Guys Read: The Sports Pages (16 page)

That workout took us forty minutes. I collapsed on my back feeling pretty good about having survived my first MMA lesson.

“Okay,” Maestre Jao said. “Good warm-up. Now we start class.”

Before I go further, let me explain very carefully that I was not Daniel-san to Maestre Jao's Mr. Miyagi. I was not taken on for any reason other than that I wanted to be a student and I could pay my monthly fee to his academy. Jao loved what he taught, but he also had to pay the rent and so he ran the academy as a businessman does. No pay, no play. And I was not his special student. I was just one of more than sixty students at various stages, each of us paying our hundred dollars a month. (I would be bagging groceries for a long time to rebuild my savings account.) No sentimental attachments. But that does not mean Jao did not care. To Jao, every student was a special student as long as Jao saw that the student's heart was in it as much as his body. And his staff of instructors had that same philosophy, as well as a respect for every style of fighting. Max, the boxing instructor, was a Golden Gloves champ at light heavyweight. Phil, who taught wrestling takedowns and defenses, was a wrestling coach at the nearby junior college. And then there was Vikorn, who had a typically short but meteoric career in Muay Thai in his native land and had then immigrated to America to work as the manager of his uncle's restaurant. All of them seemed to share that same aura of mutual regard and tough self-assurance that I hoped would someday be mine as well.

Unlike some Brazilian jiujitsu black belts who follow the old Gracie line of “our martial art is the best of all,” Jao had trained in many styles, from boxing and Greco-Roman wrestling to kickboxing and Muay Thai. His lineage and black belt were from Carlson Gracie—whose photo was on the wall of Jao's office—but he had been a successful mixed martial artist and knew that jiujitsu was not enough. He explained that one evening as a few of us sat around with him after our evening two-hour training session. By now I was able to speak more than two words at a time in his academy. And it was that night when I earned a nickname from him, one that was not just from my skinny limbs—which were actually putting on some muscle—but also from the way I was able to wrap my partners up, especially in what were now my two favorite moves: the triangle and the rear-naked choke. I was still not strong enough to always tap someone out, but I was good enough to give a good roll.

“So what's the best way to fight?” someone sitting behind me asked. It was a new student whose name I hadn't learned, an eager guy from the nearby naval base who had been to two classes thus far and who—like 50 percent of the people who came to the academy—would quit before putting in a second month.

Jao lifted up his thumb. “Man know only boxing, he get beat by kickboxer, wrestler, Muay Thai, jiujitsu.”

He looked around our little circle. We all nodded.

Then he held up his thumb and his index finger. “Know only kickboxing, he get beat by wrestler, maybe, too, by jiujitsu fighter. Maybe beat Muay Thai fighter.”

He sat back, letting it sink in. But he was not finished. He held up two index fingers.

“Wrestler knows only wrestling, he goes against jiujitsu?” The pause was a question, and I dared to answer it.

“Guillotine choke,” I said in a soft voice.

Jao beamed. “Right. But what if a man who knows boxing and wrestling and Muai Thai and kickboxing goes against a man who knows only jiujitsu.”

“Oops,” I replied before I could stop myself.

It was the closest I'd dared get to my old sarcasm, but in response Jao leaned forward and patted my shoulder. “Yes, Little Spider,” he said. The name stuck. But that wasn't all he gave me that evening.

“What if someone is a lot stronger than you?” Navy guy again, of course.

Jao chuckled. “Always assume that anyone you fight is stronger than you. Then you can find his weakness.”

I nodded. Jao may not be Mr. Miyagi, but he knew his stuff. He even lasted a round and a half against my idol, Anderson Silva, when he was a pro.

I filed it away in the long list of mental notes I'd made for myself. Like doing my best to not use what we learn in here in school or on the street. Like keeping my mouth shut and taking another route to my classes when I see Tipper and his buddies coming my way and bragging about all the MMA they've been learning at the PBFP.

The year went by faster than I'd expected. And not a single confrontation at school due to my new success at truly making myself invisible. Which is, I guess, why Tipper's jaw dropped when he saw me in the opposite corner and realized who he was about to fight. But it only dropped for a second before it turned into that shark-like grin. Easy meat, he clearly thought.

As we advance toward each other across the ring, I'm crouched low, but not so low that I can't move quickly to get out of the way.

No elbows
, I'm thinking.

That was what the ref said in our instructions. Right after the ring announcer reminded everyone that this was an amateur bout, three two-minute rounds.

“Remember, guys, this is amateur, not the UFC. No elbows.”

So, of course, that is what my old lunch buddy Tipper tries right away. After feinting a jab, he steps in with a spinning elbow that would have split my face wide-open.

If I'd been there, that is. I step back as he is spinning and watch him lose his balance when his illegal strike fails to connect. He stumbles back into the referee, who grabs his arm and shakes a finger in front of his nose.

“No elbows, son! Got it?”

What Tipper wants to get is me. He pushes off from the ref and charges, to be met by the punch that both Max and my dad have told me is the best weapon in a long-armed fighter's arsenal.

The left jab.

I pump it three times: head, chest, head again. It doesn't do any real damage but makes Tipper step back in confusion. He circles me, a little warier after finding out that this guppy has teeth.

“Good, Spider! Keep your distance,” Jao calls to me from my corner. “Feel him out.”

Good advice, but Tipper charges me and shoots for a double-leg takedown so fast that all I can do is sprawl. In addition to his recent MMA training, Tipper is also the varsity 165-pound wrestler, so his try is no joke. But I hook under his arm with a whizzer, push on his head with my other hand, and I'm free. To my surprise, strong as I know Tipper to be, he's not that much stronger than me.

He stares at me as I slide back. “I am going to bust you up!” he snarls.

I almost reply, “You and what army.” But I don't.

Stay focused
, my inner voice says, trying to be helpful. It's not. Sometimes, like in a fight, thinking is the worst thing you can do.

“Spider, act and react,” Jao shouts. “You hear me, Spider? Act and react.”

Before I can do either one, Tipper hits me square in the belly with a side kick. It doesn't knock the wind out of me. All those stomach crunches—about a billion by now—have made me rock hard there. But the leg sweep that he follows it up with takes my legs out from under me, and I land on my back.

Next thing I know, a screaming wolverine is on top of me, swinging one punch after another. Or maybe it's a chimpanzee. No, it's actually Tipper. But I have my hands up, block one punch after another, then grab his wrist, throw one foot over his back as I push against his thigh with the other foot, and pivot. Voilà! Tipper is swept, and I am on top in full mount.

And before I can do anything else, the bell sounds and the round is over.

I jump up to my feet and reach a hand down to help Tipper up. To my surprise—and his—he grabs my hand, lets me pull him up. Then he realizes what he's done. He drops my paw like a hot potato and spins away from me as fast as he can, backing into his own corner.

Round two. Someone was talking to me in the corner between rounds. It takes me a minute to realize it was my father.

“Great job, son. Now use your range. Keep stuffing his takedowns and then pick him apart.”

Apparently that is what I do in round two, which is over before I can think about it. I must have been on autopilot, because the bell is ringing again, and I'm walking back to the stool again. As I look back over my shoulder, I notice that Tipper is limping as he walks. I vaguely remember having a leg lock on him right after I got knocked down by whatever it was that hit me in my right temple and left this lump there that Jao is icing.

“Even fight,” Jao says. “Win it in the final round.”

The bell rings again. As we meet at the center of the ring, Tipper is the first one to extend his gloves for us to tap at the start of this final round.

Think he respects you now?
my inner voice asks.

I don't have time to think back an answer. After stepping back, Tipper has just shown his respect in the form of a superhard roundhouse toward my temple. I just manage to block with a right forearm, and I bounce back against the rope. My arm feels numb. I wonder if it's broken. Might be. But my left arm reaches up as Tipper closes with me. I hook my hand around his neck and kick at his inner knee with my opposite leg. Tipper goes down, me on top of him this time. We transition from one move to another. Him on top, then me again. If my arm wasn't hurting so much, it'd be one of the better rolls I've ever executed. As it is, I'm not sure how long I can keep this up.

There's just one last thing to try. My long legs lock around his body. Somehow I'm on his back, and my good arm is around his neck. It hurts, but I manage to reach up with my bad arm and lock my hand over the top of his head, my other hand over my right bicep. And squeeze.

He's ready to tap out. I can feel it. But the bell rings, and I relax my hold. Tipper rolls over, then looks down at me, still on my back. This time he reaches out a hand. As he pulls me to my feet, he leans close.

“Great fight, Spider.”

“Thanks,” I say.

And as we wait together for the judges, I know that whatever the decision might be, I've won.

E
very time Lucas closes his eyes, the scene plays out like a YouTube video imprinted on his brain waves:

Shimmy gets the ball in the corner, down by a point. Four seconds left on the clock. There's a defender in his face. No way can a four-foot-eleven point guard shoot over him. Shimmy's trapped. Three seconds now … There it is, the trademark shimmy! He head-fakes to the left while moving to the right. A gasp threatens to suck all the air out of the gym as his high-top comes down millimeters—
no, what's smaller than millimeters?
—from the out-of-bounds line. The silence of the referee's whistle
not
blowing is the loudest sound Lucas can remember.

Two seconds. Shimmy's pass is on its way. Lucas snatches it out of the air at the top of the key. He charges into the paint. A big body blocks his way, appearing as if by black magic.

Wham!
Collision. But—no foul. The ref is going to let this play out.

One second left. A game clock loaded with twenty-four hundred heartbeats has run down to this ultimate tick. Defenders can be beaten, but not time itself. No chance to put the ball on the floor, no move to the left or right. There's only one option, one
direction
—

Up.

Lucas isn't much of a leaper, but in that instant, his legs are superpowered by the screams of the crowd and all the desperation of the final second of the championship game. He springs, feeling the air beneath him—more air than he can ever recall before. The ball leaves his hands a split second before the buzzer sounds. He's so panicked by the prospect of a block that he gets off a clumsy shot with an awkward high trajectory. The defender swipes at it, fingertips passing barely a half inch below.

Lucas waits for the swish,
prays
for it….

The clunk of the ball against the back of the rim resounds like a bomb blast. The shot ricochets high—weirdly high. For an instant, it's frozen there, level with the top of the backboard. Then it drops like a stone through the hoop, snapping the net.