strength of character. I want you two to help me get the school together and to train.”
“I’m in!” Hector said.
“Will we learn to fight like him?” Miles said, nodding toward Baba Yemi.
“You will learn to fight like you,” Nick said. “In the African martial arts, you discover your way, not mine.”
“Sounds straight. I’m in, too!” Miles said.
“Good,” Nick said. “I’m going to start hunting down a building and we’ll get started ASAP.”
“Will you be teaching there, too, sir?” Hector asked Baba Yemi.
Baba Yemi continued to wrap clear plastic around Hector’s paste-coated knee. “No. I have to return to Nigeria in a few days. I have many young fighters, not unlike yourselves, who need me there.” Baba Yemi nodded toward Nick. “You are in good hands with Nicholas.”
“And what about your friend?” Nick asked. “The big guy who ran away?”
“That’s Jalil,” Miles said. “His mama won’t let him out on weekdays, except to run errands.”
“His mama?” Nick bellowed. “Won’t let him out? How old is Jalil?”
“He’s nineteen,” Miles said. “The same age as me and Hector.”
“Nineteen? And he must still get permission from his mother to go outside?” Baba Yemi gasp.
“Ms. Crawford don’t play, sir!” Miles replied.
“Anyway, I’ve got some planning to do, brothers,” Nick said. “So, I’ll be upstairs in my room. When you leave, go home, stay out of trouble and get plenty rest. In a few days, you will discover your warrior within.”
Nick turned away from the young men and his grandfather and bounded up the stairs. He stopped at his bedroom door. His lips curled up into a smile.
The Warrior Within Wrestling Academy, Nick mused. Has a nice ring to it!
ROUND EIGHT
“Four months and not one new student,” Nick sighed, taking a seat beside Hector and Miles on the school’s crimson wrestling mat.
“A lot of homeys seem to like the way the school looks and our demonstrations,” Hector said. “They’ll come, eventually.”
“Eventually don’t pay the utilities, homeboy,” Miles said. “We’d have this place packed if dudes weren’t so into MMA.”
“MMA?” Nick inquired.
“Nick, you really have to get out more, man,” Miles replied shaking his head. “MMA…Mixed Martial Arts. It’s like boxing, but with kicks, throws and ground-fighting.”
“Similar to what we do”, Hector said. “But with different rules, and MMA doesn’t really have a self-defense component either. It’s purely a sport.”
“Where can I see it?” Nick asked.
“On TV,” Hector answered. “But, if you want to see it live, there is this one joint…”
“Where?” Nick inquired.
“Over on the North Side. On LaSalle Street,” Miles replied. “St. Vincent’s Asylum. It used to be an orphanage, but now it’s some kind of halfway house. Kids who stay there are training to be boxers and MMA fighters.”
“We can skip today’s workout and go down there,” Hector said.
“Nice try,” Nick snickered. “Give me thirty minutes of ups – pull-ups, chin-ups, pushups, and sit-ups, and then we can go!”
Miles and Hector rose from the mat and approached the chin-up bar fastened to the top of the doorway to Nick’s office.
MMA, Nick thought. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.
***
The salty smell of sweat and a wave of heat slammed into Nick as he opened the door to St. Vincent’s Asylum. Nick had discovered the former boys’ orphanage had served Chicagoans in need since 1881 and, even though it was no longer an orphanage, it still served the city by taking troubled teens off the streets and giving them a purpose and the will to win. Many excellent professional boxers, MMA fighters, cutmen and even fight promoters.
“Man, this place is nice,” Hector said, his eyes flittering about the capacious room.
“Yeah, but it’s funkalicious in here,” Miles whispered, turning up his nose.
“Funkalicious?” Nick inquired.
Miles rolled his eyes. “It reeks in here, man! The levels of sodium, potassium, chromium and zinc are staggering.”
Nick and Hector exchanged quick glances. Hector shrugged.
“The chemical composition of sweat, y’all,” Miles whispered. “I’m trying to be discreet.”
“One minute, you’re quoting Neil Degrasse Tyson and sounding like a college professor, the next, you’re quoting Iceberg Slim and talking like a street thug,” Nick said. “What’s up with that, Einstein?”
“Gotta fit in, man,” Miles said. “Thugs get girls, astrophysicists get pocket protectors. Give me street cred’ over geek cred’ any day!”
Miles and Hector exchanged high-fives. Nick shook his head.
Nick studied the training hall. To his left, a forest of dingy canvas heavy bags hanging from the ceiling. To his right, a padded floor where two young men worked ground techniques, each seeking a dominant position over the other. In the center, high above everyone else, two young women, with thick foam padding on their chests and heads, sparred in the regulation boxing ring under the watchful eye of a middle-aged man with a rugged, but handsome face and a neatly trimmed buzz-cut.
The man in the ring turned toward Nick and smiled. He climbed down from the ring and approached Nick with his hand extended. “Nick Steed, right?”
“That’s right,” Nick said, shaking the man’s hand. His grip was firm.
“I’m Tim Brophy,” the man said. “Hector spoke highly of you when he called. He says you’re quite the fighter and a great coach.”
“I do what I can,” Nick said. “This is a great place y
ou have here, Mr. Brophy.”
“Thanks,” Tim replied. “But, please, call me Tim. Mr. Brophy is my father and my uncle, Father Tim Brophy – my namesake – who actually started a boxing program here back in the fifties.”
“And you’re carrying on his legacy,” Nick said.
“I do what I can,” Tim said.
“This place looks like it has a lot of history,” Nick said, pointing at the yellowing photos of boxers lining the walls.
“Smells like it, too,” Miles whispered.
Nick nudged Miles in the side with his elbow.
“It does,” Tim replied. “Let me give you the official rundown. In nineteen-fifteen, members of the order of the Daughters of Charity opened the DePaul Day Nursery and Settlement House. They cared for the children of neighborhood women who were forced to work while their husbands served in World War I. By nineteen-twenty-four, that nursery had developed into St. Vincent’s Hospital and Infant Asylum, and by nineteen-thirty-eight, the two buildings that make up this center were erected.
It was then that a young brother of the Catholic church, Tim Brophy, came to serve at St. Vincent’s. Since boxing had kept him out of trouble as a youth, he knew it would do the same for the boys under his charge, so he immediately started teaching the boys at St. Vincent’s to box. Uncle Tim’s boxing program was so successful, it was duplicated at orphanages around the country and continues to this day.” Tim grinned. Thus ends the memorized portion of our program.”
“Fascinating,” Nick said, then chuckled. “Thanks, for the history lesson.”
“You’re welcome,” Tim said. “You’re also welcome to look around, even hit the bags a bit if you’d like. I have to get back to Karen and Janine before they kill each other up in the ring. Thanks, for stopping by, gentlemen.”
“Thanks, for having us,” Nick said.
Tim turned away from Nick and trotted back toward the ring. He hopped back in and resumed coaching the young women.
“Let’s check out the rest of the center,” Nick said.
Hector and Miles followed Nick around St. Vincent’s as he studied the fighters, the coaches, and the way the training center was set up.
A poster on the wall caught Nick’s eye. It featured a muscular Black man locked in a tight clinch with a well-toned Asian man. The poster read: Boxer Rebellion – September 4, 2013 – The ultimate MMA tournament – World renowned coaches and promoters will be present – Sponsored by St. Vincent’s Asylum Boxing and MMA Center.
Nick’s mind raced. If I enter and win, I’ll bring recognition to the African martial arts and to the school. We won’t have to shut down.
Nick strode to the side of the ring. “Hey, Tim?”
Tim peered over the ropes down at Nick. “Do you need help with something?”
“I want to enter the tournament,” Nick said, pointing to the poster. “What do I need to do to get in?”
“I’m arranging the fights,” Tim said. “So, if you really want in, you’re in, but you only have three weeks to get ready.”
“More than enough time,” Nick said.
“You have to provide your own cutman and corner, too.”
“No problem,” Miles chimed in. “I’m his cutman, and me and Hector are his corners.”
Nick shot a glance at Miles. “Uh…yep, right.”
“Then, we’ll see you here in three weeks,” Tim said.
“See you then,” Nick replied.
The trio turned on their heels and headed toward the exit.
“My cutman and corners, huh?” Nick whispered.
“We’ve got you, Nick,” Miles replied.
“Yeah,” Hector said. “I’m gonna go home and Google it right now.”
Nick shook his head. “Just great.”
***
Nick hopped the length of the mat, bounding two yards with each leap and landing in a deep straddle stance between hops. The vest he wore, loaded with one hundred fifty pounds of metal rectangular prisms, provided resistance and a powerful burn in his thighs.
The bell on the door chimed softly as a short, lean, man walked into the school. The man was dressed in a cream-colored linen suit and matching linen slacks, brown, leather sandals and a straw Panama hat.
Nick recognized him – the reddish-brown skin and the broad, white, grin. Nick slipped the vest over his head and laid it on the mat. He then took a deep breath and approached the man.
“Nicky,” the man crooned, his smile growing even wider. He opened his arms wide.
“Rico,” Nick sighed.
Nick embraced Rico for a brief and uncomfortable moment and then released him.
“That’s uncle Rico, boy,” Rico said, still smiling. “Your father was like a brother to me.”
“What do you want, uncle Rico,” Nick said.
“Is that how you treat a man who has come to your rescue, Nicky-boy?” Nick said with a frown.
“I don’t need saving,” Nick said.
“I beg to differ,” Rico said. “I hear business is pretty slow.”
“It’ll pick up,” Nick replied.
“Since your old man died, my protection business hasn’t been the same,” Rico sighed. “Come work for me. Pick up where your father left off. A big boy like you can go far in this business.”
“I’m not interested in the gang life,” Nick said.
“Gang is such an ugly word,” Rico said. “We’re a family, Nick. The Stokes Family.”
“My father left your Family before he died,” Nick said. “He was changing for the better.”
“He was a fool, boy,” Rico spat. “And you see how he – and that pretty mother of yours – ended up.”
Nick stepped closer to Rico, every muscle in his body tensing. “Did you do something to my parents, Rico? To their boat?”
“Boy, you don’t want to do what you’re thinking of doing,” Rico said. “I walk out that door with even a scratch and you’ll be staring your daddy and mama in the face before nightfall.”
“Get out of here now,” Nick ordered. “Or we’ll both get to spend time with them, chump!”
Rico’s smile returned. He tipped his hat and bowed slightly at the waist. “Have a good day, Nicky-boy. We’ll chat again, soon.”
Rico turned and walked out the door.
Nick bit his lip and slammed his fist into his palm. He closed his eyes and slowed his erratic breathing. Once he was again calm, he slipped the weight vest back over his head and assumed a deep stance. Back to work.
ROUND 9
Nick stared out the window as Miles pulled into the packed parking lot behind St. Vincent’s Asylum. At his estimation, about two-hundred fans were lined up at the back door. Miles parked between a royal blue Rolls Royce Phantom and a taupe Ford Focus in a space reserved for fighters.
Miles popped the trunk. Nick hopped out of the car, followed by Hector. Miles followed, going to the open trunk and grabbing a duffle bag, which he handed to Hector. Hector slung the bag onto his shoulder. Miles pulled out a suitcase and then slammed the trunk.
“We’re ready,” he said.
The driver of the Rolls Royce exited his vehicle and walked to the rear driver-side door. He opened it and a tall, burly man with deep-set, dark eyes and a square jaw stepped out. He was dressed in a well-tailored, navy-blue wool suit.
“He’s dressed pretty dapper for a guy about to sweat like crazy in an MMA tournament,” Nick whispered.
“That’s not a fighter,” Hector gasped. “That’s Dan Wallace, CEO of World Extreme Ring Kombat! He’s the second most powerful fight promoter in the world!”
“And he’s not pretty dapper,” Miles said. “That suit is an Alexander Price original! It takes eighty hours to complete one and each contains over five-thousand individual stitches. The fabric is made out of a special wool from two animals – the vicugna and the quiviuk. We’re talking a hundred thousand dollars, at least!”
Nick shot a quick glance at Miles. “Okay, now you’re scaring me.”
“Me too, homey,” Hector said.
“What?” Hector said with a shrug. “I like suits!”
“Okay,” Nick sighed. “Let’s do this.”
Hector led Nick to a door on the side of St. Vincent’s, away from the crowd. They passed Dan Wallace, who was being interviewed by several members of the local press. At the door stood two Chicago police officers. Nick read their name tags: Arnus and Hearn.
“Fighters, corners, promoters and press only, fellas,” Arnus said, extending his hand, as if to stop traffic.
“This is Nick New Breed Steed,” Hector said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. “He’s fighting in the heavyweight division.”
Hearn perused the papers on the clipboard he cradled in his arm, his eyes flitting about until they found a name on page three. “Gotcha. And you guys are?”
“His corners,” Hector replied. “Hector Garcia and Miles Lang.”
“Miles Long?” Arnus snorted. Sounds like a porno star!”
The police officers laughed heartily.
“It’s Lang,” Miles sighed. “LANG!”
“And this, from a guy named Anus?” Nick said.
Hector, Miles and even Hearn burst into laughter.
Arnus rolled his eyes. “Oh, like I’ve never heard that one before.”
“Go on in, fellas,” Hearn said, pushing the steel door open. “We’ve got you.”
Arnus patted Miles on the shoulder as he passed. “Thanks, for the laugh, fellas.”
“You guys can really have some laughs if you come celebrate with us after Nick wins this tournament,” Miles said.
“Good luck, then,” Arnus said.
The door slammed shut behind them. The trio sauntered down the dimly lit hallway, passing rooms with several names, written in big bold letters on poster board, taped to their doors. They came to a room with Nick’s name on the door.
Hector read the names aloud: “Steed…Zablocki…Currin…Hobbs.”
“Recognize any of those other names?” Nick inquired.
