The Fight Buisness

A harsh memory flashes through my head. A memory of me, standing center of the octagon of the W.F.L championship, freshly awoken. Watching my opponent, Lincoln Reicheir, get the bel wrapped around his waist.

My legs hurt just thinking about it. Is fierce leg kicks. His reckless way of fighting, it sends a shiver down my spine.

And yet, somehow, for some reason, I stand next to him now. Three years following my retirement. A month following his own. He talks to a class of young teenagers. That’s right, we’re supposed to be teaching an MMA class together. I signed the contract with the T.F.G. A month-long class coaching up the next generation of fighters.

Standing here now however, I can’t think of the class. This man took my dream from me. Made all my hard work worth nothing in the end. I can never forgive him for that.

“Jack.” Lincoln says, turning to me. He’s a dark-skinned man. Balled at the head and incredibly lean in the face. Actually, he’s lean everywhere. I always thought he was far too tall and lengthy to be an 180 pounder.

Only a month out of fighting, he’s retained a lot of his muscle. I, however, have not. Thankfully I don’t need to be a physical specimen to pass on what I know.

“I’ll let you pick. Would you rather take the wrestling group or striking?” I eye him. I wonder if he can feel my malice. Or does he feel the same towards me?

“I was always better at wrestling. I’ll take that group.” I try to sound as if I’m joking. Lincoln smiles, letting a light chuckle loose from his lips.

“Were you?” I tighten my jaw. What was that? Lincoln pats me on the shoulder, a wide smile still lingering on his face as he points to the group he designated and tells them to follow.

I watch him go. Doing everything I can to not tighten my fist. Were supposed to make an example for these kids. I won’t leave a bad one. I take my group to the otherside of the large gym we’ve been designated.

The entire floor is thankfully matted. All I have to do is to separate them into smaller groups of two or three and leave them to do their thing, Correcting them on the way. A lot of these kids already have mixed martial art experience. Whether it be BJJ or just wrestling.

I walk between the groups, correcting grips, and teaching a few simple takedowns and allowing them to practice them slowly.

My eyes trickle to the other side of the gym where Lincoln teaches the other group some striking. As I’d expected, it seems to be a lot of elbows and knees.

I watch him throw a slow elbow as an example to the kids. The sight makes my skin crawl, igniting a terrifying memory in my head. The last memory of my fighting career. Turning, I find two kids, no older than sixteen, engaged in a clinch up against the wall.

The kid on the outside, his back towards the rest of the gym, is attempting a double leg. I can tell from here he’s not going to get it. I move to them, telling him exactly that.

“Move to the single.” I tell him. His face seems to flush. I often forget that, despite my age, a lot of these kids only know me as a professional fighter. A title they hope to reach. Stil the kids tries to do as I say.. Abandoning the double leg takedown and moving to secure a single leg.

The kid against the wall rotates his hips and gets a good underhook as the kid on the outside tries to transition. . .I really need to learn their names. The kid on the inside effectively blocks the single leg, forcing the kid on the outside to move to a under over body lock.

I watch closely as the fight for positioning. The kid on the inside is able to break the lock for a second, in which he turns his back to the kid on the outside in an attempt to get out of the corner. Bad idea. And, as I suspected the kid on the outside relocks a body lock, but this time around the kid’s lower waist with his chest against the kid on the insides back.

They move back against the wall. “Fight the hands.” I say. The kid looks at me, seeming confused. I move closer, pointing to exactly where I mean. “Push his hands down, lower on your waist. Separate the lock and turn into him, fight you’re way free.”

Slowly, the kids does as I say. Sweat beads fall from his face onto the mat, leaving advisable wet spot. The smell of it all, the sound. It brings me back to my younger days training. I miss it…just a little.

The kid on the inside nearly gets free, but the kid on the outside transition down to a single leg again and pulls the kid off the wall and secures a trip down to the mat. “Stop,” I say and they freeze. “What are your names.”

“Gavin.” The one who secured the takedown says. He’s blond haired, much like myself.

“Josh.” The other says. He’s black haired,

I nod. “You both deserve a break. That was good work.” They nod, wide smiles forming on their faces. I can see it, a mutual respect between them. Though, I doubt they’ve ever met before until now. That is just the sort of thing one builds towards an opponent in this business. You both work so hard to improve your skills when you have a good match like that, you can’t help but acknowledge another’s skills.

Well…most people can’t help it.

My eyes land on Lincoln. The man watches his group practice the elbow he thought on some pads.

I can’t respect that man He took all I ever wanted; all I ever worked for. It might be spiteful sure, but it’s the only way I’ve got left to still fight.

I move among the other ids, adjusting their style to better fit MMA. “Jack, sir.” A nervous voice says behind me. I turn, finding Jock looking up at me.

“Drop the sir.” I say with a smile. “What is it?”

“Um…just. I watched some of you’re highlights earlier today, and…saw you’re first fight against Lincoln.” The mention of the mans name gets my blood pumping ever so slightly faster. But the memory of our first fight, a rather pleasant one, calms me. “I was wondering, could you show me how you landed that final punch?”

Ah yes. I remember that one clearly. On of my finest highlights, one I make sure is shown anytime I’m bought up on T.V. I smile down at the kid and crouch down to meet his level. “I’m supposed to be the grappling coach today.” I say. The kid frowns, but before he can apologize, I grab his shoulder. “But I’ll make an exception, just this once.”

His eyes begin to shine, his face lighting up. Though that could just be the fluorescent light reflecting of the sweat. I stand, closing my eyes, remembering the sweet moment.

Third round, the final round as that wasn’t a main event. The fifth fight of my W.F.L career. Lincolns second.

I begin to feel the aches of my body, the tast of blood and sweat in my mouth. I had a cut just above my right eye, one my coach, Rich, was very concerned about. The crowd is chanting my name. yes…that fight was in Philadelphia. What a night that was!

Two minutes left on the clock. Lincoln is red all over the face, but no visible cuts, and he’s showing no sign of sever injury. I, however, am limping noticeably on my left leg thanks to his leg kicks.

If it goes to judges, it will be a close scoring. I don’t like leaving it up to them.

I’m in an orthodox stance I can feel my body shift in the current world into my old stance. Left foot in front of my right. My left hand my lead jab hand.

I shift my body, twisting my hips as if about to throw a kick. “Faint the kick.” I say as if speaking to the class, but really, I’m reminding myself. Lincoln bites and takes a step back raising his guard. “Move to south paw.” My right foot is now in front of my left, my right hand now my lead hand.

“Faint the jab.” Lincoln moves in as he usually would. He liked to trade jabs, as his hands hit much harder than mine and he could usually take the hit pretty well.

As he moves in. I thrash out my left hand. “Left cross.” His guard is open as he throws his own jab, and I move my head of the center line. His jab goes right past my face while-

It all goes black…

I’m back. I look around all the kids’ eyes wide in awe. I glance across the gym to even find Lincoln watching, a sly smile on his face.

I shouldn’t’ have done that.

“That move.” A kid I don’t know the name of speaks. “You tried to land it in your last fight against Lincoln.” I flinch. “What happened that time?”

I resist the urge to clench my fist at the question. I smile, though performatively. I remember that night, waking up, watching the reply of Lincoln elbow crossing my chin.

My straight left landed, it just…didn’t hit as hard as Lincoln elbow. I was out on the spot.

I meet the eyes of the kid. So innocent and yet asking an incredible touching question. My cooches words flash through my head, the words he said to me right before I told him I was retiring. The disappointment that I left on his face still haunts me.

“Things happen like that.” I say. Sounding eerily similar to my coach. “It can all seam perfect and then…bam.” And it all ends…just like that.

***

Curse my old and worn body. I hardly did anything, and yet, I’m as sore as if I’d just fought. The class having just ended, the kids still funneling out the doors. I carry a large duffle bag on my shoulder, in it some basic equipment I brought along.

Popping the trunk of my car open, I toss the bag inside. Waving by to some of the kids as they pass.

“Jack.” I twitch uncomfortably. That’s Lincoln voice. What could he possibly want? I find him approaching from my right, car keys jingling in his right hand. “What do you say about stopping by my house having a few drinks?”

I’m silent, unsure of what to think of his offer. “Uh. . .I’m not so sure.” I speak. Closing the trunk with a soft thud “I don’t want to intrude you know.”

“Well good thing I’m inviting you then.” Lincoln says. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Listen I-“

“Then let’s say it’s about the class then.” He cuts me off before I can argue. I sigh, tiring of this rather strange confrontation. Might as well give him what he wants.

“Fine. What’s your address?”

He smiles. “I knew you’d see reason.”

***

He jokes; he laughs. He finds our past nostalgia. Does he know that past haunts me? Does he know that that night still gives me nightmares? Did he never want it as bad as I did.

We sit in his living room. Four belts sit on the wall behind us. One signifying the one he won against me, the other three signifying his title defenses till his last loss. The loss in which he lost the belt, and his retirement fight.

I laugh along, but only to keep myself from exploding in rage. Did he bring me here just to humiliate me. To show me his big house, the belts. The pictures of his wins hanging on the wall in front of us. One of them a picture of the belt around his waist with me standing opposite the ref. His hand held high.

“You showed those kids.” Lincoln says. I turns, hiding the bitterness the best I can. “You showed them to strike you used to take my lights out our first fight.”

“I did.” I take a sip from the glass. The liquid burns my throat. I’ve never been a fan of alcohol. Right now, however, I need it to take the edge off. “One of the kids asked about it.” He nods, tapping his foot repeatedly.

“I showed mine the elbow I used, in the last fight.” I meet his gaze. His eyes are narrow, sharp…digging into my soul. And I can’t hold it any longer.

I place the cup down on the stand between us. “What’s the point of this?” I ask. He only smiles, taking a sip from his own glass.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean!” I snap. “Me and you spent years smashing each other’s faces in. you, took the belt, my dream, from me. And you invite me to you’re house, sit me with my back to the belts I never got to hold.” I set my jaw rigid, biting back some choice words. “You…. are the only man I’ve ever loathed.”

“And you to me, are the only man I ever loathed.” Lincoln replies quickly. I snicker, finding that hard to believe. “You recked my climb, Jack. I was on my way to take the belt much sooner in my career. And you halted that.”

“And you set me back a year with your leg kicks the matchup following.” I say. “We both harmed each other’s careers, Lincoln. But out, are the only one who ever got to hold the belt.” He nods, is expression contemplative.

“In our business. We punch and kick each other. We street fight for sport and get paid piss poor wage for what we do.” He speaks. “It the goal, for every single one of us, to get that belt. Not just yours.” He lifts the glass to his lips. “Only the best reach it.”

I want to punch him like the old days. But I refrain, because he is right. How many dreams did I crush with my journey?

But still…I can’t help but loath this man. I was destined for greatness. I…

“I’m not asking for forgiveness.” He says. “I don’t think a man can forgive another for ruining a dream. Hell, I’m not even asking for respect We are fighters, we hit people for money. Out of any profession, I believe we are the least respectable.

“But…there is a generation out there. A generation which can learn from our mistakes as fighters. A bring a new light to the business.”

I’m silent. He’s speaking of the kids, I know he is. They are all the innocent left in the fight business. A group of people who don’t understand quite yet what it means to suffer loss that sets you back years. They don’t know how to hate as I do.

And I never want them to reach that point.

I’m a pathetic man, I know that. I’m loathed a man in a business where only the best win. He was the best that night, and he’s better now.

“let’s put this behind us. For the kids.” He says. But I cannot agree, not yet. I can’t put this behind us. I’ve missed out on so, so much.

And idea strikes me. A dumb one, but an idea.

“Shou up early tomorrow.” I say, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “Lets get a short spar in, one last match.” Lincoln looks unsure at first. Moving the glass in his hand back and forth for a short while.

Then he chuckles. “Sure…and, if you win, i’ll give you one of those belts.”

My heart spikes. “Really?” I ask.

“Sure, those things aren’t the real thing anyway. The W.F.L don’t give you the real ones out of fear a fighter might sell it.” I look at the thing, its shining metal, the jewels built into the straps of the belt.

And I shake my head.

“The greatest disrespect to a fighter is pity. You know this.” I say. “I don’t’ think I could ever forgive you for that.”

“So, you do forgive me?” I sit in silence, contemplating that for a second. The answer however is quite clear in my head.

“No…but. I can learn to respect you, just a little.”

Lincoln. The man who robbed me of my dream, who stripped me of everything I worked for. Smiles. And for the first time, I don’t feel a ping of hate towards it. “That’s all I can ask for.”