Chapter 1

A Chapter by Brian B

Some time ago…

George Peligro felt as though he were drowning. Wrestling was, as he understood it, an uneven mix of athleticism, instinct, and the presence of mind to stay calm in the most claustrophobic positions imaginable. At the moment, he was wishing he had the third. He was on all fours on a wrestling mat under bright lights being smothered by someone who, though he weighed the same as George, was significantly bigger.

There was shouting. Some of it came from the spectators, but most of it from his coach, a short, bald man with a red beard. “Don’t let him flatten you out!” George heard him say, though it was muffled.

As though his coach could see the future, George felt the other wrestler’s weight on his back forcing him to straighten out his legs until his stomach was flat on the mat. Escape would be near impossible now.

A hand raked across George’s face, dragging a hard forearm across the bridge of his nose and forcing him to turn his head to the right. His body screamed with fatigue as he tried to fight the urge to cry out. It was agonizing. It was like a wave was beating his floundering body against a rock. He wondered how long he could hold on without giving in to a pin.

The hand that had cross faced him let go, but George could feel it again, this time snaking under his armpit and inching upwards towards the back of his neck. “Watch out for the half-nelson!” he could hear his coach yell. This time, George knew what was happening before his coach told him. He even remembered that there was an escape to the half-nelson, but he couldn’t remember how to do it. The hold was inevitable. All he could do was stare at the blue mat pressing against his face and survive until the time ran out.

A sickening wrench of his neck told him the half-nelson was locked in. To George, it felt like he was being half-crucified.

“Don’t you let him flip you, George, Don’t let him flip you! Survive! Stay on your stomach!”

George spread himself out, trying to increase his gravity by willpower. His body was numb and weak. He suddenly became strangely aware of sound and smell. His every breath was a roar of hurricane winds. Each one sucked in the dank, sticky smells of the mat and sour sweat. He wanted to spit.

Somewhere a horn blew. George was jostled as the referee pushed the bigger wrestler off of him, and as soon he felt the boy’s weight lift away he turned to his back and gasped for air. He’d lost, but he lost by decision. Eleven to four.

“You did good in there,” his coach told him later in the locker room. “You wrestled the guy ranked fourth in the state and you didn’t get pinned. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

George had his singlet pulled off his shoulders and hanging at his waist. He glistened with sweat. His diaphragm ached with every breath he took, and his muscles felt like dry, aged wood ready to split and crack if they were bent too far. It was a feeling he knew he would miss.

“Good season, George,” he heard a team mate say. He answered with something similar and continued sitting on the wooden bench between the lockers.

He wished there were more matches left in the season. He felt like he still had some fight left in him before graduation.

Kelly Bairde poured himself a glass of wine before sitting down next to his wife on the couch. The big sixty-inch screen was tuned into a pay-per-view fight, but unlike most viewers, Kelly had the volume relatively low. There was no need to get so excited and blast the volume just to watch the fights. For him, this was mostly business.

His wife sat quietly beside him crocheting a baby blanket. They were expecting their first grandchild any day now.

Kelly watched with dispassionate interest as the main event began. It was a bout for the heavyweight title. The heavyweight events usually drew in the most revenue, since people seemed to be most interested in who might be the baddest man on the planet. But Kelly had no delusions about what the outcome of this bout would mean. He sipped his wine and watched.

The bell rang and the two huge men met each other in the center of the octagon. They didn’t touch gloves, the usual sign of respect. Instead the contender, a mountain of a man with a stunning wrestling history, charged the champion like a bull to a matador.

It was over in the first two minutes of the first round. The bigger of the two fighters, a Muay Thai kickboxer and current champion, threw knees and kicks to the other big man’s liver hard enough to double him over. It was over seconds after that. To Kelly, it seemed like the contender had hardly put up a fight.

“Are you kidding me?” Kelly growled into his wine glass.

As camera crews and corner men flooded the octagon, the defeated contender grabbed the microphone away from the fight announcer and declared his retirement from mixed martial arts.

“What does he think he’s doing?” Kelly almost shouted. He turned to his wife. “Do you know how much I spent on this guy? The advertising, the clothing lines, the…the…”

He hissed a swear that made his wife cringe.

“Honestly, Kel, watch your language. I’m not one of the guys at the gym.”

He pretended that she hadn’t said anything.

“I spent a fortune on that guy. He was supposed to be a superstar. He was supposed to get his title back in the fight to end all fights!”

“Well, he lost,” she said as she continued crocheting. The blanket was halfway done.

“Then he’s supposed to try again!” he shouted. He stood from his seat on the couch and started pacing through the living room. “He boasted six months ago that he was the greatest athlete the octagon had ever seen, and he was right. The man weighs two hundred sixty and he moves like he’s a buck forty! But he has a two-fight losing streak and he goes belly-up on me like a goldfish!” He stopped pacing and faced his wife. He swore again.

“Stop swearing. Remember what that friend of yours used to say? No man…something, something angry?” She stopped crocheting and tried to remember the quote.

His expression softened, but only a little. “No man can afford to be angry,” he muttered. He waved his hand dismissively and continued pacing, though slower this time.

“It’s just that a victory in the cage used to mean something. It meant respect. And not just for you, but what you stood for. Look at this guy. He doesn’t stand for anything. And everyone knows it. He’s just some guy that’ll lose the belt six months later and everyone will forget him. I can’t sell that. There’s no way to build a fan base around that.”

That was when Kelly Bairde, president of Elite Fighting, decided that things needed to change.

George sat in the passenger’s seat of his father’s car. He was staring out the window. He wasn’t quiet because he was upset or angry. He was just tired. He always slept in until a few minutes before it was time for his dad to drive him to school.

His dad, Ignacio Peligro, was a morning person.

“Wrestling season’s finally over. You’ve got more time on your hands now. I’m going to have to give you more chores. Or a job. Start charging you rent,” he teased.

George grunted something that sounded like “Too early.”

“Too early? This is the best time of day!” his father said. “Speaking of time, you’re graduating soon.”

George made another grunt.

“School will be over. What’ll you do?”

George shrugged. “Work, I guess.” Then he turned to his father. “Are there wrestling teams for adults?” he asked.

Ignacio’s face fell a little. “Some cities have clubs. They’re okay.”

The passing trees out the window were budding. Some had flowers. Spring was there already. Summer wouldn’t be far behind.

“Colleges have wrestling teams,” his father said more brightly. “You could go a long way as part of a college wrestling team. Why not try college?”

“I don’t know,” George answered.

“You don’t know?” his father repeated. “I hope you know soon,” he added quietly.

George heard him. He didn’t say anything.

They turned at a sign that read “Bruton High School”. Ignacio pulled the car in front of the small high school to let his son out. Kids were everywhere, crossing the street, hanging out in front of doors, talking, yelling, singing.

“How about boxing?” George asked with his hand still on the door handle. “You were great. You could train me and we could find some�",”

“You’re going to be late for school,” his father interrupted.

They didn’t say anything else. George opened the door, grabbed his backpack from the backseat, and disappeared into the cloud of kids rushing to make it to homeroom.

Ignacio watched him go. Even after he couldn’t see his son anymore, he sat in the car without the radio on. He pulled away from the curb and drove to the brewery where he worked.

prev chapter