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and we’re all here for the same reason—to see one fighter annihilate another. We want to see bleeding eyes, gashes across the forehead, choke holds, bone-ripping submissions, and brutal knockout punches that send the corners scrambling for the doctor. Mix in a flood of cheap beer, and you have five thousand maniacs begging for blood.
    I eventually work my way back to the locker room, where things are coming to life. The first two fights ended with early knockouts, so the evening is moving quickly. Norberto, Oscar, and Miguel put on their glowing yellow jackets, same as mine, and Team Zapate is ready for the long walk to the cage. I’ll be in the corner, along with Norberto and Oscar, though my role is not as important. I make sure Tadeo has water while Norberto yells instructions in the fastest Spanish you’ll ever hear. Oscar tends to the facial wounds, if any. From the moment we hit the floor, everything becomes a blur. Along the tunnel, drunk fans reach for Tadeo and scream his name. Cops shove people out of our way. The roar is earsplitting, and it’s not all for Tadeo. They want more, another fight, preferably one to the death.
    Outside the cage, an official checks Tadeo’s gloves, applies oil to his face, and gives him the green light. An announcer yells his name over the PA, and our man bounces into the cage in his bright yellow trunks and robe. His opponent tonight goes by “the Jackal,” real name unknown and unimportant. He’s a submission specialist, a tall white guy without much bulk, but looks are deceiving. I’ve seen him fight three times and he’s guileful and crafty. He plays defense well and looks for a takedown. He wrapped his last opponent into a pretzel and made him scream for mercy. Right now I loathe the Jackal, but deep down I admire the hell out of him. Any man who can climb into the cage has far more spine than the average guy.
    The bell rings for round 1, three minutes of fury. Tadeo the boxer bores in straight ahead and immediately has the Jackal backing up. Both jab and spar for the first minute, then tie up but there’s no damage. Like the other five thousand fans, I’m yelling my head off, though I have no idea why. Any advice is useless and Tadeo isn’t listening anyway. They go down, land hard, and the Jackal has him in a scissors hold. For a long minute, the action dies as Tadeo squirms and wiggles and we hold our breath. He finally breaks free and manages a sharp left jab to the Jackal’s nose. Finally, there’s blood. There’s no question my man is the better fighter, but it just takes one mistake and you’ve got an arm twisted to the breaking point. Between rounds, Norberto unloads a torrent of instructions, but Tadeo isn’t listening. He knows much more about fighting than any of us, and he’s got the guy figured out. When the bell rings for round 2, I grab him by the arm and yell into his ear, “Take him in this round and there’s an extra two thousand bucks.” This, Tadeo hears.
    The Jackal lost the first round, so, like many fighters, he starts pressing in the second round. He wants to get inside, to get his wiry arms fixed into some manner of vile death grip, but Tadeo reads him perfectly. Thirty seconds in, Tadeo does a classic left-right-left combo and knocks his opponent squarely onto his butt. Tadeo then makes a common mistake as he attempts to launch himself like an idiot onto the Jackal, much like a manic dive-bomber lunging for the kill. The Jackal manages to kick with his right foot, a brutal blow that hits Tadeo just above the crotch. He stays on his feet as the Jackal scrambles to his, and for a second or two neither man pushes the action. They finally shake it off and begin circling. Tadeo finds his boxer’s rhythm and begins peppering the Jackal with unanswered jabs. He opens a cut above his right eye and widens it with a relentless barrage. The Jackal has the bad habit of throwing a wild fake left hook just before he ducks and comes in low at the