The Biggest Fight

Joey Habib was an angry child growing up. A motherless teen full of rage with hatred in his heart. The yelling from his uncle, who became his wrestling coach, the fights with fellow students, and one occurrence during his senior year when he knocked out his math teacher for calling him a stupid Arab boy. This led Joey to be homeschooled for the rest of the high school year. After, he worked for a construction company, doing demolition, while his uncle got him some fighting matches that would garner some side money.

Joey observed his chiseled body resulted from a rigorous exercise through a smudged mirror. This differed from his wrestling days, when he was stockier with no muscle definition. His uncle barged and gave him an earful about the match that was about to begin. Then the announcer from the speakers closed out the current match.

“Hurry the fuck up!” His uncle slammed his fists on the locker. Though his voice stung Joey’s ears, he kept his composure.

“Okay,” he said calmly and wrapped his wrists with nylon hand wraps, slipped on the leather fighting gloves, then bites down on the blue mouth guard. He looked back at the mirror at his well-trimmed face and reminisced over the time his violent uncle would fight with his patient father. As a kid, Joey never understood nor remembered the exact arguments were about. All he remembered was his father staring at his uncle in the eye as he would rant into a tirade. Not once, his father looked down. Not once ever. But the rage stuck with poor little Joey.

The two brothers were complete opposites, yet the same in one aspect. They were both fighters of the past. However, despite the calm nature of Joey’s father, there were trophies in the china cabinet. All first-place trophies for Brazilian jujitsu, wrestling, and Muay Thai. There was a framed photo of his father who defeated an opponent through submission by chokehold while climbed on top.

There weren’t any accolades from his uncle because of a knee injury that occurred during a match during his prime. Then torn his meniscus while fighting with a stranger over a parking spot. Yet the anger builds.

Joey’s father taught him to turn the other cheek, meanwhile his uncle taught him to throw the first punch. What stuck with Joey was how he must take down the enemy so hard that they will not think twice of retaliating. The violence ensued with practice, as Joey used this tactic to inflict pain on the bullies. He disappointed his father not because of his son acting out in violence, but how successful he was at it. Nobody would ever approach Joey or bully him again.

From there, fighting became the norm. From street fights to wrestling his first year at the Olympics, which only landed a silver medal. Gold went to his last opponent, who outsmarted him with a leg sweep and a fireman takedown. Even his father told Joey to remain patient. His uncle, who coached him, told him otherwise. But then he practiced Maui Thai with his uncle and got into competitions which he was moderately successful at. Eventually, he landed a title card to fight for the belt at the Octagon.

His father sat front row waiting for his son’s first ever title card match.

The aged-well announcer grabbed the mic, “Standing at five-nine, weighing at a hundred and eighty-five pounds. Joey Habib!”

The entrance music played loud rock music. Some fans booed, some fans cheered as he walked down the aisle with his uncle, who didn’t look impressed. Joey approached his father, who has grown a longer white beard and hugged him, tapped his back and with his gentle voice he said into his ear, “Remember what I said, habibi.”

He nodded to him with a smile, tapped his shoulder and warmed up with some hops as his father sat back down as young women behind were cheering.

The steel steps were cold on his feet as he walked up and entered the brightly lit Octagon, staring down at his tattooed opponent, Franco Cruz. The stocky ref stood in the middle, gestured for the two fighters to get closer. Franco Cruz stood at least three or four inches taller than Joey, but both weighed the same, looked down on him as he looked straight at his tattooed neck showing a bloody skull and bird wings. “Now touch gloves.” The ref said.

Joey stuck both his fists out, but Franco Cruz walked backwards, continued his stare down, then smiling, showing his red mouth guard. The crowd groaned. Instigated the situation that triggered his uncle.

“Fuck him up,” His uncle said, making Joey turn to that side. But he noticed his father, who gestured with his hands flowing down with a light bow.

DING! DING!

Franco Cruz got his fists up and approached aggressively.

Joey took a deep breath. Everything was in slow-motion. Voices around were deeper. There was silence. The sound of his breath was louder. …. ducked a cross-punch. Then his opponent turned and swung his fist across. Joey tilted his body to the side, dodging the hook shot. Then Franco Cruz threw another cross-punch. Joey bobbed it, then saw an opening to Franco Cruz’s face.

BOOM!

Sparks of sweat burst out of his head as Joey’s fisted connected to Franco Cruz’s chin. His eyes rolled back, body falling back and to the ground. This was the first time in Franco Cruz’s fighting history landing on the ground in the first round. The crowd loudly cheered, most likely knowing this fact. The announcers were stunned and couldn’t believe what they just witnessed.

Joey jumped on top, swinging his fist, connecting each shot to Franco Cruz’s face. He wrapped his legs around his waist, but that didn’t stop Joey from pummeling the tatted opponent.

As Franco Cruz slipped out from under, Joey’s father screams out, “NOW!”

Joey jumped on Franco Cruz’s back, wrapped his legs around his waist, then wrapped his arms around his neck. He lifted him in the air, but Joey squeezed the inked flying skull deeper into his throat. He then looked at the ref, who focused heavily on the fight. Then Joey felt the fingertips tap his arm nonstop.

The ref waved his arms around to stop the match and separated them. Franco Cruz fell on his knees, held his neck. Joey turned to his father, who gave me a nod of approval, but something more important. He approached his opponent, checked on him to see if he was okay. Franco Cruz looked up at Joey like an angel under the fluorescent light. He grabbed his hand and hugged it out. He was talking in Spanish, tapped his shoulder and nodded to him. Joey cradled his face and wished him the best of luck. Franco Cruz’s coach approached him and, also in his broken English, told Joey good luck in the next fights.

Joey’s uncle pulled him away from the opponent side, disgruntled at the outcome. “Don’t ever do that again,” his uncle said. “You show no mercy to any of your opponents, you hear me? Now people will think we’re weak.”

“It’s called good sportsmanship. Something you haven’t seen since your last fight.” Joey said sternly and in his uncle’s face. He pulled himself back and saw his father approaching. Joey stepped aside from his uncle, who stood there silently and to himself.

His father hugged his son not only to congratulate but to how proud he was. “Peace and patience always win.”