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within each pit to be in the tournament. Eight guys total in each
class, so a champ’s gonna have to pull off four wins,” Logan says, his eyes
drifting after a passing female in an obnoxiously bright pink leotard. “Nothing
you can’t handle.”
    “You’re not going to go
for it?” I ask. “How do they decide who to put in the tournament?”
    “There’s not enough time
to put together tournaments within the pits. First fight’s in a few weeks and
they come pretty quick after that. We could try to throw something together,
but people have jobs. All the guys we got showing up lately, it’d take us a few
months to get through ‘em all only to discover you’re the best featherweight
and I’m the best light heavyweight. Everyone already knows that. Expect a phone
call in the next couple days.”
    “I appreciate that,” I
grunt, wondering if this is my fifth or sixth rep.
    “You get us in the same
weight class, whether I go down some pounds or you go up some, I’m going to
humiliate you every time, but as long as we’ve got a couple of classes between
us, I don’t have to think of you as just another statistic,” he says.
    I lift the bar one last
time and set it down with a loud clang into its cradle. When I sit up, I’m
laughing.
    “What?” Logan asks.
    “Someone pointed out to
me recently that I talk myself up to some pretty ridiculous levels, but I didn’t
actually hear what she was talking about until you said what you just said. It’s
kind of embarrassing,” I tell him, patting him on the back.
    “What are you talking
about?” he asks, sensing that I’ve made fun of him somehow, but not quite able
to figure out how.
    “Just the whole, ‘if you
and I get in the ring together, one of us is getting into a body bag,’ thing,”
I tell him. “It’s got a real professional wrestling vibe to it, and I’m pretty
sure real people don’t actually talk like that.”
    “So you’re saying I’m not
a real person now?” he asks.
    “That’s exactly what I’m
saying,” I tell him. “It’s like you’re trying to sell tickets to pay-per-view
events and you kind of sound like an ass.”
    “You wanna go?” he asks,
getting into his stance. He doesn’t seem to appreciate the admittedly
enthusiastic fit of laughter that is my response to his posturing.
    “I wouldn’t want to do
anything to crack that statuesque face of yours,” I tell him. “Who knows when
the next fight will get busted? Your new jail friends would be devastated if
you went off to the pokey looking like uncooked hamburger.”
    “You’re kind of a prick,
you know that, Ellis?” he asks.
    “Dude, you can call me by
my first name,” I tell him.
    “What’s up with you
today?” he asks. “You’re starting to act like you did after you beat the snot
out of that ninjitsu guy last year.”
    I do tend to get a little
smug when I’m feeling good about my life.
    “Well come on, man. I get
the whole thing was about espionage and not really focused on traditional
combat, but who’s not going to be pretty excited about beating up a ninja?” I
ask. “That’s the kind of thing you put on a resumé,” I tell him. “Or a bumper
sticker,” I add. “A t-shirt would work pretty well, too, I think.”
    “Whatever man,” he says.
“Don’t tell me what your deal is, but just know you’re acting like a tool.”
    “So that’s it then?” I
ask. “I’m just supposed to wait for a call?”
    “If they decide you’re
the best we’ve got in your weight class,” he says. “The more I think about it,
the more I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not nice to
get someone’s hopes up like that.”
    “You’re a real
inspiration, you know that?” I ask.
    For the next little bit,
I do my best to act like the tournament’s not such a huge deal; but when my
phone starts ringing, I can’t get it to my ear fast enough. It might have been
helpful to accept the call first.
    “Dude, calm down,”