Suckerpunch: (2011) (8 page)

“I have shirts?”

“Yeah, they’re slick. Benjamin had his people designing them while we were at dinner, and they printed overnight. They smell like shit, but that’ll fade. It’s got your silhouette kicking in the door of a shed, and the flying boards spell out Woodshed, all splintered and nasty looking. You want one?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Gil? What size?”

“Four of each,” Gil said.

“I shoulda known better. I’ll have somebody bring them by. And listen, we’re going in the order of the fights for the weigh-ins, so you guys are second to last. I’m not saying be boring, but try not to outshine the main event.”

“Hard to do, fighting in skivvies,” I said.

“You’ll figure it out.” Eddie snagged a girl hustling by with a coil of velvet rope in her arms. “Sweetheart, when you’re done with that, get four of the brown T-shirts in each size and bring them over here to Woodshed Wallace, okay?”

“Who?”

They banged through the weigh-ins and stare-down photos, some of the guys down to their jocks to get within the limit. We could see most of the stage by standing at the bottom of the stairs that cut through an overlap in the drapes and led to the left side of the platform. Eddie was up there with some of the ring girls and other necessary people, the girls in their bikinis and tennis shoes, blowing kisses and whispering to each other when a fighter had to have a towel held in front of him on the scale.

We couldn’t see the crowd, but it sounded big. Davie Benton, the color commentary guy for Warrior, gave the PA system a workout introducing the fighters and asking the crowd if they wanted to see some fireworks between the two guys glaring at each other with no shirts on. Eddie stood back a little bit between them like he was going to have to break something up.

That could work. Like spitting on a forest fire.

“You’re next,” the guy at the bottom of the steps told me, then clicked a button on a wire running up to a headset and said into it, “Do we have Burbank? . . . Good. Okay.”

I couldn’t help it. I searched for him. I scanned the tops of the heads backstage for a blond lump sticking up like a mushroom made out of muscles. Nothing. I glanced at Gil and Jairo, standing by our stuff, and Marcela, sitting against the wall looking bored. Javier and Edson were missing. Gil got on his toes to show he was on the lookout too, then shrugged when he had the same luck as me.

I heard Davie holler, “Are you ready? Are you ready? All right, now we have in his first fight for Warrior but bringing a very impressive twenty-four and three record with him—
twenty
of those wins by KO or TKO, folks—a guy who’ll take the fight out behind the woodshed and knock the whole place flat, heavyweight fighter Aaron . . .
Woodshed
. . . Wallace!”

“That’s you,” the guy in the headset told me. “Go, go, go.”

I climbed the steps, the lights and noise hitting at the same time like coming up from underwater into the boiling rapids, and I didn’t feel the hook or see the net until it was too late.

The crowd was worked up. Credit to Davie, because it couldn’t be easy to sell guys standing on a scale. The room held a few hundred people, five tops, but they were all on their feet and taking photos and making vowel sounds for me. Most of them were
ooooo,
preceded by a B. I’d been booed before but never with this relish.

It made me smile. They boo you leading up to the fight, then on the way to the cage, during the introductions, and through the stare down. Then you knock someone out and everyone wants to buy you ice cream.

There was a huge Warrior, Inc. backdrop hanging on the purple drapes on my left, the name and logo about the size of a large pizza box and repeated every two feet. If someone took your picture in front of it, they’d get to see the logo at least three times.

Davie waved me over and kept the microphone low and said, “Hey, Woody, big fan.” He was much smaller than I’d thought, thin in a tight navy Warrior T-shirt, his forehead up to my shoulder and an inferno of rusty hair almost brushing my chin. Impressive muttonchops clamped his narrow face.

He seemed like a nice guy; serious actor, usually the sidekick to someone bigger, and a fan of the sport who could spread its charms into influential circles. He’d started out as a stuntman, so he had some basis for saying what hurt and what didn’t.

Davie raised the microphone. “All right, Woody, you said you’re going to knock Junior Burbank out cold.”

Fucking Kevin.

“You were the last and
only
person to beat him, but that was three years ago, and you couldn’t knock him out then. What makes this time different?” He swung the mic under my mouth and grinned.

Davie was challenging me, and hype be damned, I took it personally. He was close enough to elbow in the temple, see if he still knew how to fall the right way.

I leaned into the mic and said, “This time I’m pissed off. And I’m better at knocking people out than he is at staying awake.”

The crowd tried to set a world record for loathing. They chewed on their cameras.

Davie kept a straight face and said, “Wow, bold words. Okay, let’s get you on the scale and see what Junior Burbank is dealing with.”

The crowd settled down a bit, simmering at a low murmur about how it didn’t matter how much I weighed, Burbank was going to toss me into the rafters.

There’s really no intimidating way to take your pants off, so I just got them off, movements I’ve done every day I could remember, but it still felt awkward onstage. I had my fight shorts on underneath, dark green with The Fight House and Arcoverde Jiu Jitsu logos on each hip and sponsors splattered on the thighs and butt. The sides of the legs were sliced halfway up to the waist for sprawling and kicking.

Next came the shirt, followed by one whistle from the crowd that was quickly hushed in case it gave me superpowers. I stepped on the big scale, a doctor’s office rig with counterweights and levers and a team standing by should someone nudge it. An official from the Nevada State Athletic Commission got personal with the weights and stroked them around until he was happy.

“Two thirty-five point five,” he said.

“Two thirty-five and a half,” Davie yelled into the mic.

The crowd jeered, my very weight an insult to Burbank. How dare I?

I flexed—it was in the contract—which shut a few people up but made most of them louder.

Davie said, “All right, Woody, looking solid, very solid. Now let’s get his opponent out here, folks. Maybe you’ve heard of him.
Junior B
urbank!”

I didn’t know which the crowd enjoyed more, hating me or loving Burbank. I glanced at the steps, my face blank. If Burbank came bulling over and got right in with a snarl, I’d counter with boredom. If he walked past with no acknowledgment, I’d yawn.

I waited. The crowd was almost ready to overthrow a government. I saw Gil at the bottom of the steps. He shook his head and shrugged. No Burbank.

Davie walked over to me, and I started to come up with a line about Burbank being too scared to step on the scale with me, let alone into the cage. A real gem. But Davie kept the microphone low and said, “Sorry, man.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

Then I looked out into the crowd.

Burbank was making his way from the rear of the room, the fans pulling at him and holding palms out for him to punch, chanting Bur
-bank,
Bur
-bank.

No one even told me that was an option. I glared at Eddie. He tried to look innocent, but his genes wouldn’t let him.

Burbank plowed through with a few stops to swirl an autograph on a shirt or hat or breast; then he high-fived one of the security guys along the front of the stage and jumped onto the stage, which had to be four feet off the floor. I probably could have done the same thing with a three-foot boost.

Burbank turned to the crowd and put his arms out, his mitts spread and big enough to put me and Davie and half the city in shade. He was big and tan and had his blond hair shaved to stubble. It was a serious haircut. He spun around and almost killed one of the ring girls with his chin.

I got ready for the chest to chest, but he stared past me like a salad in a candy shop. So I ignored him right back, but it felt weak and pouty. I put my pants on and pretended the crowd was cheering for that.

“Davie!” Burbank stomped over and gave Davie the half hug, Davie asking him how he felt. “Like an eater of worlds,” he said.

“You gonna make weight?”

Burbank scoffed and pulled his shirt off. The crowd swooned. He was bigger than the last time we’d fought. A lot bigger. Back then he’d certainly filled a doorway at six six, two sixty, bulky but a little soft; now he was cut from a sequoia big enough to accommodate a tunnel.

Burbank leaned on Davie to get his warm-up pants off. Davie looked like a spider monkey next to him. Burbank got down to his square-cut boxers, the guys in the crowd a little quieter now, but the women making up for it. Burbank crushed the scale and stood while the official slid things around. He shook his head at a few counterweights, like he’d never had to use them before and wasn’t sure they’d work. When he was happy, he said something to Davie.

“Two hundred and sixty-three pounds, fight fans! Just under the wire, Junior, great job.”

I wanted to shake my head. He’d walk into the cage at two eighty, almost fifty pounds heavier than me. Maybe they’d let me carry a shovel.

“All right, guys, let’s get you over here for the photo.” Davie walked backward to the right side of the stage near Eddie and the ring girls.

Burbank walked with him and moved to Eddie’s left. I stopped on Eddie’s right so he was between me and Burbank, his arms already raising to stop Burbank when he spun around with his fists out and in my face.

He ground his teeth together and pulled his neck tight, his eyes wide.

I leaned back to avoid spittle and knuckles.

“Easy, guys, easy,” Eddie said. “Don’t get a hernia during the weigh-in.”

He kept Burbank in check enough for me to lean in a little with my fists up for the photos. My hands looked like Tater Tots about to go into his microwaves. Eddie wanted it to look like we were about to go at each other and couldn’t wait for the cage door to close. We couldn’t have done better with Spielberg’s help.

“Got it,” the photographer said and scurried away.

Burbank put his hands down and filled the space between us with the rest of his body. The crowd got louder, but I pushed it away. “So you’re gonna knock me out?” he said.

“That’s right.” I stood my ground but didn’t like looking up at him.

He glanced at my brow, then glared at me. “That’s gonna be hard to do, all that blood running into your eyes.”

“You’re going to bleed into my eyes?”

“Your
blood, ass wipe.”

“That’s a good plan. Praying the ref will stop it before I put you facedown.”

Burbank got closer, which I hadn’t thought possible. “No ref here now.”

“This isn’t boxing. Try to act civilized.”

“Guys, enough.” Eddie got his arms between us and kept a smile on his face while he tried to push us apart. Moses might have done it but not Eddie.

Burbank tilted his forehead down to press against mine. I got on my tiptoes to push back. I started saying things faster than I could think them up. The room slowed down like it did when the bell rang. I got ready to fight a man in his underwear.

A huge brown arm came over my shoulder and shoved Burbank backward into the swarm of security that was storming up from that side of the stage. More arms wrapped around my chest and pulled me back and off my feet.

Vegas security knows how to stop a fight. I was hustled away, feet off the floor and arms akimbo. I saw Jairo standing in my wake yelling something in Portuguese and gesturing at Burbank with the same brown arm that had wrangled me.

Before I dipped backstage I heard Davie say into the microphone, “Who else can’t wait for tomorrow?”