bottom of the stairs that cut through an overlap in the drapes and led to the left side of the platform. Eddie was up there with some of the ring girls and other necessary people, the girls in their bikinis and tennis shoes, blowing kisses and whispering to each other when a fighter had to have a towel held in front of him on the scale.
We couldn’t see the crowd, but it sounded big. Davie Benton, the color commentary guy for Warrior, gave the PA system a workout introducing the fighters and asking the crowd if they wanted to see some fireworks between the two guys glaring at each other with no shirts on. Eddie stood back a little bit between them like he was going to have to break something up.
That could work. Like spitting on a forest fire.
“You’re next,” the guy at the bottom of the steps told me, then clicked a button on a wire running up to a headset and said into it, “Do we have Burbank? . . . Good. Okay.”
I couldn’t help it. I searched for him. I scanned the tops of the heads backstage for a blond lump sticking up like a mushroom made out of muscles. Nothing. I glanced at Gil and Jairo, standing by our stuff, and Marcela, sitting against the wall looking bored. Javier and Edson were missing. Gil got on his toes to show he was on the lookout too, then shrugged when he had the same luck as me.
I heard Davie holler, “Are you ready? Are you ready? All right, now we have in his first fight for Warrior but bringing a very impressive twenty-four and three record with him—
twenty
of those wins by KO or TKO, folks—a guy who’ll take the fight out behind the woodshed and knock the whole place flat, heavyweight fighter Aaron . . .
Woodshed
. . . Wallace!”
“That’s you,” the guy in the headset told me. “Go, go, go.”
I climbed the steps, the lights and noise hitting at the same time like coming up from underwater into the boiling rapids, and I didn’t feel the hook or see the net until it was too late.
CHAPTER 5
The crowd was worked up. Credit to Davie, because it couldn’t be easy to sell guys standing on a scale. The room held a few hundred people, five tops, but they were all on their feet and taking photos and making vowel sounds for me. Most of them were
ooooo,
preceded by a B. I’d been booed before but never with this relish.
It made me smile. They boo you leading up to the fight, then on the way to the cage, during the introductions, and through the stare down. Then you knock someone out and everyone wants to buy you ice cream.
There was a huge Warrior, Inc. backdrop hanging on the purple drapes on my left, the name and logo about the size of a large pizza box and repeated every two feet. If someone took your picture in front of it, they’d get to see the logo at least three times.
Davie waved me over and kept the microphone low and said, “Hey, Woody, big fan.” He was much smaller than I’d thought, thin in a tight navy Warrior T-shirt, his forehead up to my shoulder and an inferno of rusty hair almost brushing my chin. Impressive muttonchops clamped his narrow face.
He seemed like a nice guy; serious actor, usually the sidekick to someone bigger, and a fan of the sport who could spread its charms into influential circles. He’d started out as a stuntman, so he had some basis for saying what hurt and what didn’t.
Davie raised the microphone. “All right, Woody, you said you’re going to knock Junior Burbank out cold.”
Fucking Kevin.
“You were the last and
only
person to beat him, but that was three years ago, and you couldn’t knock him out then. What makes this time different?” He swung the mic under my mouth and grinned.
Davie was challenging me, and hype be damned, I took it personally. He was close enough to elbow in the temple, see if he still knew how to fall the right way.
I leaned into the mic and said, “This time I’m pissed off. And I’m better at knocking people out
We couldn’t see the crowd, but it sounded big. Davie Benton, the color commentary guy for Warrior, gave the PA system a workout introducing the fighters and asking the crowd if they wanted to see some fireworks between the two guys glaring at each other with no shirts on. Eddie stood back a little bit between them like he was going to have to break something up.
That could work. Like spitting on a forest fire.
“You’re next,” the guy at the bottom of the steps told me, then clicked a button on a wire running up to a headset and said into it, “Do we have Burbank? . . . Good. Okay.”
I couldn’t help it. I searched for him. I scanned the tops of the heads backstage for a blond lump sticking up like a mushroom made out of muscles. Nothing. I glanced at Gil and Jairo, standing by our stuff, and Marcela, sitting against the wall looking bored. Javier and Edson were missing. Gil got on his toes to show he was on the lookout too, then shrugged when he had the same luck as me.
I heard Davie holler, “Are you ready? Are you ready? All right, now we have in his first fight for Warrior but bringing a very impressive twenty-four and three record with him—
twenty
of those wins by KO or TKO, folks—a guy who’ll take the fight out behind the woodshed and knock the whole place flat, heavyweight fighter Aaron . . .
Woodshed
. . . Wallace!”
“That’s you,” the guy in the headset told me. “Go, go, go.”
I climbed the steps, the lights and noise hitting at the same time like coming up from underwater into the boiling rapids, and I didn’t feel the hook or see the net until it was too late.
CHAPTER 5
The crowd was worked up. Credit to Davie, because it couldn’t be easy to sell guys standing on a scale. The room held a few hundred people, five tops, but they were all on their feet and taking photos and making vowel sounds for me. Most of them were
ooooo,
preceded by a B. I’d been booed before but never with this relish.
It made me smile. They boo you leading up to the fight, then on the way to the cage, during the introductions, and through the stare down. Then you knock someone out and everyone wants to buy you ice cream.
There was a huge Warrior, Inc. backdrop hanging on the purple drapes on my left, the name and logo about the size of a large pizza box and repeated every two feet. If someone took your picture in front of it, they’d get to see the logo at least three times.
Davie waved me over and kept the microphone low and said, “Hey, Woody, big fan.” He was much smaller than I’d thought, thin in a tight navy Warrior T-shirt, his forehead up to my shoulder and an inferno of rusty hair almost brushing my chin. Impressive muttonchops clamped his narrow face.
He seemed like a nice guy; serious actor, usually the sidekick to someone bigger, and a fan of the sport who could spread its charms into influential circles. He’d started out as a stuntman, so he had some basis for saying what hurt and what didn’t.
Davie raised the microphone. “All right, Woody, you said you’re going to knock Junior Burbank out cold.”
Fucking Kevin.
“You were the last and
only
person to beat him, but that was three years ago, and you couldn’t knock him out then. What makes this time different?” He swung the mic under my mouth and grinned.
Davie was challenging me, and hype be damned, I took it personally. He was close enough to elbow in the temple, see if he still knew how to fall the right way.
I leaned into the mic and said, “This time I’m pissed off. And I’m better at knocking people out
Similar Books
