“You’re early,” he says.
“I was excited,” I answer. “Stay in bed.”
Without another word, I get up and leave the room. Today’s the day, and I want to make sure he has a good start to his day.
After his last fight, I’ve started going to the gym with Mason. I told him that I wanted to work on cardio, but he didn’t buy it. I was there to keep an eye on him and make sure I wasn’t making a huge mistake giving him my blessing to fight.
I meant what I told him in the hospital, but if there were any signs he wasn’t in the condition to go through with it, I would have said something. Fortunately for both of us, though, he’s strong.
When I woke up this morning, I wanted to let him sleep, but I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. I tried to channel it into something useful by cooking up a nice breakfast for two, but it’s already done and I don’t want it to get cold.
I plate Mason’s breakfast consisting of three eggs, one scrambled, one hardboiled and one fried just the way he likes them, a stack of pancakes, and six strips of bacon. I take it in to him, carrying a glass of orange juice in the other hand.
His groan in response to the sound of me coming back into the room turns into a grin when he turns over and sees what I have for him.
“You are the best, you know that?” he asks.
“I do, actually,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
He sits up and takes the plate, and I set his orange juice on a coaster on his nightstand before going back to the kitchen to retrieve my own food.
After this, there’s nothing between him and the fight except a very long drive.
* * *
I never realized how many abandoned buildings there are in a given city until I met Mason.
Right now, we’re walking into an old high school gymnasium, surrounded by a slew of other forgotten, empty buildings.
Logan spots us and comes over to offer his advice and encouragement, although his words are heavy on the former and light on the latter. After that, person after person comes over, each one of them with some kind of inside scoop into Mason’s opponent, though nobody seems to know who he is.
This time, there’s not going to be any waiting. Everyone who’s here is here for this fight, Mason’s fight.
The way it was explained to me, all of the championship bouts in the tournament are going to happen more or less at the same time, each in a different location to cut down on the risk of discovery. Personally, I couldn’t possibly care less about the other fights going on around the state of Wisconsin tonight, but Mason seemed pretty happy about being able to find out who takes what.
I squeeze Mason’s hand and he turns to me, saying, “Yeah?”
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“I’m good,” he says.
“Good,” I tell him. “Do you need anything before—”
“Ladies—okay, there aren’t too many ladies here tonight—Gentlemen!” a man’s voice calls from toward the middle of the gym. “Tonight, we have the Wisconsin State Underground Make-up-a-Name-for-It-Because-Nobody-Else-Did tournament!”
Not the most inspiring introduction to the evening.
“Do you need anything?” I ask Mason, having been so rudely interrupted so the guy in the center could hear himself talk.
“Kiss for good luck?” he asks.
I give him a peck on the cheek and one on the lips just to make sure I’ve got the bases of superstition and girlfriend duties fully covered.
“Tonight, we have the best of the best: two lightweight monsters of MMA. Let me hear it!” the man in the center shouts and the crowd of what I’m estimating to be about three hundred people erupts into ear-splitting applause.
“That’s my cue,” Mason says directly into my ear, but he doesn’t let go of my hand as he starts toward the front.
“Can we have the fighters to the ring, please?” the loudmouthed announcer calls.
When we get to the innermost edge of the circle, Mason stops, turns and kisses me deeply on the lips. When he pulls away, I try to think of something profound to say, but only manage, “Have fun,” before he’s releasing my hand and walking into the ring.
From where I’m standing, I can just hear the announcer asking Mason who he is. Mason answers and the announcer yells, “Mason Ellis! Do we have Ben Jones? Ben Jones get to the ring if you haven’t already pissed yourself looking at this guy!”
Okay, the announcer’s got one of the more annoying voices I’ve heard in my life, but damn it, now I kind of like him. I’m feeling really great about Mason’s chances right up until the moment I spot his competitor.
The man’s standing at the edge of the mob, and though he’s not making a move toward the ring, it’s easy enough to know he’s the guy for the fact that he’s the only one staring Mason down from the crowd.
He’s not moving. From where I’m standing, I can’t even tell if the guy’s breathing, but I know he hasn’t blinked since I caught sight of him.
The man, the announcer called him Ben Jones, takes two steps forward and the throng erupts again. The announcer turns to the man. This time I can’t hear the announcer’s question, but I do see the man nod.
“Ben Jones!” the announcer declares. “Mostly gentleman and a few girlfriends who are going to be looking for revenge later tonight: We! Have! A! Match!”
I have to plug my ears.
Mason is shifting his weight from one leg to the other, working his neck side to side, and I can’t see the front of him, but I can just feel that he’s ready.
A hand falls on my shoulder and I turn to see Logan standing behind me. He looks at me, nods with such seriousness I’m having a little trouble not snorting laughter about it, and he turns toward the ring, removing his hand from my shoulder.
To this day, I don’t think Logan and I have had a real conversation, though I’ve bumped into him enough times over the last couple of months.
“If both fighters can stay in it, we’ve got five rounds at three minutes per round for the featherweight championship! Let’s do it!” the announcer says and then disappears into the crowd.
A bald man with a Footlocker uniform on steps forward and speaks to both Mason and his competitor, though I don’t hear any of it.
After that, the two touch gloves and the fight begins.
At first, they’re just sizing each other up. Mason’s cut, but the other guy doesn’t seem to have a single ounce of fat on him. What’s more, I still haven’t seen the man blink.
Mason starts circling and his opponent throws a lazy punch. I’m not sure if he’s gauging his distance or just trying to get things started, but Mason doesn’t flinch when the punch comes within half an inch of his head.
The one thing I have found to be interesting about these fights is the primitive psychology involved. I’ll have to ask Mason, but it looks like the battle is just as much mental, through feints and false openings, as it is physical.
Out of nowhere, Mason lunges forward, his knee out, catching Jones in the abdomen. Mason’s right hand comes down hard, but glances off Jones’s chin as the latter ducks back out of the way.
Jones counters with a sweeping kick that lands just above Mason’s knee with a loud smack. Mason turns a little in the opposite direction, but recovers quickly, only he’s not quite quick enough as Jones connects with a left and then a right into Mason’s face, each blow landing with a sickening thwack.