Jairo and asked if he was a fighter.
“I do jiu jitsu, but you’ll see me soon in MMA,” he said, then nodded at me. “This is the guy.”
They studied me. One of them said, “You’re fighting tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“Against who?”
“Junior Burbank.”
The talker smacked his bro in the shoulder. “Oh, shit, this is Woodshed!” Then, in a voice he must have thought was much quieter, “I bet a grand against him.”
The friend laughed and shushed him.
“Seriously. Dude, no offense, but I thought you’d be bigger.”
“It’s because I’m standing next to this house.” I indicated Jairo.
“Yeah.” Skeptical with a touch of pity maybe. Like I was going to have a short dance in the cage and an extended stay in a hospital. The two of them started to drift away. “Hey, good luck.”
Gil said, “Sorry about your thousand dollars.”
We showed our passes to a guy in a maroon jacket guarding the backstage door to the conference room, Marcela wearing Roth’s pass around her neck. The guy didn’t bother to read the names, just waved us in.
The backstage area stretched across the width of the big room and took up a third of the length. It was separated from the public area by a heavy, dark purple curtain on our right that you could probably use as a mainsail on an aircraft carrier, but it would snag too many planes. There was a solid wall on the left, lined all the way to the far wall with folding chairs and tables piled with sponsor junk.
A few fighters stood around, avoiding the bottles of water and sports drinks lined up on some of the tables. If they’d spent the last few hours in a sauna dropping water weight, those bottles would look like the nectar of the gods.
Somebody bumped me from the right. “Keep me away from those tables.” It was Terry Crawford, a welterweight fighting on the undercard. A former wrestler, he’d been to The Fight House a few times to train submission defense with Gil. He was getting better, but we all saw him tapping to a choke at some point. I could see his jaw muscles ripping at the gum in his mouth, and he carried a cup for the saliva he managed to work up.
“Hey, Terry, how you feeling?” We clasped hands like arm wrestlers and half hugged, neither of us really leaning into it.
Terry said, “I’ll tell you what, man. You get me in the cage right now, just put a brownie sundae on the other side of Nakano. I’ll go through him in five seconds and have chocolate sauce on my face in six.”
“I feel bad for him already.”
“Should be a good one. How about you? Congrats on the fight, but holy shit. The co-main event against Burbank?”
“Yeah, no tune-ups for me, I guess.”
“Porter,” Gil offered.
Terry stiff-armed me. “That’s right. You just fought last night. You’re a madman.”
“Nah. It was easier than any day at the gym. I feel pretty good. But I didn’t have to cut any weight.”
He spit into the cup. “Asshole.”
“Come on up to heavyweight. You can eat all the sundaes you want. Carbs, even.”
Terry snorted. “Yeah, a five-eight heavyweight. They’d roll me into the cage and carry me out in a sack.”
It was hard to picture. If he lost any more water weight, museums would be fighting to get him into a sarcophagus. “Why do you do this to yourself? I thought you’d know better by now.”
“Bad knee. Can’t do much cardio, so I had to stop eating. But what can you do?”
I understood. You said no once, Eddie figured you didn’t have the warrior’s heart. Or did he capitalize it even then?
Gil piled our stuff onto some chairs and walked over. “You been drilling those defenses?”
“Even in my sleep,” Terry said.
“We won’t get a chance to see that, though, right?”
Terry glanced around and decided the coast was clear. “Hey, you guys know anybody speaks
“I do jiu jitsu, but you’ll see me soon in MMA,” he said, then nodded at me. “This is the guy.”
They studied me. One of them said, “You’re fighting tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“Against who?”
“Junior Burbank.”
The talker smacked his bro in the shoulder. “Oh, shit, this is Woodshed!” Then, in a voice he must have thought was much quieter, “I bet a grand against him.”
The friend laughed and shushed him.
“Seriously. Dude, no offense, but I thought you’d be bigger.”
“It’s because I’m standing next to this house.” I indicated Jairo.
“Yeah.” Skeptical with a touch of pity maybe. Like I was going to have a short dance in the cage and an extended stay in a hospital. The two of them started to drift away. “Hey, good luck.”
Gil said, “Sorry about your thousand dollars.”
We showed our passes to a guy in a maroon jacket guarding the backstage door to the conference room, Marcela wearing Roth’s pass around her neck. The guy didn’t bother to read the names, just waved us in.
The backstage area stretched across the width of the big room and took up a third of the length. It was separated from the public area by a heavy, dark purple curtain on our right that you could probably use as a mainsail on an aircraft carrier, but it would snag too many planes. There was a solid wall on the left, lined all the way to the far wall with folding chairs and tables piled with sponsor junk.
A few fighters stood around, avoiding the bottles of water and sports drinks lined up on some of the tables. If they’d spent the last few hours in a sauna dropping water weight, those bottles would look like the nectar of the gods.
Somebody bumped me from the right. “Keep me away from those tables.” It was Terry Crawford, a welterweight fighting on the undercard. A former wrestler, he’d been to The Fight House a few times to train submission defense with Gil. He was getting better, but we all saw him tapping to a choke at some point. I could see his jaw muscles ripping at the gum in his mouth, and he carried a cup for the saliva he managed to work up.
“Hey, Terry, how you feeling?” We clasped hands like arm wrestlers and half hugged, neither of us really leaning into it.
Terry said, “I’ll tell you what, man. You get me in the cage right now, just put a brownie sundae on the other side of Nakano. I’ll go through him in five seconds and have chocolate sauce on my face in six.”
“I feel bad for him already.”
“Should be a good one. How about you? Congrats on the fight, but holy shit. The co-main event against Burbank?”
“Yeah, no tune-ups for me, I guess.”
“Porter,” Gil offered.
Terry stiff-armed me. “That’s right. You just fought last night. You’re a madman.”
“Nah. It was easier than any day at the gym. I feel pretty good. But I didn’t have to cut any weight.”
He spit into the cup. “Asshole.”
“Come on up to heavyweight. You can eat all the sundaes you want. Carbs, even.”
Terry snorted. “Yeah, a five-eight heavyweight. They’d roll me into the cage and carry me out in a sack.”
It was hard to picture. If he lost any more water weight, museums would be fighting to get him into a sarcophagus. “Why do you do this to yourself? I thought you’d know better by now.”
“Bad knee. Can’t do much cardio, so I had to stop eating. But what can you do?”
I understood. You said no once, Eddie figured you didn’t have the warrior’s heart. Or did he capitalize it even then?
Gil piled our stuff onto some chairs and walked over. “You been drilling those defenses?”
“Even in my sleep,” Terry said.
“We won’t get a chance to see that, though, right?”
Terry glanced around and decided the coast was clear. “Hey, you guys know anybody speaks
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