Part 7 (1/2)

”It worked because Mickey didn't antic.i.p.ate it.”

”Exactly.”

”Can't play the same trick twice.”

”I only need to beat each opponent once.”

”Again!” he cries, spraying spittle into my face before leaving the cage.

I walk to the center of the octagon, and extend a hand to Mickey to help him up. He slaps it away, and I grin at him.

”Sore loser?”

”Use your right,” he tells me. ”And I'll beat you with my right.”

I shrug. Mickey's not half as ambidextrous as he thinks he is. ”Your funeral.”

We tap fists, and I settle into an orthodox stance, leading with my left, waiting with my right. Mickey is doing the same, but I can tell he's not comfortable. He doesn't have the coordination, the agility with his weak hand, and it shows.

I consider it for a moment. Maybe ambidexterity is my genetic boon.

He lunges clumsily, off-balance. I kick away his leading foot, and he's not used to having his left as a pivot. He spins, nearly trips over, and with his back toward me I grab hold of his head, weave him down onto the mat, and get him into a Pace choke.

His neck is in the nook of my knee, and I've got his arm pinned, and his hips stapled to the mat. He's got no leverage, can't spin, move, twist out of it.

Like I said, it's all about the angles. It's all about leverage. It's physics, when you get down to it.

People say fighting is an art, and I agree. There are different styles, different flows. Fighters have personalities to their technique.

But fighting is also a science.

More than that, it's a marriage between the beautiful artistry of antic.i.p.ation, improvisation, and the cold, unfeeling technicalities of physics and positioning.

Like the perfect play in a basketball or football game, when you meld the two successfully, you create a winning formula, a moment of magic that gives you gooseb.u.mps, that makes the hairs on the back of your arms stand up.

My art is my ability to antic.i.p.ate a move; my science is understanding how to counter it, and lock my opponent down in a submission hold before they know what hit them.

Mickey, unable to breathe, taps, so I let him go.

Sweat pours from his body, and as we both get up I see a blaze of anger in his eyes.

”Alright,” Coach says. He gets into the cage, grips onto Mickey's shoulder. ”You're done for today. I know that look in your eyes, and it's only going to make you lose.”

”Good fight,” I say, extending my fist, but Mickey ignores it, leaves the cage.

”What now, Coach?”

The burly man descends upon me. He's taller than me, wider than me, thicker than me. He doesn't have a body like I do, but when he was my age, I have little doubt he would have had the perfect fighting body. Long reach, wide shoulders, a low center.

”You're one arrogant son of a b.i.t.c.h, do you know that?” he snarls at me, words ejecting from his mouth rapid-fire. He's got a hint of a southern drawl, a faded accent.

I blink. ”Anything to win, Coach.”

”Take off your helmet. Now, G.o.d d.a.m.n it!”

I unfasten it, hold it by my side. Coach is still in my face, but his proximity won't jar me. I know he's harder on me than any of his other students.

It's because I'm the best.

”You think you can switch southpaw in the pros?”

”Plenty do. Jones Jr, Hagler.”

”You've got a long way to go to get your name in with them, boy! Come on, show me what you got with your left, then.”

Coach backs up, pulls a mouth guard from his s.h.i.+rt pocket and chews on it.

His s.h.i.+rt pocket. The guy is wearing slacks, for f.u.c.k's sake!

He kicks off his leather shoes, peels off his socks. He's got gross old-man toenails.

He drops into an orthodox stance.

Now my heart is racing. I've beaten Coach before, but he is one tricky fighter, and he's got a ton of power, that special kind of old-man muscle.

I set my stance, leading with my right, waiting with my left. I don't put my padded helmet back on. Coach is in here without taped wrists and in f.u.c.king slacks and a dress s.h.i.+rt... he doesn't usually fight.

It would be unfair of me to wear the helmet.

Coach hops toward me, a little dance, swaying left, right. He stutters with his feet, deceptively light for somebody his weight, but I see the feint before he throws it, and know where the follow-up is coming.

I counter, hit him in his arm, grab hold onto it and spin around him until I'm on his back.

But Coach spins with me, and now he's on my back. With his hands around my face, I worm out of his hold, throw a left cross. He dodges, and swivels a kick at me.

d.a.m.n it, the kick is a feint! I don't notice it until too late. My arms are stretched downward, blocking his low leg, and I see his right fist hurtling straight toward my jaw.

He cracks me, and I stumble backward, head spinning, the taste of metal in my mouth.

It was a good f.u.c.king hit, that tricky motherf.u.c.ker.

”Come on, boy,” he taunts me. ”You think you're ambidextrous? You think you got what it takes?”

I feel the heat inside me, the compet.i.tive fire, ignite. I don't get angry a I never get angry in the cage. Get angry, and you lose discipline. Get angry, and you're done for.

But you still got to have fire, compet.i.tiveness. It's not about wanting to win. It's about wanting not to lose.

I test a jab, he slaps it away, and so I keep testing it, testing it, watching the way he moves.