The Gentlemen's Hour

39

Five minutes later, he’s stripped down to just his jeans, is wrapping the MMA gloves around his hands, and one of the students is handing him a mouthpiece.

“This

is

new, right?” Boone asks.

“I think so.”

“You

think

so?”

“I just took it out of the wrapper.”

“Better.”

The guy looks at him funny and then says, “I’m Dan. I’m your corner.”

“This is a circle.”

“Huh?”

“There are no . . . Never mind,” Boone says. “What does a corner do?”

“Coach,” Dan says. “Yell out advice and encouragement. Help carry you out of the ring if you, like, can’t walk.”

“Great.”

Dan explains the rules. They’re going to fight one five-minute round. You can kick, punch, wrestle, grapple, but no kicking in the balls, eye-gouging, biting, or kicking or kneeing the opponent in the head when he’s down.

“If he gets you in a joint lock or a chokehold,” Dan says, “and you feel something about to pop or break, tap him three times and he’ll stop.”

“Okie-dokie.”

“We have a saying.”

“What’s that?”

“‘Better to tap a second too soon,’” Dan recites, “ ‘than a second too late.’”

“Good saying.”

If a guy were to have a crew, Boone thinks, this would be a most excellent time to have one. It would be really nice to see Dave, Tide, or Johnny walk through that door. If I feel something about to pop or break—

“You ready?” Boyd shouts.

Boone already has his mouthpiece in, so he just gives a thumbs up and shuffles into the center of the ring, trying to remember some of the wit and wisdom of Dave the Love God, the chapter on fighting. If it’s a big guy, Dave said, try to take his legs away from him early. Those pegs are holding up a lot of weight and wear out easily, especially with a little assistance from you.

So Boone comes in and shoots a quick, slapping, low roundhouse kick that hits Boyd in the low left calf. It makes Boyd wince a little, so Boone does it again right away and then moves off to the side.

Boyd comes forward, shooting two left jabs that Boone sidesteps. The teacher looks a little surprised—Daniels has a few more skills than he thought. But he keeps coming forward—two more jabs followed by a right hook, then a straightforward kick to set up a spinning backfist that whizzes just past Boone’s nose as he jumps back and gets a collective “Whoo!” from the crowd.

No shit, whoo! Boone thinks. If that had connected I’d be on queer street until next week. He tries another low kick to the calf but Boyd is ready and moves his leg out of the way, throwing Boone off balance. Boone tries to recover with a straight right punch, but Boyd ducks under it, grabs him around the ribs, lifts him over his head, and walks him toward the edge of the ring.

Boone feels it coming, but even if he didn’t, there’s plenty of time to hear the onlookers groan in happy anticipation, and one of them narrates, “Slam!” Boone’s being carried along like he’s backward on a wave, and he looks down to see Dan looking up at him, wincing.

“Any advice?!” Boone asks.

“You’re kind of fucked!”

“Encouragement?!”

“Uhhhh, hang in there!”

Yeah. Then Boone feels himself going over backward, there’s a second of that awful falling feeling, and he tries to remember what Dave told him.

Look at your belt, so you don’t hit the back of your head.

Boone looks at his belt.

A second later he slams onto the canvas half a second before Boyd drops all his weight on him. The air goes out of Boone’s lungs, he feels like his back might be broken, and the world is doing this funny spinning thing.

Yeah, but he’s been here before, at the bottom of a big wave that weighs a hell of a lot more and is even meaner than Mike Boyd, so he knows he can survive it. He hears a couple of the onlookers yell excitedly that Boyd is “achieving full mount,” and is a little concerned what that might be, recalling the time that he and Dave attended Dave’s little brother’s high school wrestling match and agreed that any sport that gave points for “riding time” and didn’t involve either a horse or a bull was at least a little homoerotic. And now Boyd is sitting upright on his chest, like the classic schoolyard bully—“full mount”—and starts to rain elbow strikes down on Boone’s face.

“Ground and pound!” Boone hears someone say, and that about sums it up as he tries to move his head to avoid the “pound” component. It sort of works—Boyd’s elbows glance off Boone’s face instead of splitting it open and breaking his cheekbones. Boone gets his forearms up around his head and Boyd switches to roundhouse punches, trying to find an open spot to hit.

Boone waits until Boyd leans in to give his punch more leverage, then bucks up and throws Boyd forward, over his own head. Now Boone’s face is jammed into Boyd’s crotch, which isn’t pleasant, but at least puts it out of punching range. Boone slithers out from under, rolls, gets to his feet, and turns, just in time to see Boyd getting up. Timing his punch, Boone rolls his right shoulder and lets it go just as Boyd turns. The punch connects hard on the jaw. Boyd sprawls backward, bounces off the ring, and slumps down on his ass, half out of it.

“Jump on him!” Dan screams from the “corner.”

Boone doesn’t. He just stands there, sort of confused. Any other martial art he ever dicked around with—hell, in life itself—you don’t hit a man when he’s down. You just don’t, and now he gets the diff between MMA and all the rest—in MMA, the whole point is to hit the dude when he’s down.

Boyd gets up, shakes his head to clear it, and comes toward Boone.

“Three minutes!” Dan yells.

Three minutes?!

Boone thinks. Three minutes left? He would have thought it was maybe twenty seconds. Anyone who doesn’t believe Einstein’s take on relativity has never gone a round in the ring. Time doesn’t slow down or even stop, it slams it into reverse and goes backward.

Now Boone totally gets it—he should have jumped on Boyd and pounded him into total unconsciousness. Boyd is coming toward him, the lights are back on in his eyes, and now—as the joke goes about Jesus’s return—he’s pissed.

But definitely more cautious, almost respectful. He’s seen Boone survive the slam, the ground and pound, escape, and rock him with a single punch. The surfer has heavy hands—one-punch hands—and he doesn’t look tired or even winded.

He isn’t—you want a cardio workout, paddle a surfboard. Boone launches two more low kicks, aiming one at the inside of Boyd’s thigh to smack the femoral artery. Boyd winces at each one but keeps coming forward. Boone moves backward, circling so as not to get trapped against the ropes. Shooting jabs to keep Boyd at a distance, he keeps moving, trying to gain space, trying to waste time.

“He’s a pussy!” someone yells. “He don’t want any part of you, Mike!”

True on both counts, Boone thinks. He goes in for another kick, but Boyd is ready and grabs Boone’s leg, lifts it, and throws him to the mat. Boone covers up to ward off the ground and pound, but it doesn’t come. Boyd drops on to him, but rolls over so that Boone’s on top, his back against Boyd’s chest.

Boone feels Boyd’s thick right forearm slide under his chin and tighten on his throat, then Boyd’s left hand press against the back of his head. Boyd arches his back, stretching Boone out and tightening the grip like a noose.

“Tap out! Tap out!” Dan yells.

Boone twists to loosen the grip but it’s in too tight. Boyd’s forearm is locked onto his throat. Boone can see the thick muscles knotted and, just above the wrist, a small tattoo.

The number “5.”

Boyd hisses, “Tap, Daniels.”

Fuck that, Boone thinks.

Then he’s out.