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Every time I talk to Tadeo I’m thankful I’m not forced to face him in the ring. He has fierce black pupils that scream angrily, “Show me the mayhem. Show me the blood.” He grew up on the streets, fighting anyone who got too close. An older brother died in a knife fight, and Tadeo is afraid he’ll die too. When he steps into the ring, he’s convinced someone is about to be killed, and it won’t be him. His three losses were on points; nobody’s kicked his ass yet. He trains four hours a day and he’s 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 ca
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. Joh
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 Joh
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, and we’re all here for the same reason—to see one fighter a
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 tu
Outside the cage, an official checks Tadeo’s gloves, applies oil to his face, and gives him the green light. An a
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 ma