Part 6 (2/2)
I walk by the house party, and some guy smoking in the driveway recognizes me.
”s.h.i.+t, Chance f.u.c.king Hudson!” he says, walking up to me, fist held out, waiting for a dap.
”Yeah, man,” I say, giving him a perfunctory look.
”Woah, hold up, man, join us!” He's walking by my side. ”We got everything, bro. c.o.ke, shrooms, booze... whatever you want, it's on me.”
I look at the dude-bro, regard him. ”No thanks.”
”Why not, man?”
But I don't reply, I just keep walking.
Can't get anywhere in this town without being hara.s.sed.
Ca.s.sie turns, cuts through a dark path without streetlamps. She's brave.
It's not like I'm playing hero, but I did just manage to p.i.s.s her off into walking home.
I puff on my cigarette, walking the same route she does, and eventually I see her reach her house. She unlocks the front door.
As she steps in, I swear she casts a glance in my direction. I'm just standing at the corner, smoking. Loud ba.s.s is thumping from a nearby party.
But her body language betrays nothing. I don't know if she recognized me or not. She closes the door, and the living room light switches on.
I start walking back to my car.
Chapter Nine.
Southpaws will always throw off an orthodox fighter.
My opponent leads with his right hand, and his right foot. He's going to jab with his right, feint with his right, before he hooks or crosses with his left.
He's a southpaw, a lefty. They have something of a genetic advantage, having their left side as their dominant. Because there are relatively few, it's hard to get training against them.
Therefore, it's hard to properly counter them.
He's a mirror to me. My leading left is in line with his leading right. His pivot is right foot, he'll swing a kick with his left. My pivot is my left foot, and I'll swing a kick with my right.
He's a reverse to what I'm used to fighting, to what most fighters are used to fighting.
The challenge is welcome.
Southpaws do well by virtue of their left-handedness, but sometimes it leads to overconfidence. Only one thing is worse than being too confident, and that's having no confidence.
Mickey is a few years older than me, but his body is no more developed than mine. He's got a heavier base, and I can tell he's a kicker. His weight rests on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, which means he'll kick quickly, throw his body into a pivot to get more force behind it.
Some fighters, lower, stockier, are more even in their weight distribution; they don't always stand on their b.a.l.l.s or toes. A man who puts more weight on his heels is harder to dislodge, a grappler, someone who'll corral you up into his arms, spin you around, slam you to the mat, and lock you.
Mickey's going to look to land a few low and heavy kicks into my side, or against my thigh. He's going to try and numb me, weaken my muscles, before taking me down to the mat.
How do I know this? It's just instinct. I've fought him before, but it's not that. You just can tell, by the s.h.i.+ft in weight, the minute twinges of muscle that betray direction of movement.
Fighting is not just a question of how hard can you get hit, but whether or not you know the hit is coming.
But Mickey knows that once I'm on the mat with him, I'll win. He's going to do everything he can to gas me out before that, because when it comes to grappling, I've never fought anybody my equal, anybody who understands leverage, angles, body positioning like I do.
”Chance!” Coach barks. He sounds like he's been crunching on gravel all day, washed down with a whole pack of unfiltered Benson & Hedges. ”What the f.u.c.k are you doing?”
I'm circling Mickey, but on his face he's wearing confusion. The beefcake was never the brightest bulb.
”Yeah, the f.u.c.k you doing?” he asks, spreading his arms and shaking his head at me.
I step with my right, jab with my right. Mickey dodges it easily, so I step and jab again, this time to the other side of his head. He sidesteps toward my left, and I throw a thunderous left hook right into his padded helmet.
Mickey goes down, scrambles on all fours, before finally getting to his feet. ”f.u.c.k, Coach, he ain't no lefty!”
I don't even look at Coach. I close the distance to Mickey, jab him again with my right, cross him with my left.
I feint a kick with my right, turn it into my pivot, and whirl a low kick with my left, catching Mickey on the thigh. He stumbles backward.
He has no idea how to fight what he is.
”Fight, Mickey,” Coach yells. ”You think you'll always fight orthodox opponents?”
Mickey growls, spits out a sticky stream of blood and then hops toward me. I skip over his sweeping first kick, antic.i.p.ate the rapid follow-up second kick, and I grab his leg mid-flight and twist him, throwing him to the mat.
I'm on top of him in an instant, wrap my legs around his hips, get my arm beneath his chin, and it's game over. We're evenly matched for strength, so there's no way he's getting out of this rear naked choke hold.
”Okay, okay,” Coach says coming into the practice cage. He slaps the top of my head, and I let go of Mickey, barely having broken a sweat.
Coach is a big man. He's got a bit of a gut now, but he's freakish strong. He never made it to the pros a he was too old by the time MMA became fas.h.i.+onable a but he's an accomplished wrestler, boxer, and now MMA trainer.
”What the f.u.c.k was that, Chance?”
”I thought I'd give it a try,” I say. I switched my stance, became a left-handed fighter.
”You think you can just switch up?” he barks at me as I get up. He gets in my face, forehead against the padding of my helmet. ”You think it's that easy? There's no place for gimmicks in the cage, Chance! That s.h.i.+t'll get you locked up against a pro.”
”It worked.”