Mason jumps back and even deflects a third punch from Jones, but his eyes are whiter than normal as he circles back around, throwing his own combination of punches. The two trade fists for a few seconds, but an air horn blows.
Everyone stops and turns toward the source of the sound, and while a surprising number of people are calling the guy an idiot, that was, apparently, the “bell” to end the first round.
Mason finds me in the front of the crowd and comes over. The fight paramedic from Mason’s “pit”—such a stupid name—Tom, pushes his way to the front.
He shines his flashlight in Mason’s eyes, looking for signs of a concussion, but a few seconds later, he’s patting Mason on the shoulder, saying, “Get ‘im.”
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“He’s fast,” Mason says through a thick rush of air. “I’ll start dodging one blow and the other one’s already there waiting for me.”
“Control the pace,” Logan tells Mason. “Don’t let this guy make you run when you’d rather walk. See if you can sneak in a good casting punch or eight when he’s coming off and see if you can Fedor his ass out in round two.”
I consider myself an intelligent woman, but when Logan speaks, I have no idea what he’s saying.
The referee calls to Mason and then to his opponent and the air horn blows to signal the start of the second round. The man standing next to the announcer has already had enough of the device, and he takes it from the announcer’s hand, tossing it with a big, arcing throw over the crowd.
If there was going to be laughter, it’s short-circuited as Jones crosses the distance between himself and Mason in what seems like no time at all and begins to unleash punch after punch after kick after elbow.
Mason’s doing a fair job defending himself, but Jones just keeps coming.
“Fedor!” Logan shouts behind me. “Cast his ass into a cast!”
Again: no clue.
Mason throws a right, seemingly with his entire body going into the blow, and the back of his fist curls around to hit straight into Jones’s face, knocking the latter’s head back so fast he’s got to have whiplash. As soon as his head comes back into position, though, Jones counters before Mason’s second full-body punch can land.
My heart is pounding and for the first time in my life, I know what bloodlust feels like as I’m shouting, “Knock him out!” I’m shouting, “Take him down!”
Although the people around me are shouting much more explicit things, a few of them turn toward me, mouthing what looks like “holy shin” before forgetting there was ever anything but the fight.
I can feel the hot blood in my face, and I’m cheering Mason onward, only he’s not doing so well.
Mason is so quick to my eye that it barely computes how Jones is able to counter so quickly, landing three punches for every two of Mason’s. It looks like Mason’s punches move Jones further than the inverse, but Jones is getting more of his through.
At one point, Mason pulls Jones into a grapple, trying unsuccessfully to wrench his deceptively small opponent off his feet.
“End of round!” the announcer calls out, having not found his air horn in the space of the round.
It’s not clear whether Mason and Jones don’t hear the announcer or they don’t care, because both of them continue throwing blows until the ref separates them.
Mason comes back over, looking a lot like he did the night we met. “You know,” I tell him, “the whole bloodied look was a lot more attractive before I knew anything about MMA.”
He covers his mouth and nose with his hands as he laughs, and I try to pretend like I don’t know why.
“He’s out-striking you, man!” Logan shouts so close to my ear I nearly slap him on instinct. “What are you doing out there?”
“I’m tired,” Mason says. “Two weeks ain’t enough for a match like this, man.”
“Suck it up!” Logan says. “He’s had exactly as much time as you, now get out there and start controlling the pace or we’re going to be hauling you out of here in three separate bags!”
“Could you maybe be a little less graphic with the visuals?” I ask, but I’m glad enough when Logan doesn’t respond or even acknowledge the words.
“Everyone’s got a weakness, but you’re giving up too much time letting him exploit yours, man. Pick a spot and start wearing him down!” Logan says.
The gloved ref calls Mason’s name and a few seconds later, we’re into round three.
Mason’s hanging back a little more than before, but he’s still quick to strike when there’s an opening. Jones is just dodging and guarding. He’s watching for something, though I don’t know what it is until it happens.
Mason throws a high right hand and Jones ducks it, lunging forward and taking Mason down to the ground.
I’m screaming for Mason to get up, but Jones is already on top of him, raining down blows wherever Mason’s not guarding.
Behind me, Logan’s shouting, “Guillotine! Guillotine!”
Mason’s arm comes up a little, his elbow more pushing than striking Jones’s head. Jones is trying to pull his head back, but Mason’s arm closes around the other’s neck and he wraps his legs around the lower part of Jones’s upper body.
Jones’s flank is exposed and Mason slips his left hand from under his opponent and capitalizes on the moment with repeated punches to the ribs.
They’re in this position for more than a minute, and it’s not entirely clear who’s inflicting the most damage at any given moment. I’m sure I’ll never say this to Mason, but if I wasn’t so sure this had to be painful, it’d actually look pretty hot.
As it is, though, Jones finally manages to get out from Mason’s grip and it’s while he’s getting to his feet that I see it. Jones’s hand starts toward his right side, but he quickly redirects the motion.
He’s hurt.
That’s not stopping him, though, as he swings a wide kick, striking Mason in the shoulder. Jones’s foot’s not even completely down before he’s throwing up a follow-up punch and then another and then another, pushing Mason back as the latter tries to nullify as many of the blows as possible.
Mason catches Jones in the mouth with an upward elbow, but Jones leans back then lunges forward, taking Mason to the ground for the second time this round. This time, Mason’s struggling for position until the announcer shouts, “Round!”
Eventually, the two separate, but there’s a growing enmity between them. Mason jumps to his feet, but as soon as he’s back by me, Logan and Tom, he turns away and hunches forward a little.
He stands back up straight again, but continues facing the center of the ring. The reason he’s facing the center is, I’m pretty positive, the same reason he covered his mouth and nose when he started to laugh between the last two rounds: He doesn’t want to get any blood on the rest of us.
I’m a nurse, and I know for a fact that he’s clean, but I greatly appreciate the gesture all the same.
While Tom is tending to Mason, I lean forward, saying, “He’s hurt on his right side. It looks like around the area of the fourth rib—do you know where I’m talking about.”