The bell for the fight rings.
Show time.
Swallowing down nerves, adjusting my groin
-pad, I follow Carl through the small crowd to the cage. They’re pressed against the bars—well-dressed men, their eyes shining in the low light, their teeth glinting white. Waiting to be entertained with blood.
I don’t hit people for fun, but everyone inside the cage is here willingly. They’re trained fighters. I have to remember this and not hold back.
You can do this.
I enter the cage and spin around to face my opponent. No more surprises. I’m ready for everything—the violence, the pain, the impact of the blows.
And a good thing, too, because another bell rings and Shady Sam comes at me like a hurricane, punching and kicking.
I fall back, protecting my head with my taped hands. Then I see an opening and descend on him, twisting my body as I throw my punches, putting everything into the movement.
Blood sprays; I’ve cut his lip. He growls and throws himself at me, dropping me to the ground. He punches my jaw and stars explode in my vision.
No. I push him off and kick at him until he falls back.
He launches himself at me again and we roll on the floor, each one of us trying to get the upper hand. He punches me in the mouth, splitting my lip, too.
We’re even, I have the time to think, before he punches me again, and I lose track for a second.
Raising my hands to protect my head, I brace.
Have to get up, push him off. I know that, and for a long moment I’m back at home, Dad looming over me, the stench of alcohol mixing with the smell of sweat and blood.
The crowd roars and that snaps me back.
I twist and manage to push him off me. Rolling, I get on all fours and shake my head, trying to clear it. The sweet metallic taste of blood floods my mouth.
The cage. The fight.
He’s back on his feet. I see him coming and I lurch upright, letting experience drive me, the instinctive knowledge of what I have to do.
Go on the offensive.
I move toward him, getting into his space, throwing a right hook followed by a left cross. They don’t connect, but they force him to retreat, to lift his taped hands to cover up his face. Not hesitating, I advance, throwing jab after jab, not leaving him time to mount his counterattack.
An opening, and I throw a powerful hook, my body rotating, feeding all my force into the punch.
It connects. I feel the impact in my hand, my wrist, traveling up my arm to my shoulder socket.
Shady Sam drops like a stone, more blood spraying on the floor.
The crowd goes wild, the roar rising like a tidal wave, drowning me. I stagger backward, my head swimming. A hand claps me on the back and I turn, ready to defend myself.
“Good work, kid,” says a bass voice, and the face with the sagging jowls finally registers.
Johnny.
I let him grab my hand and lift it, causing another wave of cheers and hands banging on the cage bars. Johnny turns me in a circle, so everyone can see me.
I’ve won the fight.
Holy shit. It’s a heady feeling.