close to mastering jujitsu.
His voice is low, his words slow, the usual prefight jitters where fear clouds all thoughts and your stomach churns. I know. I’ve been there. A long time ago, I had five Golden Gloves boxing matches. I was 1–4 until my mother found out about my secret career and mercifully brought it to an end. But I did it. I had the guts to step into the ring and get the shit knocked out of me.
However, I cannot imagine the guts it takes to crawl into the cage with another fighter who’s superbly conditioned, highly skilled, well trained, hungry, nasty, and terrified and whose only thoughts are how to rip your shoulder out of its socket, mangle your knees, open a gash, or land a knockout punch on the jaw. That’s why I love this sport. It takes more courage, more in-your-face raw guts, than any sport since the gladiators battled to the death. Sure, many others are dangerous—downhill skiing, football, hockey, boxing, car racing. More people die on horses each year than in any other sport. But in those you don’t willingly enter the game knowing you will get hurt. When you walk into the cage, you will get hurt, and it could be ugly, painful, even deadly. The next round could well be your last.
That’s why the countdown is so brutal. The minutes drag by as the fighter fights his nerves, his bowels, his fears. The waiting is the worst part. I leave after a few minutes so Tadeo can go back into his zone. He told me once that he’s able to visualize the fight and he sees his opponent on the mat, bleeding and screaming for mercy.
I weave through the maze of corridors in the depths of the arena, and I can hear the crowd roaring in echoes, thirsting for blood. I find the right door and step inside. It’s a small administrative office that’s been hijacked by my own little street gang. We meet before the fights and place our wagers. There are six of us, and membership is closed because we don’t want any leaks. Some use their real names, others do not. Slide dresses like a street pimp and has served time for murder. Nino is a mid-level meth importer who served time for trafficking. Johnny has no criminal record (yet) and owns half of the fighter Tadeo will face tonight. Denardo drops hints of Mafia ties, but I doubt his criminal activity is that well organized. He aspires to promote MMA events and longs to live in Vegas. Frankie is the old guy, a local fixture in the fight scene for decades. He admits he’s been seduced by the violence of cage fighting and now is bored with old-fashioned boxing.
So these are my boys. I wouldn’t trust any of these clowns in a legitimate business deal, but then we’re not doing anything legitimate. We go down the card and start the betting. I know Tadeo is going to kill Johnny’s fighter, and evidently Johnny is worried. I offer $5,000 on Tadeo, and no one will take it. Three thousand, and no takers. I chide them, cuss them, ridicule them, but they know Tadeo is on a roll. Johnny has to wager something, and I finally haggle him into a $4,000 bet that his fighter won’t make it to the third round. Denardo decides he wants some of this, for another $4,000. We cover the card with all manner of wagers, and Frankie, the scribe, records it all. I leave the room with $12,000 in play, on four different fights. We’ll meet in the same room later when the fights are over and settle up, all in cash.
The fights begin and I roam around the arena, killing time. The tension in the locker room is insufferable and I can’t stand to be in there as the clock ticks along. I know that by now Tadeo is laid out on a table, motionless, covered by a thick quilt, saying his prayers to the Virgin Mary and listening to filthy Latin rap. There is nothing I can do to help, so I find a spot on an upper level, high above the ring, and take in the show. It is indeed a sellout, and the fans are as loud and crazed as ever. Cage fighting appeals to the savage instinct in some people, including me,
His voice is low, his words slow, the usual prefight jitters where fear clouds all thoughts and your stomach churns. I know. I’ve been there. A long time ago, I had five Golden Gloves boxing matches. I was 1–4 until my mother found out about my secret career and mercifully brought it to an end. But I did it. I had the guts to step into the ring and get the shit knocked out of me.
However, I cannot imagine the guts it takes to crawl into the cage with another fighter who’s superbly conditioned, highly skilled, well trained, hungry, nasty, and terrified and whose only thoughts are how to rip your shoulder out of its socket, mangle your knees, open a gash, or land a knockout punch on the jaw. That’s why I love this sport. It takes more courage, more in-your-face raw guts, than any sport since the gladiators battled to the death. Sure, many others are dangerous—downhill skiing, football, hockey, boxing, car racing. More people die on horses each year than in any other sport. But in those you don’t willingly enter the game knowing you will get hurt. When you walk into the cage, you will get hurt, and it could be ugly, painful, even deadly. The next round could well be your last.
That’s why the countdown is so brutal. The minutes drag by as the fighter fights his nerves, his bowels, his fears. The waiting is the worst part. I leave after a few minutes so Tadeo can go back into his zone. He told me once that he’s able to visualize the fight and he sees his opponent on the mat, bleeding and screaming for mercy.
I weave through the maze of corridors in the depths of the arena, and I can hear the crowd roaring in echoes, thirsting for blood. I find the right door and step inside. It’s a small administrative office that’s been hijacked by my own little street gang. We meet before the fights and place our wagers. There are six of us, and membership is closed because we don’t want any leaks. Some use their real names, others do not. Slide dresses like a street pimp and has served time for murder. Nino is a mid-level meth importer who served time for trafficking. Johnny has no criminal record (yet) and owns half of the fighter Tadeo will face tonight. Denardo drops hints of Mafia ties, but I doubt his criminal activity is that well organized. He aspires to promote MMA events and longs to live in Vegas. Frankie is the old guy, a local fixture in the fight scene for decades. He admits he’s been seduced by the violence of cage fighting and now is bored with old-fashioned boxing.
So these are my boys. I wouldn’t trust any of these clowns in a legitimate business deal, but then we’re not doing anything legitimate. We go down the card and start the betting. I know Tadeo is going to kill Johnny’s fighter, and evidently Johnny is worried. I offer $5,000 on Tadeo, and no one will take it. Three thousand, and no takers. I chide them, cuss them, ridicule them, but they know Tadeo is on a roll. Johnny has to wager something, and I finally haggle him into a $4,000 bet that his fighter won’t make it to the third round. Denardo decides he wants some of this, for another $4,000. We cover the card with all manner of wagers, and Frankie, the scribe, records it all. I leave the room with $12,000 in play, on four different fights. We’ll meet in the same room later when the fights are over and settle up, all in cash.
The fights begin and I roam around the arena, killing time. The tension in the locker room is insufferable and I can’t stand to be in there as the clock ticks along. I know that by now Tadeo is laid out on a table, motionless, covered by a thick quilt, saying his prayers to the Virgin Mary and listening to filthy Latin rap. There is nothing I can do to help, so I find a spot on an upper level, high above the ring, and take in the show. It is indeed a sellout, and the fans are as loud and crazed as ever. Cage fighting appeals to the savage instinct in some people, including me,
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