The Brawl For It All

Eric Monarch chafes at the first question.

“Shouldn’t this fight have taken place five years ago when both fighters were in their prime?”

The promotor grins, the jewel in his front tooth gleaming against the lights, his spikey grey hair standing straight up like a forest of exclamation points He is not about to let his press conference get out of hand.

“I should have married Christina Hendricks five years ago, but she wasn’t available. You gotta do these fights when the warrior's schedules free up. Carlos Madrid, ‘The Lion of the Projects,’ has won five of his last six fights. He’s got thirty-two knockouts in thirty-six fights with only four losses. He’s six foot three, weighs two-twenty, and keeps his opponents at a distance until he can drop them. He’s the dandy in the white suit, a gentleman outside the ring, and a killer in it. Luis Nazario has held his own against some top contenders, showing everybody he’s still got the skills. He’s five foot nine, two hundred ten pounds of mean, and has eighteen knockouts in thirty-two fights with eight losses. He has to get inside to win, which has earned him the nickname of “The Tasmanian Devil’. He’s tough, still a man of the streets. Styles make fights, which means this’ll be one of the greatest heavyweight bouts of all time.”

“Are you two still friends after all these years, Carlos?”

The erudite, suave, dark-haired fighter sits back in his chair, contemplating his answer.

“We were friends when we were very young. We played together, fought bullies and pushers together. We even stayed friends when we sparred against each other as amateurs…”

“But this is real. This fight will decide our futures,” Luis interrupts, his voice gruff and assured. “So, yeah, we’re still old friends. But when we step into that ring, I’m gonna try and tear his heart out.”

The squat, scarred, pock-marked contender pumps his fist as the crowd applauds. Carlos stares straight ahead, his expression blank.

“That’s why we’re callin’ this fight ‘The Brawl for it All,’” Monarch says. “The winner gets bragging rights, a rematch with the champ, Heath Moore, and to sweeten the pot, a million-dollar bonus.”

“So, the victor wins the right to get whipped again,” one reporter comments.

Feigning a heart attack, Monarch replies, “That’s a cruel and unnecessary dig, Jackie Broome.”

“This fight is going to be a farce,” Broome adds. “I hear one guy has got a glass jaw, and the other is out of shape.”

“C’mere, Jackie, I’ll show you who’s outta shape,” Luis snarls, his tight-fitting sweatsuit nearly tearing as flexes.

“Who’s gonna win?” another reporter asks.

“Madrid will hit the floor in four,” Luis snaps.

Carlos holds up two fingers.

The reporters rumble at the predictions.

“Is it true neither fighter has passed his physical yet?” Broome asks.

Monarch grabs the mike. “Thank you for coming gentleman. Remember, ‘The Brawl for it All’, starts this Saturday at ten.”

Carlos ducks into the backroom Luis has reserved for their dinner together.

“’The Brawl for it All’,” Carlos sneers, as he sits down.

“Your jock strap is too tight, Carlos. What did you expect from Eric Monarch? He’s a B.S. artist, a showman. Be thankful he didn’t call it ‘The Battle for Mexico” like he originally planned.”

“But we’re not fighting in Mexico. We’re fighting at the L.A. Forum, and neither one of us is Mexican.”

“The Panamanian versus the Puerto Rican doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Luis replies. “My manager keeps calling it “’The Waltz of the Washed-up Warriors.’”

“I’m glad he’s having a good laugh at our expense,” Carlos replies. He notices the jagged scars above Luis’ eyes. “You look beat up, my friend. My wife still thinks I’m pretty.”

“That would be your second wife, right?”

Carlos clears his throat. “Uh-huh. Joyce had an affair with Heath Moore before our title fight. It threw me off my game.”

“I thought it was the uppercut he poleaxed you with that did it,” Luis returns.

“You didn’t fare much better.”

“I got up. Twice.”

“So, you took more of a beating from Moore than I did. Congratulations.”

“Next time I’ll outbox him,” Luis says.

“You’re not a boxer, you’re a brawler.”

“Says the man who only throws left hooks.”

Carlos smirks. “It still bothers you that I was champ, doesn’t it?”

“You bet. Just as much as you duckin’ me all those years and never giving me a shot at the title.”

“All you had to do was beat Pepper Parsons and we would have fought for the title,” Carlos replies. “You were winning every round, then you got careless, cocky like you always have. He hit you with that uppercut and you fell like a redwood. The ref could’ve counted to a hundred and you wouldn’t have gotten up. Poof. There goes your shot at the title.”

“Oh yeah? You’ve always been a one-trick pony. That left hook is all you’ve ever had.”

“Ask Petey Marshall what I had. I broke his jaw with a right hand. Ask Palmer Weston what I had. Broke his eye socket with a straight right. I made eight defenses of my title in four years.”

“Then you walked into Moore’s overhand right. And here we are.”

A waiter smiles as he circles the table.

“It’s an honor it is to have you here, Mr. Nazario. Would you mind if I took a photo with you?”

Carlos steams as the waiter hands him his phone. “Do you mind taking the picture? Thank you. What would you like to drink?”

“Bacardi on ice.”

“Vodka Martini,” Carlos grumbles, handing back the phone. He gives the waiter a withering look as he departs.

“You were champ on paper, Madrid, but I’ve always been the people’s champ.”

“I have legions of fans,” Carlos replies.

“Legions? What amount is that? One? Two? You flaunted your intelligence and your money. Folks didn’t like that. Gene Tunney beat Jack Dempsey, but people still liked Dempsey more ‘cause he was down to earth, and Tunney bragged about bein’ a college boy. So did you. ”

“Since when is being intelligent something negative? I’ve set a good example…You…”

“Unlike you, I had to fight my way out of poverty, so people know I’m the real deal. Even when we were workin’ out at the gym together you had the best equipment, trainers, and cut men. Hell, they even gave you a car.”

“They recognized my talent. I was champ when I was nineteen,” Carlos says.

“And washed up at twenty-four.”

“I’ve won my last six fights,” Carlos notes.

“Against a car salesman, a painter, two bouncers, a bartender, and a drunk. I fought real men.”

“And wound up on your back in your last fight, How’s being the tougher man working out for you, Luis? I still get millions for my fights. Do you? The crowd always wants to see the champion, not the thug.”

The waiter comes back to the table with their drinks. He gives Carlos a long look.

“Say, aren’t you?...”

“Carlos Madrid, former heavyweight champ.”

“I was going to say, Harold Strickland.”

“Harold Strickland was a tennis player.”

“Well, you look kind of…”

“Pretty?” Luis interjects.

“Yeah, you don’t look rough enough to be a fighter,” the waiter says. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“You can go now,” Carlos says, sipping his drink.

“Yep. Champion of the people,” Luis jokes.

“You’re popular for all the wrong things. Your wild parties. Gambling. Cheating on your wife…”

“…Wives… All three.”

“And where has that behavior gotten you?”

“I won’t be payin’ for my dinner, Mr. Strickland.”

Carlos frowns as he sips his drink. “This is swill. You haven’t changed, Luis, you’re still hardheaded. Speaking of which, whatever happened to the guys we grew up with?”

“See, leave the neighborhood, you lose touch,” Luis replies, slurping his drink. “Remember Pee Wee Womack?”

“Best second-story boy in the barrio,” Carlos comments.

“He did a stretch for stealin’ some valuable coins. Got out and started an affair with some chippie. Her old man was part of the Oakdale Riders motorcycle gang. He walked in on them one night and shot Pee Wee in his wee wee before he could get out the window.”

“Ouch. You ever hear from Chris Tarter? I thought he was the best fighter out of all of us.”

“He made it to the amateurs. Then he developed a champagne lifestyle on a beer paycheck. He ended up owin’ money to Mossy Graves. Nobody’s seen him since.”

“And the girls?” Carlos asks, his expression turning dreamy.

“I always thought you and Adele Marciano would end up together.”

“Turns out she liked musicians more than boxers,” Carlos laments.

“Dionne Diaz made it. She’s our councilwoman. Gonna be a senator someday,” Luis says proudly.

“Who knew when we were riding our bikes around the neighborhood, drinking cheap sangria, and romancing schoolgirls that we’d end up here?”

Luis nods in agreement. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For lookin’ out for all of us. We all knew when you perfected that left hook of yours that you were gonna be a star. You could have gone back to your upper-class life and forgot about us.”

“…Eventually I did…”

“But you hung with us when it mattered, when we needed somebody to look up to. You helped us believe there was a way out. And anytime anybody threatened us, you were the first to step up.”

“And you were usually right next to me, screaming yourself hoarse,” Carlos laughs.

“A crazy attitude works as good as that left hook of yours. You know somethin’, Carlos? After all the cuts, concussions, and butt-whippin’s I ain’t afraid of dyin’ no more. You?”

“I’m too busy planning my life outside of the ring to be afraid. Are you secure, Luis? When we were  kids, as soon as you got your hands on some money, you’d blow it.”

“We’re gettin’ a lot of money for this fight. Five million will last me a few years.”

“A few years? Luis, it should last the rest of your life and make it so your children are secure.”

“Like you? I bet you have the first peso you earned.”

“You’re damn right. I started making plans to retire the first time I got hit,” Carlos replies. “I invested in property, bought two car dealerships, a circus.”

Luis chuckles. “I remember when we went to the circus as kids. The trapeze artists mesmerized you.”

“The point is, Luis, win or lose, my five million is for my grandkids.”

Luis shows his cracked smile. “You got grandchildren? Have you been lyin’ about your age this whole time?”

“Like I said, I’m planning ahead.”

“Well, I like livin’ for today,” Luis says. “Which is why I’m going to have a second drink while you’re still nursin’ your fancy soda.”

They exchange melancholy glances.

“I’m gonna win, you know,” Luis boasts. “I owned you when we sparred as kids. Nothin’’s changed.”

“You’ve been hit in the head too much. I knocked you down every time we sparred.”

“But I kept comin’.”

“I held back then. Not now,” Carlos says, blowing on his right hand as it was a hot, invincible weapon. “Besides, this is my last fight. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Last fight? What about Moore?”

“If you’re honest with yourself, Luis, you know that the two of us put together couldn’t beat Moore.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Lion of the Projects.”

“That was long ago. I don’t even know who that kid was anymore.”

“It’s you, Carlos, it’s you. And I expect you to fight like a lion against me.”

Carlos sips his martini. “Of course.”

Carlos misses Darius Wood, his sparring partner, with a slow left hook. Wood quickly counters with a right cross that catches Carlos flush on his chin.

The light in the crystalline blue eyes of “The Lion of the Projects” goes out as he melts to the canvas.

Carlos’ trainer, Bub Chubb, rushes into the ring. Turning Carlos onto his back, he cracks open an ammonia capsule under his nose. Carlos quickly comes around, grimacing.

“…Head hurts…What happened?”

Chubb’s assistant attends to Carlos as he corners Wood.

“Sorry, Bub, he was wide open for a counter shot. I just tapped him.”

“I know. He can’t take a punch no more. You tell no one about this, you understand?”

“C’mon, Bub. I just knocked out the former heavyweight champion of the world. You know how much money that’s worth to my career?”

“You can put it on your resume after the Nazario fight. You know the problems this could cause if news of this got out. For now, if anybody asks you what kinda shape Carlos Madrid is in, what are you gonna say?”

“Depends on my bonus,” Woods says.

“An extra ten grand.”

“I’m gonna say that The Lion can still roar.”

“Please read line number four, Mr. Nazario.”

“C…L…E…O…D…F…B…Z…P…”

“Great. May I ask you a question, Mr. Nazario?”

“Sure, Doc.”

“Why are you looking to your left?”

“I’m readin’ the eye chart like you asked.”

Dr. Dennis Dumont points at the eye chart. “You’re looking at a poster. You’ve obviously memorized the eye chart because it’s not on the wall to your left. It’s on the wall to your right.”

Eric Monarch bursts into Dr. Dumont’s office barking into one cell phone while listening intently to another.

“Call ya back!” he screams into both phones, hanging up.

“Business deal?” Dr. Dumont asks.

“Placin’ my bets.”

“Do I have to give you that lecture about bleeding your fighters dry again, Eric?”

“Like you said, Doc, they’re my fighters.”

“Fine. Just forget my name when the I.R.S. looks at your books.”

“Don’t keep any!” Monarch brags.

Dr. Dumont clutches at his stomach.

“You all right, Doc?”

“My ulcers act up every time you come in here, Eric. There may not be enough Pepto Bismol to cover what I have to tell you. I can’t pass either fighter.”

If Monarch’s hair wasn’t already standing on end, the news would have scared it straight.

“What do you mean? The Forum’s sold out! I’ve got record sales for pay-per-view!”

“Let’s start with Carlos Madrid. He suffered a fractured skull when he fought Heath Moore. He was lucky he didn’t get hit hard in the fights he’s had since then. Some fighters develop a glass jaw. Well, he’s got a glass head. One more good shot could kill him.”

“And Nazario?”

“I don’t know how, but he’s been fighting with one eye for a while, and he’s got a detached retina in his good eye. He gets hit in his right eye and he could go blind. Sorry, Eric, you’re going to have to cancel the fight.”

“I can’t. You’ve heard of Mossy Graves, haven’t you?”

“The mortician? Sure.”

“Don’t play stupid, Doc. You know he’s more than that. He’s got a lot of action down on this fight.”

“It’s more than a fight at stake, Eric. It’s their lives.”

“All I can say Doc, is you’re gonna need your own physician if I tell Maurice ‘Mossy’ Graves the fight’s off.”

Monarch reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a checkbook.

“There isn’t any amount of money that could make me falsify their physicals.”

Monarch hands him the check. “You sure about that, Doc?”

Dr. Dumont’s eyes pop as he clutches at his stomach.

Mossy Graves confidently folds his hands together like a saintly public servant as he greets Carlos.

“To what do I owe this visit, champ?”

Carlos smiles wanly. “I was hoping you could call me that after this fight. But…”

“What’s the matter? You think you’re going to lose?”

“When we were kids, amateurs, Luis had a ferocity that no one could match. Sure, I could knock a guy out with one punch, but he could wage war, make a man suffer. Well, I’ve lost my punch, but he’s still an animal.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that. Unless you’re asking me for a favor.”

Carlos’ handsome features crease together as he frowns.

“Maybe something gets into Nazario’s water that slows him down.”

“No. I don’t want that.”

“Well, what do you want, Carlos?”

Carlos reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a thick envelope.

“There’s three hundred thousand in here. I want it all on Nazario.”

Bub Chubb rubs Luis’ shoulders.

“Your life’s gonna be a whole lot different an hour from now.”

Luis looks to his left. “Stand where I can see you, Bub.”

Bub moves in front of Luis. “It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?”

“I’m gonna have to get real close to Carlos to have a chance.”

“He’ll murder you with that left hook before you can get inside.”

Luis shrugs his shoulders. “Carlos has his own issues. He’ll land, but not with the power he used to have. I’m more worried that you haven’t mentioned that favor I asked you to do.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. What you asked me to do was disgusting.”

“But did you do it?”

“Yes. I went to Mossy Graves and put three hundred thousand on Carlos Madrid.”