IN HIS DREAM, HUMBERTO OVERSLEPT. His alarm clock hadn’t gone off. His car wouldn’t start. Then he was behind the wheel of a strange car, stuck in traffic, movement obstructed in all directions by monstrous trucks. His inept timing frustrated every attempt to change lanes. A police siren wailed, red lights flashed, and a bullhorn voice ordered him to the side of the road. He tried to call Diane, but the keypad was too tiny for his bloated fingers. The strange car he was driving crashed into an unseen wall, then he was running away on leaden legs. Pacing in front of the Mongoose Boxing Club, he searched desperately for D’Andre, but he’d gone on without him. Finally, Humberto staggered into the venue, but Arthur, appalled by his tardiness, ordered him to do a hundred push-ups and a five-minute plank on a tiny medicine ball. As the hard ball pressed into his stomach, Humberto felt the energy that he needed for his fight departing like a soul leaving the host’s body.

The fear which inspired Humberto’s nightmare also inspired him to bolt up at 4:00 a.m., an hour before his alarm was set to go off, much like the fear of losing had inspired him to run five miles every morning, six days a week, for two months, even when Diane had pressed him to stay in their warm bed and cuddle.

Humberto unplugged his alarm clock and set his feet on the cold floor. Recalling the final moments of his dream, he attributed his stomach pangs to Arthur’s medicine ball. Then he remembered that he hadn’t eaten food or drank liquid for… how many hours? It was too early for math.

Diane was snoring. She would not be attending his fight today. “Why would I want to see my man get punched in the face?” she’d asked last night. That’s fine, he told himself. Her absence would make the experience even more spartan for him, one more reminder that nobody can protect you when it’s time to confront fear. Whatever happens in the ring will be on him alone.

He ate no breakfast, drank no liquids. The shower was hot and steamy. After drying himself, he donned sweatpants, sweatshirt, hoodie, and a beanie. He had to lose three more pounds.

The evening before, he’d packed a cooler with his post-weigh-in meal and a singular piece of equipment, then placed it in the passenger seat of his car. Bedros and Arthur were bringing the rest of his equipment: gloves, trunks, mouthpiece, headgear, hand wraps, shoes. After his final training session, Humberto had tried to foist his groin protector upon his trainers, but Arthur had glared at the damp apparatus and barked: “All our fighters carry their own groin equipment, damn it!” Less fastidious than his trainers, Humberto packed that in his cooler too.

Rather than focusing on all the things that might go wrong in his fight, he stood in the kitchen and envisioned the fight plan. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself working behind the jab, creating angles with his feet, and moving his head offline. Then he opened his eyes and contemplated the food in his refrigerator, the water faucet in his sink, and decided he’d best leave early for his rendezvous with D’Andre.

The car started, and there was no traffic between his apartment in Glassell Park and the gym in Atwater. Nor was there any music to listen to; his speakers had been stolen last week at the gym parking lot (“What kind of moron,” Arthur marveled, “got balls big enough to break into a car parked outside a boxing gym?”).

Silence rendered Humberto vulnerable to his thoughts. The flaccid part of his brain began to formulate excuses to back out. You can tell them you’re sick. Or injured. No, they’ll see right through your bullshit. Car problems! Yes! Crash it! Piece-of-shit KIA’s worth more junked than alive.

No. Humberto laughed. No way. Not after all that training. And the Golden Gloves next month. No fucking way. Today, we find out who you are. At the very least, you’re no quitter.

Turning right onto San Fernando, he transitioned to magical thinking. The event could get canceled. The venue burned down last night. Earthquake. D’Andre’s car gets a flat on the freeway. My opponent doesn’t show. Can’t blame any of that shit on me. Acts of God.

When Humberto pulled into the parking lot at Mongoose, his ride was already there. D’Andre—a professional featherweight with a nine-and-one record—had volunteered to wake up before sunrise and drive Humberto to the San Bernardino fight venue. He’d already sparred dozens of rounds with Humberto to prepare him for this day. Now he was sitting on the hood of his car, the tired smile on his face an emblem of sacrifice.

You can’t quit, Humberto told himself.  D’Andre believes in you.

He turned off the engine and exited his car.

“Buenas dias.”

D’Andre stretched like a cat. “Morning, Champ.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“No place I’d rather be,” D’Andre yawned.

***

“BETTER AN HOUR EARLY THAN A MINUTE LATE,” said Humberto, who wasn’t ready for the silence that often accompanied D’Andre. “At least that’s what my uncle used to say.”

D’Andre yawned.

“That man was a pain in the ass,” Humberto continued. “Died in a car crash on the way to my mom’s birthday party. He was late.”

“That man was a hypocrite.”

D’Andre rolled up the windows and blasted the heat. Then, glancing suspiciously at his passenger, he locked the doors.

Humberto laughed. “What? You think I’m jumping out of a moving car, D?”

D’Andre nodded. “Forty-five minutes from now, driving through Rancho Cuco-fucking-monga, you sweating, and we only halfway there? You’ll be seeing giant Slurpee mirages on the freeway.”

As they merged onto the 2 Freeway, Humberto watched the low sun illuminating the San Gabriel Valley and felt like it had risen for him today.

“What’d you do last night?” asked D’Andre.

“Worked, bro. Need that money. Ain’t gonna lie, though. Riled me up watching all those customers eating pasta and meatballs, drinking beer, while I’m fasting. I kept thinking, if only there was some legal way for me to punch someone in the mouth in the next twenty-four hours without getting arrested.”

“I’ll take you there,” said D’Andre.

Humberto groaned. “I’m so fucking thirsty, D.”

“When’s last time you had water?”

“Yesterday at four-fifty-nine p.m.”

“Last time you got on a scale?”

“Before hitting the sack. I was a buck-thirty-five.”

“You on track. Bedros and Arthur want you at thirty-two today, but they think you’ll make twenty-five for Golden Gloves next month.”

Humberto nodded.

As they passed Pasadena, D’Andre said: “Feeling strong?” It sounded less like a question than a challenge.

“Never felt stronger. Best shape of my life. I thought I was fit when I was running cross country and testing for my black belt. But this shit’s real, D.”

“Now you know.” D’Andre glanced at Humberto. “Nervous?”

“Only when I think,” he laughed. “I’m good,” he quickly amended. “You know what makes me more nervous than fighting? Watching you or G fighting. Sitting ringside, you feel helpless.”

D’Andre grimaced.

Am I talking too much?

“Anyhow,” Humberto shrugged, “in the ring I got control. A say in the outcome.”

“Don’t worry. You got fast hands. Good chin. Heart.”

“Thanks, D. Means a lot.”

As they continued east in silence, Humberto felt buoyed by the manly chitchat and basked in the glow of an experienced fighter’s confidence.

Somewhere between Arcadia and Monrovia, that glow began to dim, and Humberto’s anxious thoughts returned.

“Mind if we listen to tunes, D?”

D’Andre put in a CD of one of those nattily-dressed Motown groups with the choreographed dance moves. Temptations? Four Tops? This surprised Humberto. All the time you spend in the ring with a guy, you think you know him well. D’Andre likes oldies. Who knew?

***

HUMBERTO EXPECTED ARTHUR TO GRILL HIM about what he ate last night, or maybe even the consistency of his stool this morning. He could always count on his vocal, intense manager to say something overtly intimidating, kinda nutty, yet vaguely wise. When they met up in the parking lot outside the venue, though, Arthur seemed uncommonly serene.

“There they are,” he beamed. “My champ and my future champ.”

After exchanging fist bumps. Arthur contemplated Humberto and his ice cooler.

“Where’s your groin cup, future champ?”

Humberto pointed at the cooler.

Arthur shrugged. “Where’s your food?”

Humberto tapped his crotch.

The brothers Arakelian, Bedros and Arthur, were co-owners of Mongoose Boxing Club, where Humberto had been training for over a year. Bedros, the younger brother, was head coach, ran classes, and constructed strategy for his fighters. A burly ex-pug, he reminded Humberto of a circus bear, dangerous but tame. Arthur was the manager. There was nothing tame about him. Though he lacked his older brother’s bulk and professional fighting pedigree, he had a reputation as a fierce street fighter. Arthur’s primary function was to arrange matches for their fighters.

Humberto was surprised that he responded positively to Arthur’s blunt manner, which was reminiscent of Humberto’s father, his first martial arts instructor, who’d raised him on unsparing criticism. Humberto resented his father’s inability to compliment him but at the same time associated his past successes with Dad’s strict methods. Although an ambiguous resentment toward Arthur lurked beneath the surface as well, his critical voice proved strangely comforting to Humberto.

Bedros was also similar to Humberto’s father, in that both men were skilled at imparting knowledge. However, Bedros possessed superior boxing knowledge and a more generous manner. When Humberto boxed correctly, Bedros praised him. When Humberto boxed incorrectly, Bedros falsely praised him into correcting himself. “Double-jab’s looking beautiful,” he’d say, although Humberto was firing only single jabs. “That’s what I need, champ. That beautiful double-jab.”

“You got it, Coach!”

Though he saw through the chicanery, Humberto secretly preferred Bedros to his father, who was more apt to say: Double-jab, Goddamnit! What is the fucking matter with you? With a lifetime of his father’s reproachful voice crowding his head, rugged Humberto was mortified to discover that he also responded positively to approbation. Appreciating a compliment almost seemed like a sign of weakness.

Bedros soon joined them in the San Bernardino parking lot. After briefly conversing with D’Andre (“Good drive, champ?” “Yup, coach.”), he turned his full attention to Humberto.

“Nervous, champ?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“You better be fucking nervous!” barked Arthur. “Wanna know why? Cause you’re about to engage in a fucking fist fight! There are two kinda fighters who aren’t nervous before a fight! Morons and Conor McGregor! Obviously, I’m being redundant! Nervous means you know what’s at stake! That you fucking care about winning!”

“I do.”

“Okay,” Arthur sighed. “Then you’re nervous.”

“Thanks, coach.” Humberto grinned, happy to see cantankerous Arthur again.

“Wanna know what I used to do before my fights?” Bedros calmly inquired. “Tell him, D’Andre.”

“Puke,” said D’Andre. “Coach puked before his fights.”

“And not in order to cut weight,” added Arthur.

“This always happened after the weigh-in,” Bedros agreed.

“Want me to puke?” asked Humberto, searching the parking lot for a bush or trash can.

“Only if you feel inspired to,” said Bedros. “Everyone’s got their own process. You’ll find yours. Nervous energy is adrenaline, champ. Take control of it, focus it on your opponent, and you’ll be a powerhouse. Anyhow. You know what we’re here to do.”

“Raise hell,” said Humberto.

“Right. What’s the plan?”

“Fight to my strengths,” said Humberto. “Fast hands, straight punches. Keep my jab in his face. Double-jab to close the distance. Finish with a straight right down the pipe or sit down and shoot it to the body if his guard’s high. After every combo, move my head and let my feet create a new angle.

“Intelligent aggression,” said Bedros. “Anything else, fellas?”

“Inside fighting,” said D’Andre, patting his hard abdomen. “Use the Tyson switch. Your body punches ain’t no joke.”

“And none of that hippety-hoppity crap,” snarled Arthur. “This ain’t one of your daddy’s karate tournaments, Humberto.”

“That about covers it,” said Bedros. “We’ll take care of the rest. Been here a hundred times, champ. Now we go inside and show them who you are.”

***

HUMBERTO WAS BRIEFLY RELIEVED when he found out that his opponent hadn’t shown up, but that feeling was quickly replaced by disappointment. “I gotta fight somebody,” he said.

“You will,” Bedros insisted. “This happens all the time. Guys get cold feet and stay in bed with their girl. Not everyone’s got your heart, champ. Art’s exploring options, so don’t eat or drink yet.”

After Bedros walked away, Humberto turned to D’Andre and asked: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t eat or drink.”

“Thanks.”

They stood in the vast gym and waited. The space was vaster and brighter than Mongoose. There was a ring constructed in the middle of the room. Beyond the ring was the usual gym equipment: heavy bags, speed bags, double-end bags, treadmills, stationary bikes. Between ring and entrance—where Humberto and D’Andre waited—the floor was empty. Folding chairs were stacked all along the walls. Young, lean men loitered aimlessly, like lost travelers searching for a depot. Some looked scared, some scary, some sleepy. Arthur emerged from a door along the east wall and gestured for Humberto.

They entered an office where several older Latinas sat at a table, writing, while a queue of flat-nosed, middle-aged men waited patiently. Next to the table stood a tall, old-fashioned scale. Arthur told Humberto to stand at the front of the line with Bedros. An impassive woman summoned them to her table. Bedros handed her Humberto’s fight passport.

She opened it and said: “Debut?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Bedros. “He’s a buck-thirty-two.”

“We’ll see,” she said, tilting her head at the scale.

After he’d stripped to his underwear, Humberto stepped on the scale gingerly, not wanting to provoke its wrath.

“Thirty-one,” she told Bedros. “I got a kid at thirty-five. You want?”

“How many fights has he had?”

“This will be his third.”

“We want.”

The official moved across the room toward a whiteboard with more than a dozen rows of names written on it, and a number in parenthesis beside each name. Some rows had one name, others two. With black marker, she wrote ‘Humberto Jimenez (131)’ to the right of the extant ‘Elias Manning (135).’

Bedros tapped Humberto’s shoulder with his fist. “Hungry, champ?”

Humberto wasn’t sure if he meant for food or victory, but he nodded enthusiastically.

“Don’t forget to see the doctor,” the official commanded. “For Jimenez’s physical.”

Though Humberto’s expression was stolid, he felt a mischievous smile twitching beneath the surface. Seeing his name on the board made it real. The fact that he was giving up four pounds and a little fight experience to his opponent actually excited him. He wanted a challenge; here it was.

A year ago, subsequent to a two-year sabbatical from martial arts, feeling chubby and lackadaisical, Humberto had entered the Mongoose Boxing Club desperate to find something important. He wanted to work hard and be good at something again. And he wanted to punish himself for getting lazy.

Exiting the office, Humberto began to mentally prepare his body and spirit for violence, both given and received. The hallway seemed deliberately narrow, as if the path had constricted to eliminate distractions. His stomach rumbled.

“I heard that,” said Bedros. “Let’s feed the beast.”

Sitting on a bench at the back of the gym, Humberto ate a broiled chicken breast and a banana, washed down with a bottle of electrolyte solution. Halfway through Humberto’s second bottle, Arthur gave him a parfait with fruit. “Take your time,” he said.

Humberto was shocked to see other fighters consuming cheeseburgers, fries, and soda from McDonald’s. He was glad to have knowledgeable trainers with high expectations. Superior trainers, superior diet. Two more advantages he’d take into the ring.

A ticket booth appeared at the entrance. Volunteers set up chairs on the floor. A flyer was passed out with all the fighters listed by name, weight, and home gym, in the order that the bouts would take place. There were twenty-five bouts scheduled.  Humberto was twenty-one.

The gym began to fill up—a rough-looking crowd, with many steely-eyed, muscular, tattooed guys strutting around. It wasn’t difficult to differentiate between boxers and non-combatants. Humberto had seen many intimidating guys enter Mongoose, but those carrying excess weight proved useless in the ring. A trained fighter, sheared of excess fat and muscle, will routinely destroy a muscular, wannabe pugilist.

After the physical, Humberto and D’Andre entered the bathroom, where the former changed into his blue Title trunks and black tank top, while the latter stared nonchalantly at the wall. Humberto sat down and tied the laces of his white boxing shoes, then they returned to ringside to watch the fights.

They were exciting. With teammates, family, and friends cheering them on, the anxious boxers fought aggressively. Most of the matches were spirited and competitive. Humberto was proud to be part of the event and eager to display his skills. In several fights, though, when there was a wide skill disparity between contestants, he felt queasy. That could be him trapped in a corner, overwhelmed and humiliated as the crowd clamors for a knockout. He could lose.

Not today, he reassured himself. Not with this guy. I’m gonna command the center of the ring and take charge. I’m gonna give everything I got.

***

BEDROS WRAPPED AND GLOVED HUMBERTO’S HANDS, then D’Andre strapped on the mitts and commandeered a small area alongside the ring. While two combatants battled inside the ring, D’Andre guided Humberto through light defense and punching drills. They practiced head movement and parrying punches. Humberto threw combinations called out by D’Andre. When Humberto began to overexert himself, his seasoned teammate reminded him to save it for the ring.

“Easy now,” D’Andre said, shaking his hands like they were numb. “Save some for your opponent.”

Humberto stretched his muscles, rolled his neck, and swiveled his hips. As his bout drew nearer, Bedros took over the mitts. “Hand speed,” he said. “One-one-two! One-one-four! One-two-three! One-three-two! One-two-three-two!”

At the conclusion of each combo, Bedros swung a mitt in a hooking motion at the head of his charge, who ducked, side-stepped and pivoted before firing the next combo. “Outstanding,” said Bedros, dropping his hands. “Relax now. Slow breathing.”

Humberto spotted his father nearby, leaning against a wall as if he was trying to prevent it from collapsing. Humberto grinned at him, and Dad reciprocated with the terrified smile of a man anticipating a car crash. Humberto wanted to shout: “I know how you feel, Pops! But don’t worry, I’m good!” It was definitely better to be in the ring performing than outside worrying.

***

AFTER THE ANNOUNCER ENTERED THE RING and spoke his name into the microphone, Humberto stepped up onto the ring apron and slipped between the ropes. Arthur and Bedros followed directly behind him. As they stood in the corner, Arthur said: “When the bell rings, do not touch gloves. Punch his face. Give him a hug after the fight.” Humberto looked across the ring and saw his opponent for the first time.

He was kinda big. Bigger than thirty-five, for sure. Stocky kid. Looked like a welterweight. His face was indistinct under his blue headgear. Humberto touched his own headgear and gaped. “Our headgear and gloves are the same color,” he said. “How’ll the judges tell the difference?”

“Easy,” said Bedros. “He’ll be the guy in the blue headgear with the bloody face, and you’ll be the guy with the bloody, blue gloves.”

When the bell rang, Humberto shuffled to the center of the ring and landed a jab on the mouth that elicited an “oooh” from the audience. D’Andre had promised him that punching with ten-ounce gloves, in contrast to the twelve-ouncers they sparred with, would be a revelation. Boy was he right; Humberto could practically feel his opponent’s teeth rattle through the glove. From a mere jab!

The kid retreated. Humberto pursued with another jab, but this time his opponent parried it. They circled, then Humberto double-jabbed. The first was parried, but the second slipped between the guard and snapped back the head. Humberto slid forward to throw a one-one-two, anticipating that when the second jab snapped the guy’s head back again, the exposed chin would be open for his straight right. But this time, his opponent rolled away from the first jab and Humberto felt a sudden explosion against his left cheekbone. He’d been countered with a right hand.

Okay, he thought. Ten ounces. 

His opponent studied him for a sign of weakness, but Humberto returned his gaze icily, thinking I’m getting that back.

Humberto moved left to create a new angle and feinted a jab. Looking to repeat the counter, his opponent turned his lead shoulder away again, but when Humberto’s jab failed to materialize, he let down his guard, and Humberto immediately tattooed his face with the one-one-two. His right hand drew blood from the nose.

Humberto began to alternate between jabs, feints, and double jabs, finishing with the right whenever his opponent retreated on a straight line. He felt in control, as his well-trained body performed the bidding of his brain. He was landing his right more often than he ever had sparring with D’Andre, Ricky, or Guillermo, which made sense, since they were professionals.

On the few occasions he got hit clean–once with a straight right, once with a left hook off the right–Humberto suddenly found himself brawling in the middle of the ring. Though he knew that wild exchanges were advantageous for his heavier, slower opponent, Humberto couldn’t help himself. He enjoyed the chaotic in-fighting no less than he enjoyed being in control. The wild encouragement of the audience; the thrill of blows striking ribs and ribs receiving blows; the mutual consent of violence. Who does this? he marveled. Who has the nerve to do this shit?

Even as he labored to hurt him, to finish him, to make him suffer, Humberto was filled with admiration for his counterpart.

As they fought chest-to-chest, Humberto switched left and connected with a classic Tyson combo–left hook to the liver, left uppercut–and his opponent fell back into the ropes. Incited by the shouts of his corner, Humberto pursued with a flurry of straight punches—five, six, seven—then stepped back to assay the damage.

Beneath the blue headgear, his opponent’s eyes were clear. His weight was coiled on his left hip, ready to counter. Humberto hesitated. The bell rang.

The Arakelian brothers hustled into the ring with stool and bucket. Seated in his corner, Humberto was stunned by how heavily he was breathing. Best shape of his life, running five miles a day, and it still wasn’t enough. Next time, he vowed to himself, I’m running six miles.

Arthur had him sip from the water bottle, then he began to apply ointment to the face.

“Breathe slowly and listen,” said Bedros. “His left is low. You can’t miss him with the one-one-two. But first you wanna nullify his counter right, so aim your first jab inside his lead shoulder, and he won’t be able to roll.”

“And he doesn’t bring his jab back to his face,” said Arthur. “When he leads with it, parry and come over with your right.”

“Looking great, champ. Timing’s perfect. Feels good, right?”

Humberto nodded reflexively. Then he gave it a thought. He felt a second wind fill his lungs. His legs were strong and springy. He glared across the ring at his opponent. What had made him think that this guy was so much larger than himself? He was just a kid, obviously, just as scared as Humberto. Or more so. Did he prepare like I did? Is he better than me? Does he want this more? Well, thought Humberto, rising from his stool, let’s find out.

***

Jeremy Kaplan owns a used bookstore in Los Angeles. He used to teach special education and martial arts to children. His short story, “Confessions of a Soccer Coach” is featured in the current issue of Aethlon Magazine, and prior to that his stories have appeared in NELA Arts News, Clinch Magazine, and elsewhere.