Benali's Finale

Johnny Benali took two solid shots to the face, ignoring his coach’s countdown from the corner. Everybody in the Milton Arena, including Johnny, knew he’d lost the first round. Staring into his opponent’s face, he mouthed “Come on, punk!” as best he could without losing his mouthpiece. Not having the right angle to throw an elbow or enough time to take Johnny to the ground, Diego Alonzo--the number one light heavyweight contender--seemed content with doing exactly what Johnny had told him to do. Alonzo threw two undefended punches, one to each side of Johnny’s swelling, darkening face.

The bell rang, and the referee threw a flat hand into each man’s bare chest.

“Time!”

Neither fighter moved.

“I said ‘Time!’ Go to your corners.”

A bloody smile ripped across Johnny’s face, matching the gash that ran from the bridge of his nose, across his left brow, and on to the temple. Johnny broke the stare, having seen in Alonzo’s shifting eyes the steady realization that, although the favored fighter had just taken a 10-9 first round (one of the judges even scored it 10-8), Alonzo had simply done everything Johnny wanted him to do.

The fighters made their ways to their respective corners as the fans chanted “Benali Finale” in anticipation of the second round. Johnny intentionally used every first round to feel out and wear out his opponents. Then, after tapping gloves, Johnny would erupt into full berserker mode that usually ended with his flying knee smashing into his doubled-over opponent’s face. Occasionally, the other fighter would find a way to stand, and the crowd would go nuts. Some people appreciated the opponent’s courage while others just hungered for the inevitable carnage to follow.

By all rights, Johnny shouldn’t have even been fighting the number one contender at that point. He’d been picked up by the Martial Arts Guild (MAG) after making a name for himself in a team sport that frowned upon fighting, both with the other team and within his own dugout. In the last year of his contract, Johnny was arrested for fighting off-season in an illegal free-for-all bare-knuckle brawl in a half-empty warehouse that underground promoters had marketed as “The War House.” Instead of taking his suspension, he retired. In his retirement announcement, he’d called out Barry Danielson, the MAG founder and CEO. Johnny claimed he could beat every fighter in MAG’s Prospect Series, and Danielson called his bluff.

He didn’t win the series championship, though. He lost in the semis to Leonid Vlasov, the eventual Prospect Series Champion. Within the next couple of years, both Vlasov and Benali rocketed to the top of the MAG Light Heavyweight rankings, with Vlasov fulfilling his championship prophecy.

As the chants for the Benali Finale began to rise, Johnny pointed out to where he knew Vlasov would be seated, and he rubbed his thumb across his throat while the cutman tried to stanch the bleeding over Johnny’s left eye. Johnny’s new coach shouted instructions, but Johnny’s cauliflowered ears heard only the familiar encouragement of Michael Alverez, his former and recently deceased coach: “You’re losing,” Alverez would say just before the bell rang to start the second round. “Come back a winner or die trying.”

This pattern set up the term Danielson, himself, had coined in a presser: “I don’t know how or why he does it, but the second round brings the Denali Finale.” Even the fans who wanted to see Alonzo shut Johnny down chanted with everyone else as the bell rang and the fighters moved in to tap gloves. Johnny, then, ran back to give the cage a flying kick that sent him hurling back toward Alonzo. Everyone knew what was coming, including Alonzo, who spun for a roundhouse kick to the face, but Johnny absorbed Alonzo’s heel into his forearm and shoved the number one contender into the cage. Johnny, then, laid a left into Alonzo’s eye. Alonzo blocked Johnny’s right hook, leaving his right ribs totally open to Johnny’s jab. The shot took Alonzo’s breath away just long enough to distract him from Johnny’s uppercut.

Alonzo--hurt, dazed, and on his heels--stuck a few punches that had no effect on the challenger. Johnny, on the other hand, threw rapid, careless punches until his right hand found Alonzo’s exposed midsection. The chanting crowd fell totally silent in the semi-second between the gut punch and the flying knee that sent Alonzo backwards to the mat.

The ref waved Johnny off, but Johnny had already walked to the edge of the cage where Danielson sat at his usual ringside table. The ref rolled Alonzo over on his side to keep him from drowning in his own blood as the medical team rushed into the cage.

“Either give me the champ,” Johnny yelled at Danielson through the cage, “or send the rest of the contenders all at one time. Let’s get this over with.” Danielson stared proudly into the rabid eyes of the monster he’d created and inhaled Johnny Benali’s hate-filled rage, a nostalgic smell that reminded the CEO of crisp cash.

Johnny leaned his bleeding face into the cage and waited for his cutman. His coach and the head trainer stood stoically…silently…in the ring. Johnny could hear only Coach Alverez’s voice telling him about the fighters—mostly boxers—that he’d trained in the pugilistic science’s golden age. He hated the rise of MAG, just as Johnny had hated all those pitchers that walked him with men on base and even his own teammates who seemed content to lose one-third of their games and strike out three-quarters of their at-bats.

The medical team held a towel covering Diego Alonzo’s face and carried him from the ring as the referee raised Johnny Benali’s hand. Johnny was on his way out when the announcer stopped him for an interview.

“Hold on,” the announcer said. “Call-out time, Johnny Benali. Who do you want next?”

“I just beat the number one contender. Who’s left?” Johnny said before he started to walk off.

“Johnny, I know this was an emotional fight for you with the passing of Coach Michael Alverez. Do you think he’s looking down, proud of you at this moment?”

“No,” Johnny said, “he’s dead.”

The announcer didn’t stop him from walking out this time. On his way down the steps, Johnny looked in Leonid Vlasov’s direction, but neither man made eye contact. Johnny’s eyes met, instead, with those of Vlasov’s longtime girlfriend Stephanie Marsh. The corners of her smile stretched unintentionally and uncontrollably into the parts of her face where, on the one side, pleasure resides, and on the other--guilt. She looked away before anyone noticed, and Johnny Benali rounded the corner and headed into the locker room.

###

In the beginning, Johnny Benali found a pandemonius paradise in MAG’s Prospect Series. He said he could win it, but he had no idea how. Sure, he’d beat up some guys in the primordial chaos that he’d found in parking lots and warehouses, but those guys had confidence and desire where the contenders had technique and discipline.

Johnny almost lost his first fight in the series when his opponent employed Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (BJJ). Johnny didn’t even know what that meant when a taller, slimmer expert took him to the ground and tightened a painful arm bar that restricted Johnny’s mobility and breathing. The BJJ specialist extended Johnny’s elbow, keeping the back of his knee across Johnny’s mouth and nose. The specialist seemed content to wait for Johnny’s submission, but he’d underestimated Johnny’s claustrophobia. Revitalized by fear and insanity, Johnny pried his opponent’s leg from his face and brought two quick elbows down to the man’s shin. Johnny repeated this method until he created enough space to yank his deadened arm from the man’s grip. He stood immediately with his arm just hanging. His opponent, wanting to seize the moment, jumped to his feet, and rushed Johnny, who suddenly swung his right foot around and cracked the man’s exposed, advancing jaw.

Johnny stepped back from the fallen man and willfully avoided grabbing his own swelling elbow. He didn’t go down to ground and pound. In fact, he promised himself that he would never get caught on the ground again. Pinning his opponent became a moot point, anyway, when the referee waved Johnny off, stopping the fight. Johnny simply closed his eyes when the referee raised his excruciatingly swollen arm. He wanted to snatch it back, but he didn’t want to be medically disqualified for his next match in the series.

Unlike Johnny, who’d simply paid some trainers at a gym, his first opponent had a real coach who employed specialized trainers and a cutman. His coach’s name was Michael Alverez.

“Why don’t you have a proper coach?” Alverez asked when he and his employed trainers caught Johnny in the locker room.

“The loser had one,” Johnny said.

“The next fighter will have one, too,” Alvarez said, “and he’ll realize you’re afraid.”

“I did a’ight.”

“If that’s your goal…,” Alvarez said as he turned.

“Wait.”

“I’ll be back after you lose,” Alvarez said. The trainers laughed as they left.

“Whatever.”

As much as it hurt to move, Johnny hit the showers. Other fighters milled around waiting for the night’s second fight. They all seemed to know each other. In fact, they seemed like a collective group of businessmen who held a similar love for a sport that could help them avoid mundane employment. Johnny Benali didn’t want any part of a team. He wanted a shower, and he wanted to go out with whichever honey in his “collection” he’d promised to reward after the fight. He was getting tired of the growing crowd in the locker room when someone said, “Here he comes.”

The group of fighters and friends stood to the side as an entourage of folk came down the tunnel toward the locker room.

“What’s the big deal?” Johnny asked.

“It’s Vlasov,” someone said.

“Who?”

“Leonid Vlasov. The ringer.”

“The one we’re all fighting to lose to,” someone else said. They all laughed.

“What?”

“Come on, man. This whole series is set up just to give Leonid Vlasov a resume before he goes to the big leagues.”

Johnny wondered who this guy was as much as he wondered why none of the other fighters knew about his own baseball career. He’d hit a homerun in a wildcard game, a winning solo RBI if the team had hired any decent relief pitching. A potential legacy…now, just a statistic.

Leonid Vlasov walked in with several followers in tow: trainers, a coach, and an auburn-haired beauty who looked fresh and innocent, like the forest after a sweet rain. She was the last in the line, and she looked at everyone apologetically, knowing she really shouldn’t be in the men’s locker room. Vlasov wanted her there, though, not for support, but to show that he could do whatever he wanted. He introduced her to no one, and even standing awkwardly by a sink, she possessed the perfect beauty that gawdy day denied.

In an accent that sounded like dry dumped gravel raining on concrete, Vlasov said, “Goo-wad e-van-ying, gee-entile-men.” When most of them greeted him, he said, “Ahnd the-at isht owl mine Anglish for to-thay.” Most of them laughed.

Vlasov wasn’t listed on that night’s card, but he liked walking around in his tailor-made suit, soaking in the adoration he would eventually use to beat those who adored him. He made his way around and walked out with everyone following. Everyone except the girl.

“I haven’t seen you around,” she said to Johnny.

“I haven’t been around. Long. Yet.”

She laughed. “Me either,” she said. “Yet.”

They introduced themselves to each other. Her name was Stephanie Marsh. She turned toward the tunnel.

“You don’t have to leave,” Johnny said.

She laughed again. Honestly. (Probably.) “I better, like they say, dance with the one who brung me,” she said.

“I like to dance,” Johnny said.

“He’s going to be world champion, you know,” she said. She waited in vain for a reaction. “Does that make you mad?”

“Not really,” he said.

Her eyes were pretty, possibly from false, temporary contacts.

“Hm,” she said. “That’s too bad. It should bother you. Until then….” She blew him a kiss and left, taking—as far as Johnny could tell—all the room’s oxygen with her.

That night, Johnny looked at the series bracket. He would have to beat two more guys to get to the match with Leonid Vlasov in the semifinals. He looked up videos of Vlasov fighting. The Russian was a suffocating wrestler, earning submissions in almost every match.

The next day, Johnny went down to the gym where Coach Michael Alvarez trained his fighters.

“I told you to call me when you lost.”

“I’m going to lose in two months,” Johnny said. “But I don’t plan to lose twice, so let’s get started on the rematch.”

###

Johnny Benali owned more posters of Leonid Vlasov than did any of the Russian fighter’s fans. He draped them everywhere, from his bedroom to his car to his locker. He had three copies just of the photo where Benali had choked him out in the Prospect Series. He lasted longer against Vlasov than any other fighter in the series, and he fell unconscious rather than tapping. His eyes in the photo showed a man about to lose, a man who was also trying to look out into the crowd to find his heavenly muse, but the lights blinded him. It wouldn’t have helped. He simply hadn’t been training enough at that point, and after that point, he did nothing else.

Johnny’s schtick—losing the first round and returning to exact revenge in the second—stuck. Madly loved, ravenously hated, but never ignored, he woke every morning to the heat of public scrutiny and to the frosty anonymity of whichever member(s) of the collection stayed the night. The attention inspired his claustrophobia. Additionally, he and Vlasov trained in the same Reno gym, just a few miles from the arena where they would eventually face-off. He saw Vlasov almost daily, and he bumped into Stephanie almost weekly. Their planned spontaneity stiff-armed Johnny’s crowded loneliness while they were together and mercilessly jabbed his left rib cage when they were not.

“You face the champ in a month,” she told him just before his fast.

“You’re facing the future champ now,” he said.

“Noli me tangere, Caesaris sum,” she said and refused to translate.

Until the presser just before the fight, Johnny Benali had become the fight fans’ favorite revenge story, and a journalist asked Johnny if he held a grudge from their previous fight in the Prospect Series.

“It’s a factor.” Johnny’s terse response inspired journalists’ laughter.

“And you, Mr. Vlasov…what motivates you? This man is motivated to take what you have. Are you worried about complacency?”

Vlasov waved off his interpreter.

“It isth hope-ud,” he said, “that a win wee-ill may-yak Benali go back to his…uh…‘co-ah-lec-she-oon’ ahnd leave mine Stephanie aloe-uhn. That is motivation.”

He left a silent room, his powerful yet humble footsteps echoed through both the room and time. The bright star of fan favoritism had faded for the fiery challenger that morning and shifted to a vulnerable yet rising hero.

In the coming weeks, Johnny Benali shoveled hatred into his infinitely empty darkness. Still, he trained like a man on fire and carried coals into the first round, where he fought the champion to a draw. In the break, Johnny ignored his coach as usual, but his former coach had gone silent. Similarly, he couldn’t hear the crowd chanting “Benali Finale” because the loud crowd yelled everything except Johnny’s name. Instead of feeling the crowd behind him, Johnny stepped into the second round feeling the crowd all around him—above him, below him--closing fast.

After touching gloves, Johnny took two steps back before running straight at the champ. Vlasov contented himself to block the fury of punches before Johnny found an opening and heaved a right fist into his opponent’s abdomen. Vlasov neither bent nor made any attempt to block the next punch. Shielding only his face, Vlasov took repeated punches to his stomach. His well-defined abs repelled Johnny’s best shots as each exposed muscle seemed to become the ignored challenges of Johnny’s life looking back at him…laughing: the teammates he’d despised, the coaches he’d ignored, the women he’d used….

Instead of a finale in the second, this title fight went to a final fifth round with social media atwitter with speculation as to which fighter held the lead. Finally, the champion took the challenger to the mat, but his fatigued rear naked choke slipped off a sweaty, hyperventilating Johnny Benali, enabling the challenger to rise first and throw a debilitating elbow into Vlasov’s face. Stunned, he stepped back into the perfect range for Benali’s right foot, and with two minutes left in the round, the blinding lights went dark for Vlasov.

The crowd cheered at first, but mainly from surprise. Barry Danielson had left his table as the medical team revitalized Vlasov, who, once he stood beside the referee, congratulated the new champ. As the announcer and Danielson prepared to anoint Johnny Benali with the monstrous belt, Stephanie Marsh entered the ring and walked straight to Vlasov. Johnny waited for the familiar side-glance, but he waited in vain as she rubbed Vlasov’s swollen, smiling cheeks. The source of all his hate stood hand-in-hand with the inspiration for all of his love as Johnny shuffled from the ring, down the tunnel, and into the locker room.

###

The journalists seeking interviews would get no quote from the recent light heavyweight champion. Johnny Benali had left the building on foot, the wind and sand covering his prints as he made his solitary way out into the unforgiving desert.