Chapter 10

“Six months ago I told you that you had thirty days to come up with a plan to develop widespread loyalty for Elite.” Kelly paced in front of his staff. He was a man who thought best when his feet were moving. “Since then all you’ve given me was crap. Nonsense. Awful, terrible ideas.”

            The marketing team seemed to cringe at the sound of those words. Some of them nervously picked at their ties or scribbled notes, though Kelly hadn’t said anything noteworthy yet. It was how they dealt with stress from their boss.

            The fighter management team, however, seemed as casual in spirit as they were in dress.

            “I know now that it’s my fault your ideas all sucked. I asked you to do something impossible,” said Kelly. He kneaded the bridge of his nose and then raised a finger in the air. It was a finger that said he’d figured out something. “I told you to develop loyalty for the fighters. I shouldn’t have done that.”

            One of the marketing team raised his hand. “I thought you said you wanted loyalty to be the new company goal,” he pointed out.

            “It still is,” answered Kelly, “but not to the fighters.”

            The room was quiet. None of the staff could quite grasp what their boss was telling them. They simply watched in silence as Kelly pulled the remote from his pocket and turned on the projector.

            Hidden speakers in the conference room filled the room with chanting spectators. Confused, crowded images danced on the screen until a familiar scene came into view.

            “This was us in 1993,” Kelly narrated. “This is the golden age of mixed martial arts.”

            It was, in fact, the very first Elite fight ever broadcast. The staff recognized the iconic, circular cage and the first generation logo decorating the ring floor. The cage’s posts and padding was strangely bare of sponsor logos and dot-com advertisements. This was before all the money.

            “Looks different, doesn’t it?” chuckled Kelly. Some of the staff, especially the fighter management staff, chuckled with him. “I can’t believe we ever looked like this. Look at that logo!” This brought more laughter.

            Still, the staff waited to see what their boss was talking about. Many of them wondered if they were seeing it at that moment, but not realizing it.

            “Ah, this is it. Everybody watch,” Kelly ordered.

            The camera turned away from the cage, and instead focused on the entrance for the fighters. There was no music, only the cheers of the spectators. Appearing in the doorway was first a single man, soon followed by seven. Each man in the line was connected by placing his hands on the shoulders of the man ahead of him. They walked in unison, almost like a line of chanting tribesmen, as they jogged past the outstretched hands of fans around them. The fighter, dressed in a simple white gi, was not in the front of the line, but in the middle with his hands on the shoulders of an older man ahead of him.

            “The Gracia family,” Kelly said, though no one in the room needed reminding who the men were. “Notice how they’re all connected. Unified. They’re like a team. And notice that Ricardo isn’t out in front. He’s behind his father and his brothers.”

            Realization began to dawn on the faces of the staff. Kelly saw this, but he continued. He wanted his point to sink in.

            “And notice the outstretched fingers of their fans. Notice how their trying to shake the hands of all the Gracia family members, and not just Ricardo?”

            More nods.

            Kelly waved his wand, gesturing to the entire line of men jogging to the cage. “The very first Elite champion was part of a team. We’ve not seen this kind of loyalty for any one fight team since. People may not know our current lineup of belt holders right now, but you can bet that nearly every Elite fan in the world knows who the Gracias are.”

            The lights came on again, washing the projected video until it was barely visible.

            “I was wrong to ask you to build loyalty for individual fighters,” repeated Kelly. “It can’t be done. That’s why we’re going to make mixed martial arts into a team sport.”

 

            At 7 a.m. the alarm sounded and Hector hit the button perhaps a little harder than he needed too. The plastic casing groaned as the weight of Hector’s hand slid off it and fell back to the bed. It took several minutes for Hector to finally sit up, and when he did he stared at the clock for several more minutes without moving to do anything more than to run his hand over his buzzed hair or to pop his knuckles. He knew he was going to break that clock one day. He knew that one day he would lash out at it in a stupor and silence it for good. The thought made him sad, for some reason.

            The apartment was quiet. There was no radio, no television, no pets to break the silence. Hector preferred it this way. He liked knowing he was alone here.

            His room was dominated by exercise equipment, mostly weights and a stationary bike, so that the floor was a virtual mine field that dared any bare foot to traverse it without injury. Hector, however, knew the mess intimately, and as soon as he’d relieved himself in the tiny bathroom adjacent to his room he fell on his morning routine with a fervor that bordered obsession. The lifted weights in sharp, quick repetitions, timing his workout so that he was furiously active for short bursts of time with even shorter breaks in between. He sweat and grunted and hissed with effort. Then he went running.

            He saw that his phone had several unopened text messages from the night before. He sat down with his phone and his breakfast smoothie at a small card table with a single chair and saw the messages were from George. Hector wasn’t surprised he didn’t hear his phone receive the messages last night, since they’d been sent between one and two in the morning.

George: u awake? (1:17 a.m.)

George: sooooo bored

George: when r we going to that krav place?

            Hector had often teased George for being so careless about his scheduling. While Hector was the disciplined one, going to bed no later than 11 almost every night, waking up at 7 every morning, and following a strict training schedule, George was very much the opposite. George often went to bed and woke up far later than Hector thought could possibly be healthy for a competitive fighter, and he trained as his whims suited him.

Not that George was poorly trained, far from it. Hector had great respect for George’s grappling ability, which was developing quickly. Not only did George have a strong wrestling background even before he began training Jiu-jitsu, but he also lived at the academy, training every day, sometimes twice a day. George had earned his blue belt in the amount of time it took most people to earn their first stripe. Hector suspected George would catch up to him in rank soon enough, if he kept at it. George already had his fourth stripe on his blue belt, meaning his purple belt wouldn’t be far behind.

Hector didn’t have the advantage of living above the Brotherhood Jiu-jitsu Academy. He had rent to pay, and a job. Hector finished his breakfast and slid on his coveralls and his boots. He grabbed a chainsaw from where it lay beside the door and walked outside to the truck in his designated parking space. After throwing the saw into the bed and climbing in the cab he took out his phone and answered George’s messages, sure his friend wouldn’t read them until he woke hours later.

            Hector: we throw down Saturday. get ready.

Work was flavorless for Hector. It was a way to pay for rent and tuition at the academy, nothing more. He worked a chainsaw cutting down dead or dangerous limbs from trees, or occasionally whole trees. It was simple to him. Lots of work he could do while thinking about other things. Like class tonight. Or the challenge match this weekend. It was Tuesday. That gave him four nights to get George ready. In his head he planned drills and exercises that would get his friend ready to fight an experienced Krav Maga practitioner. While trees toppled, he imagined they were people.

Hector quickly parked his truck back into its designated space and began stripping off his coveralls almost before he reached his front door. Everything went back to its place. The chainsaw by the door, the coveralls in their basket, and the keys on the hook. The apartment was quiet but for the sudden rush of water from the shower. Hector quickly scrubbed himself clean, meticulously scouring a small collection of scars around his stomach and the tops of his thighs. He snatched his gi pants and top from where they waited in the dryer. He dressed himself, leaving the gi top open and his ragged brown belt slung over his neck. He left in a hurry, snagging the gym bag full of gear, water, and sanitary wipes from its place by the door. It was always next to the chainsaw. As hector dashed out to his truck, he had the faintest of smiles. Jiu-jitsu may not have been his job, but it was his work, and he was glad to get going.

The academy was packed that night, which surprised Hector. Christmas was coming in a few weeks, and the holidays always had an effect on training attendance. Usually that meant people trained less to spend more time with their families or to get more shopping done. Today, it seemed, was an exception.

As Hector pushed open the doors to the academy, he was met by the noise of sixty or more men and women stretching, joking, and warming up. He could both smell and hear the hot breaths of those people rolling and stretching on the broad, blue mats. He knew all of their faces and names, except for the new white belts, and he’d trained with all of them. Immediately he saw George stumble in from the hallway that led to his upstairs room, yawning as he tried to tie his belt. In the knots of seated people he could see the black belts. He saw Pablo Gracia, and his younger brother, Stephan. Ricardo must have been in his office, which satisfied Hector. For several reasons, he and the old man weren’t seeing eye-to-eye much lately, and Hector welcomed a break from him.

“What’s up, man?” George said as he approached. He looked as though he’d just woke from a nap.

“Nothing. Hey, is Ricardo teaching today?” asked Hector, craning his head to see if he could see the master in his office. He couldn’t.

“Yeah, he is. He said something about knife defense today. That, and guard stuff.”

Hector cursed under his breath. Not only would he be getting plenty of Ricardo tonight, but half the lesson was self-defense. Probably not that helpful for their upcoming challenge match.

“I should just leave until it’s time to roll,” said Hector.

“Why don’t you get along with Ricardo?” asked George. He had his hands on his hips and a puzzled look on his face. His voice was too low to be easily overheard by their classmates.

Hector grimaced and shrugged. “Oh, you know,” he answered. When it was apparent from George’s face that he didn’t know, he added, “You know, he doesn’t want anyone to compete. He’s kinda bossy. He’s bitter. He just rubs me wrong.”

“Have you always felt that way about him?” George asked. When Hector nodded, he asked, “Then why train with him?”

“Because he’s the one of the best. I started training because I wanted to defend myself, and his Jiu-jitsu is the best there is. Or at least then I thought it was. I think it still is in the street, but in the cage…”

George nodded thoughtfully. The two of them sat on the blue mat and started stretching. The rest of the class was used to their routine. The two of them normally sat together the few minutes before class began, and no one paid any attention to what they talked about. Not that they could tell, anyway.

“So why’d you want to learn self defense so badly?” George asked with a smirk. “Somebody beat you up?”

“Yeah, actually,” answered Hector honestly. “I used to get beat up a lot when I was a kid.” Hector didn’t say it was his father.

George laughed, clearly enjoying the image of a wimpy, defenseless Hector being pushed around by bigger kids at school. “I bet you’d love to see those guys again now, huh?” he chuckled.

“No,” Hector answered with a fake grin. “I really don’t think I’d like that.”

Ricardo emerged from his office at last and trotted to the front of the class. George and Hector took their places in the ranked lineup as Ricardo led them all in their customary bow-in and led them in the opening exercises.

Hector didn’t particularly enjoy the knife defense lesson, as he saw it as one of the few areas of knowledge where he had an advantage on Ricardo. While he’d had to memorize Ricardo’s approaches to knife defense in order to advance his own rank, Hector knew firsthand how knife defense really worked.

First you’re surprised. There’s the several seconds it takes for your brain to register that the thing in the other guy’s hand is not for chopping lettuce or peeling an apple. It’s for you. Your mind has to digest that fact after a lifetime of learning that knives are for other things. That the pointy end is never, ever supposed to go into a human being. But this one will. That takes time to process. By that time you’ve already been cut, sliced along the skin of your thigh or playfully poked in the stomach. Not in a place where the neighbors or teachers will notice, only you.

See, knives are seldom lethal. Not immediately, anyway. Most people live through getting cut. And Hector knew that the next thing, after the surprise and the cut, wasn’t pain. It was panic, which is worse. The view of so much of your own blood coming from a ragged hole your mind refused to believe was there. The panic takes over, and you either fight or flee, and you do either with equal savagery. And Hector knew when you panic you fight differently than in Jiu-jitsu or MMA or even a street brawl. You use your teeth. So maybe you run and hide, and run and hide, and run and hide. Then one day you fight back. But your attack is not likely to be any more lethal than his.

But if the neighbors hear the ruckus, you may not have to live with him anymore.

That was defense against knives as Hector knew it. Not the block, followed by the arm drag into a neat takedown or shoulder lock. But he did the moves anyway.

The instruction on the guard position was good, though Hector far preferred to fight from the top. From a place where you could punch or elbow. But the guard wasn’t bad, and Hector knew it had great value. Truth be told, Hector was quite good on his back, where he could wrap his legs around his opponents waist or control him with his feet to deliver chokes, arm locks, or sweeps, but he always saw it as so defensive. And defensive was not Hector’s style. Better to be on top, where you could hurt without being hurt.

“Alright, everybody break!” called Ricardo. The class members untangled themselves from each other and listened. “Take a short break and get some water. Next we roll!”

Hector breathed a sigh of relief. This is what he’d been waiting for all day. As the students began to pair off and begin sparring, Hector picked a young, strong-looking blue belt and nodded to him, all the communication the two of them needed. Hector went to work on him like a surgeon. He attacked early, tangling the young man’s hands and feet and sweeping him onto his back. Hector quickly took the side mount, a position where Hector controlled his training partner from the top by laying across the man’s chest with his legs on one side and his arms on the other. He let the guy struggle, taking every opportunity to make his position better and his opponent’s worse. Soon the blue belt was gasping from the pressure on his chest, and Hector took advantage of his flailing to trap his arm and crank his shoulder with a slow, tight Kimura arm lock. The tap-out came quickly.

They rolled again with a similar result. This time the blue belt tapped while Hector choked him from behind. Then they parted, and Hector began searching the room for another willing training partner. He found a purple belt, a middle-aged man who he only knew as Jim, and another blue belt, a super heavyweight that stood about 6’ 7” and weighed in at just over three hundred pounds. Hector enjoyed fighting the big guy. It excited him to have to compensate so much for the difference in weight and size. The placement of his feet while in guard, for example, since there was no reasonable way to cross his ankles behind the man’s back. Also, the length of his arms presented a problem, since they were so long that Hector could hardly gain the necessary leverage to attempt arm and shoulder locks.

By the time he finally tapped the big blue belt with a skillful collar choke, Hector had broken out in a profuse sweat. His breathing, however, was steady and strong. He was not in the least bit of distress. He was the aggressor here. The alpha dog. The king of the jungle. This was a place where he didn’t have to retreat or hide or hope that someone would step in to take him far away. It was a room full of dozens of fighters, any of whom wanted to prove they could best him in a fight, and yet, he stood on top of the mountain.

“Hector, come roll with me,” said someone behind him.

Hector turned and saw Ricardo sitting on the mat, lounging with his hands on the floor behind him and his feet bent and resting as though he were sitting on a beach. Something about his voice and posture grated on Hector, though he didn’t know what. He approached the instructor, slapped hands with him, and began.

Ricardo sat up a little and raised one hand in front of him, but the rest of his body was relaxed and still lounging. Hector reached forward, hoping to get handfuls of fabric on Ricardo’s sleeve and pants, and he succeeded. But the moment he did he felt himself pulled forward and off balance by his own grips. Ricardo had rolled onto his side, almost lazily, and Hectors own grips were pulling him into Ricardo’s guard. Immediately he let go, trying to posture himself up and back away to try another approach, but he felt Ricardo’s hands around his ankles and all of a sudden he was swept onto his back, Ricardo smoothly, even slowly, sliding into a smother position of control over him.

Hector felt his temper flaring. He hated this feeling of helplessness. He hated being on the bottom of this terrible position. Ricardo casually shifted his weight, and all of a sudden Hector could feel an additional thirty pounds of weight added to his already crushed chest. He desperately tried to shift onto his side, wanting to ease the oppressive weight off of his deflating rib cage. He felt Ricardo’s hands searching, scouting for an opening in Hector’s defense. They found one.

The difference in speed was disorienting. The smooth, slow pace that Ricardo had used before changed. In the blink of an eye he’d changed position again, and Hector could feel the rack-like pressure of an arm bar about to happen. He reached out to his trapped arm with his free hand, wanting to brace himself, buy himself some time to escape. Ricardo’s adjustments were so precise, so minute, that a simple half an inch of difference in his grip and a few degrees angle change for his pull felt like the additional strength of a second person pulling against Hector’s failing defenses. Hector felt his hand slip from where it was holding on to the victimized arm and it fully extended. Hector waited, panting and disheveled, for the final ounce of pressure needed to completely submit his arm.

It never came. A moment later, the grip on his arm loosened in the slightest way that immediately opened up to Hector an opportunity to escape. An escape Ricardo knew very well and routinely taught to his students.

“What are you doing?” Hector hissed. His voice was muffled somewhat because his position pressed his face against Ricardo’s leg. “Just finish the submission.”

Ricardo didn’t tighten his hold on the arm. “Just escape and keep going,” Ricardo told him. “Catch-and-Release. We’ve all done this before.”

It was true. Catch-and-Release was a kind of sparring Ricardo sometimes taught to his students. Hector knew it well, but didn’t prefer it. It meant that the moment you were caught in a submission, the winner didn’t go all the way. They just loosened their grip, making an escape opportunity for their opponent and keeping the two locked in an unending round of Jiu-jitsu. No real winner. No finish. No killing stroke.

Hector pulled out of the hold, ignoring the escape. He simply stood up and walked away from Ricardo.

“Hector, is something wrong?” asked Ricardo.

“I’m not feeling well,” Hector lied. “I think I have a cold.”

On the other side of the room, George saw Hector untying his belt and gathering his things. He started to get up, a concerned look on his face, but Hector just looked at George and shook his head. George shrugged as if to say “If you say so”, and turned back to his opponent, another blue belt that George was thoroughly beating.

As Hector picked up his bag and headed out the door, he tried to think back to a time when Jiu-jitsu was still new to him, and when he was not so angry at Ricardo. When he wasn’t angry at him at all, and the two of them were friends. It was hard to remember. He didn’t know why it changed.

The cool winter air hit Hector’s bare chest where his gi top was open. Soon he was in his truck again, fumbling through the contents of his bag for his keys. He needed to get home, to his apartment. He needed a quiet place to be alone, where no one had any control over him. Where he had no teachers, no bosses, and no father. And no Ricardo. Ricardo, who felt like the only person left in the whole world who really had any power over Hector. And Hector couldn’t stand that.