FIST OF AFRICA (FIGHT CARD MMA)

by Jack Tunney

“Nah,” Hector replied. “But those other guys are light, welter, and middle weights. They aren’t letting anyone from the same weight class in the same room.”

  Hector opened the door and the trio entered. The room was empty except for a few chairs and a plasma television mounted on the wall above two columns of small lockers. The floor was covered with blue puzzle mats, which provided a cushion for fighters as they stretched and warmed up.

  Miles unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out a pair of leather-covered foam striking pads. Miles slipped the pads, which ran the length of his forearm, over his hands. He stood at the center of the room with the bags extended before his torso. “Come on, Nick, three rounds.”

  Nick stood before the pads in a deep fighting position, with his right side – his dominant side – forward and his hands held at chin-level, in the traditional African wrestler’s stance.

  “One!” Miles shouted.

  Nick fired a fast and powerful four-strike combination at the pads: jab, cross, rear knee, rear elbow.

  Miles changed the position of the pads, pointing them toward the floor. “Two!”

  Nick launched a barrage of knees: front knee, rear knee, leaping front-to-rear knees.

  The thunderous sound of his strikes echoed throughout the room and beyond the door into the dim hallway.

  ROUND 10

  The Boxer Rebellion was a bloody and brutal affair, with the best amateur fighters from around the country battling for a belt, a year of bragging rights and a shot at the pros. To sweeten the deal, the World Extreme Ring Kombat Corporation – the major sponsor of the event – promised to award a five-thousand dollar check to the knockout of the night, the submission of the night, and to both fighters who put on the fight of the night.

  There were three levels of the tournament: the quarter-finals, the semi-finals, and the finals for each of the four weight classes. the quarter-finals were comprised of eight fighters. the winner of each of the four quarter-finals matches would move on to the semi-finals. The winner of both of those matches would meet in the finals and one champion would be crowned.

  The lightweight, welterweight and middleweight quarter – and semi – finals were done and the final two fighters in each weight class rested up for their championship battle. It was now time for the mighty heavyweight quarter-finals.

  Nick was picked to fight first. He stood in the ring across from his opponent, Guy Michaud, a Muay Thai fighter who had traveled all the way from Quebec to compete for the title.

  Michaud locked eyes on Nick. His expression, a mask of fury and menace. His hunched torso swayed from side to side. To Nick, Michaud looked like a rabid orangutan.

  Tim Brophy, who was performing the job of ring announcer in addition to promoting the tournament, pointed toward Nick. “Are you ready?”

  Nick gave Tim the thumbs up.

  “Are you ready?” Tim asked Michaud.

  The rabid orangutan nodded.

  “Then…fight!” Tim screamed into the cordless microphone in his fist.

  Nick darted forward to meet Michaud.

  Michaud charged toward Nick.

  Nick struck with a quick lead-hand hook toward Michaud’s jaw.

  Michaud blocked the strike with his forearm and then countered with a crushing diagonal elbow that caught Nick on the cheek.

  Nick staggered sideways, coughing as blood filled his mouth.

  Michaud leapt toward Nick, snapping his front knee upward toward Nick’s chin.

  Nick side-stepped, avoiding the knee strike and then darted behind Michaud, latching onto him with a powerful bear-hug. He then wrapped his leg around Michaud’s shin and leaned into him, driving him off-balance.

  Michaud grunted as his face slammed into the matted floor of the ring.

  Nick scurried up Michaud’s back and wrapped his right arm around Michaud’s neck. He then grabbed his left biceps with his right hand and thrust his left hand behind Michaud’s head, trapping him in a powerful rear-naked choke.

  Michaud clawed at Nick’s arms, struggling to break free.

  Nick squeezed harder, expanding his chest to further tighten the already vice-like choke.

  Michaud tapped the mat rapidly, signaling his submission.

  The referee, a stocky man by the name of Fujima, who Tim Brophy said was from Japan, but who possessed a deep tan and blond hair, pushed Nick off of Michaud’s back.

  Nick leapt to his feet and danced around the ring.

  The crowd went wild, clapping and chanting his nickname. “New Breed! New Breed! New Breed!”

  Miles and Hector ran into the ring. Hector hugged Nick, holding him still while Miles pressed a cold metal enswell to his swollen cheek to reduce the hematoma.

  “One down, two to go,” Hector whispered.

  Nick smiled and nodded. He then followed Hector out of the ring.

  As he headed back to the locker room, he heard Tim Brophy shout over the cheering crowd. “The winner…and moving on to the heavyweight semi-finals…Nick New Breed Steed!”

  ***

  For the second time that night, Nick entered the ring. This time, he decided to play to the crowd and, instead of ducking under the second rope and stepping in, he leapt onto the highest rope and then somersaulted into the ring, landing in a low crouch.

  The crowd roared in approval.

  His opponent, a mountain of muscle, whose pale skin was covered in tattoos from head to ankle, rolled his eyes.

  “Fighting out of the blue corner,” Tim Brophy began. “Hailing from Oshogbo, Oshun State, Nigeria, by way of Chicago, Illinois…standing six feet, two inches tall and weighing in at two-hundred and sixteen pounds…Nick New Breed Steed!”

  The crowd applauded and whistled.

  “And fighting out of the red corner,” Tim Brophy shouted. “He comes from the great state of Wisconsin, from the city of Waukesha…standing six feet even and weighing in at two-hundred and ninety six pounds...The Farm Boy, Trent Dillard!”

  The crowd cheered wildly.

  “Your referee is Stony Carver,” Tim said, handing the microphone to an athletically built, tall black man, whom Nick recognized from the vintage posters in the locker room as a former kickboxing champion.

  “Gentlemen, I want a good, clean fight,” Stony said. “Obey my commands at all times. Defend yourselves at all times. Now, touch gloves and go back to your corners.”

  Nick tapped the knuckles of his gloves to those of The Farm Boy’s and then danced backward, in a swaying, skipping motion, to his corner.

  Stony Carver handed the microphone back to Tim Brophy, who then pointed toward Nick. “Are you ready?”

  Nick raised his right thumb and thrust it toward Tim in affirmation.

  “Are you ready?” Tim asked Trent Dillard.

  The Farm Boy slapped both cheeks simultaneously and then smacked the top of his head. “Yes, sir!”

  “Then…fight!” Tim ordered as he backpedaled out of the ring.

  Dillard shuffled forward, his knees bent deeply, his back straight and his hands held in front of his torso.

  Greco-Roman Wrestling, Nick thought.

  Nick exploded forward, throwing lightning fast jab, cross, jab combination at Dillard’s face. Dillard raised his palms, parrying the strikes past him.

  With Dillard’s torso now exposed, Nick attacked The Farm Boy with a pulverizing shin kick to the liver region of the right-side of his abdomen.

  Dillard winced and collapsed onto his back.

  Nick pounced upon him, straddling Dillard’s waist with his knees. He then unleashed a hailstorm of hammer-fists onto Dillard’s nose, jaw, and brow.

  Dillard covered his face with his forearms.

  Nick rolled off of the big man and popped up into a fighting stance, signaling, with his fingers, for Dillard to stand up.

  The crowd went wild, screaming and stomping in approval.

  Dillard staggered to his feet, blood pouring from his nose and a gash above his eye.

  Stony Carver called for a time o
ut. Both men returned to their corners.

  Dillard’s cutman worked to stop the bleeding, applying thick globs of petroleum jelly with a cotton swab.

  Hector placed a stool in Nick’s corner. Nick sat down and Hector massaged his shoulders as Miles sprayed water into Nick’s mouth.

  “You’re killing him, Nick!” Miles said.

  The referee waved to the fight doctor, who entered the ring and approached Dillard to inspect him.

  Nick spat the water into a bucket beside his stool. “I hope the referee doesn’t stop the fight. I want to finish this guy.”

  “Umm, I think you just did,” Hector said.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’, yet!” Nick said.

  The fight doctor turned toward the crowd and waved both thumbs high above his head. The fight would go on. The crowd applauded.

  The bell rang. Nick leapt from his seat and darted toward the middle of the ring. Nick and The Farm Boy circled each other, both searching for an opening.

  Dillard moved first, charging toward Nick. He reached out with his powerful arms in an attempt to grab Nick around his waist.

  Nick leapt toward Dillard, twisting his torso in midair. Nick hooked his right hand behind Dillard’s neck as he wrapped his legs around The Farm Boy’s right thigh. Nick then rolled forward, dragging Dillard head-over-heels with him. Nick and Dillard landed on their backs, with Dillard’s right thigh trapped between both of Nick’s legs. Nick yanked The Farm Boy’s foot toward his shoulder as he thrust his hips toward Dillard’s knee.

  Dillard screamed in agony as his knee stretched to its limit. He tried to resist tapping out, gritting his teeth and grunting like a wounded pig, but the pain of Nick’s rolling knee-bar was obviously too great because a second later, he fired a rapid succession of slaps onto the mat.

  Stony pulled Nick’s legs apart.

  Nick jumped to his feet, performing his swaying-skipping-shuffling victory dance around the ring.

  Nick raised his fist high and the audience roared in approval. It had been months since he returned to Chicago and, finally, he felt at home.

  ROUND 11

  Nick sat on his haunches against a wall in his locker room, his legs spread-eagled.

  Miles handed Nick a carton of coconut water. Nick rubbed the back of his neck with the cold container, cooling himself off.

  “Hydrate,” Miles said.

  Nick snatched the lid off the carton’s top. “I’m going to turn into a coconut if I drink one more of these.”

  “Water constitutes about sixty-six percent of muscle tissue, twenty-five percent of fatty tissue, and acts within each cell of your body to transport nutrients and dispel waste,” Miles said. “In each match – taking into account the heat in the auditorium and the intensity of the fights, you are losing more than a quart of water; so, like I said, hydrate!”

  “Okay, okay, Encyclopedia Brown,” Nick snickered. “I’ll drink it.”

  “Encyclopedia who?” Hector asked.

  “Encyclopedia Brown is a series of books featuring the adventures of boy detective Leroy Brown,” Miles answered. “Nicknamed Encyclopedia, for his intelligence and…”

  “I know who Encyclopedia Brown is, homey,” Hector said, interrupting Miles. “I was just playing, man. So chill, Wikipedia.”

  The three men laughed. The laughter was cut short however, by a shout from across the room.

  “Holy!”

  Nick looked toward the source of the voice. Hobbs, one of the Middleweight finalists, sat bolt upright, staring, wide-eyed, at the plasma television’s screen.

  Nick peered at the screen. And the scene shocked him. A rail thin man, who stood nearly eight feet tall, was ripping away at his opponent with lightning fast elbows, knees and kicks. His opponent, a stocky man, with ruddy skin, grabbed the thin man’s arms in desperation. With blinding speed, the thin man broke out of the ruddy man’s grip and yanked the man’s head under his armpit.

  The thin man wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, which trapped the man’s head against the thin man’s ribs. The thin man then pulled his wrist up into the ruddy man’s throat, strangling him with a tight guillotine choke. After a second, the man tapped in submission.

  “Who is that?” Nick inquired.

  “He calls himself The Ghoul,” Hector said. “He won’t tell anyone his real name. I didn’t know he was in this tournament. I figured he’d already gone pro.”

  “I heard he got fired from W.E.R.K. because Dan Wallace couldn’t make money off of him,” Miles said. “He finished his opponents too quickly, so folks felt they weren’t getting their money’s worth. Also he’s gross to look at.”

  “Well, it looks like he’s the only thing standing between me and this tournament championship,” Nick said. “So ghoul, goblin, Santa Claus, or whatever he calls himself, I’m putting him to sleep.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” Hector said, giving Nick a high-five.

  Miles held the pads out in front of his torso. “Come on, Nick. Let’s warm up those muscles.

  Nick stood before the pads. He took in a deep breath, envisioning The Ghoul’s gaunt face on the pads and then let fly a powerful combination.

  ***

  “…and weighing in at two-hundred sixteen pounds…Nick New Breed Steed!” Tim Brophy shouted.

  Nick did not hear the thunderous cheer of the spectators as he was overcome with a feeling that was a combination of awe and disgust at the man across the ring from him.

  “And in the red corner,” Tim Brophy began. “Hailing from Harvey, Illinois…standing a staggering seven-feet eight inches tall and weighing two hundred and twenty-two pounds…give it up for the enigmatic and oh, so dangerous fighter known only as The Ghoul!”

  A weak applause followed Tim Brophy’s introduction, as The Ghoul raised a long willowy arm skyward and wiggled his long, crooked fingers.

  Adding to the surreal scene, the deeply-tanned, blonde-haired, Mr. Fujima stepped into the ring. Nick shook his head and pinched his thigh, to ensure he was not having some strange dream.

  “Our referee for the final fight of the night…the Heavyweight Tournament Championship,” Tim Brophy said. “Is Gichin Fujima!”

  Mr. Fujima called the fighters to the center of the ring. Nick sprinted to his place. The Ghoul shambled toward the referring, the bottoms of his feet making scraping noises with each slow step.

  “Gentlemen, I want a good, clean fight,” Fujima said, parroting the words of every referee in the tournament. “Obey my commands at all times. Defend yourselves at all times. Now, touch gloves and go back to your corners.”

  Nick extended his glove. Ghoul thrust both middle fingers toward Nick’s face, stopping a few inches from his nose. Nick gave no response to the insult, simply backing away to his corner.

  “Knock that freak out!” Hector shouted.

  “Fight!” Tim Brophy shouted.

  Nick strode to the center of the ring.

  Ghoul circled Nick, switching between left and right boxing stances with blistering speed.

  Nick rushed forward with two brisk jabs, followed by a powerful rear-leg shin kick toward Ghoul’s left inner thigh.

  Ghoul parried the punches with two quick flicks of his wrist and then blocked the shin kick with a spear-like right knee strike.

  A sharp pain spread up and across Nick’s shin. He felt like he had slammed it into a steel post.

  Ghoul countered with a devastating Superman punch, kicking his right leg behind him as he skipped forward with a heavy right cross. The pulverizing blow caught Nick square on his nose.

  A blanket of darkness fell over Nick, smothering him. He collapsed onto his back, succumbing to its warmth and comfort. A screeching voice pierced the darkness, shredding it. Get up! He realized the voice was his own. The darkness dissolved just as Nick felt a weight fall upon him. He instinctively shifted his head toward his right shoulder. Ghoul’s fist rocketed past him and crashed into the floor of the ring.

  Nick exploded upward
with his hips driving Ghoul, who had mounted him, off balance.

  Ghoul reached out with both hands, protecting his head from colliding with the floor.

  Nick reached up, wrapping both arms around Ghoul’s right arm. He pulled the arm to his chest, holding tight. Nick then trapped Ghoul’s right foot in place with his left foot. He exploded upward with his hips again and rolled to his left, slamming Ghoul onto his back.

  Ghoul wrapped his skeletal legs around Nick’s waist, crossing his ankles at the middle of Nick’s back.

  Nick scooped his left arm under Ghoul’s right leg and straightened his back, breaking Ghoul’s grip.

  Ghoul followed Nick’s momentum, driving his hips high onto Nick’s chest as he threw his right leg onto the back of Nick’s neck. Ghoul then pulled Nick’s right arm across his body as he kicked his left leg over his right shin.

  Nick was now trapped in a tight triangle choke that felt like a garrote around his neck. Nick felt as if his eyes would pop out of their sockets. He knew he would be unconscious soon if he did not escape. He hugged Ghoul’s thigh to his chest with both arms and then leaned forward, pushing Ghoul’s knee into his own chest. Nick then hopped to his feet, in a squatting position and whirled to his left, corkscrewing himself out of the choke.

  Ghoul leapt to his feet.

  Nick burst forward with a sharp front knee, caught Ghoul in his side.

  A loud crunch could be heard above the cheering of the crowd.

  Ghoul dropped his left elbow to his side to protect his shattered rib from anymore damage.

  Taking advantage of Ghoul’s lowered guard, hammered a devastating right hook into Ghoul’s jaw.

  The emaciated man’s spindly legs buckled and he collapsed onto his right knee.

  As Ghoul struggled back to his feet, Nick skipped forward and whipped a high shin kick toward him. The pulverizing kick slammed into the side of Ghoul’s neck.

  Ghoul’s body tensed and he toppled, like a tree fallen victim to a woodsman’s axe.

  Nick pounced, but he was pushed back by referee Fujima.

  Fujima knelt down beside Ghoul and laid a firm hand on his chest. Ghoul’s eyes opened, but were still unfocused. Fujima stood up and waved his arms, signaling Ghoul would not be able to continue the fight.