By Bart Barry–
Arrived too early in their dressing rooms, to satisfy broadcaster’s schedules, and bored, the main event guys do anything to calm themselves: text watch the monitors’ undercard scraps stretch nap . . .
There’s weightshifting in the queue, left to right to right right to left. Someone has a small banner in the right leg of his jeans covered in clever script about a cousin’s friend on the undercard and he fingers its stitching to a rash. Many of the guys wear shiny suitjackets or shirts with shiny script congruent to the MMA fashion show (a redundancy) of the decade past. Others wear flared-tight-flared white buttondown ensembles with roughsilk piping and bluejeans with logos and an overpriced belt they think women notice, a profession of physique and badassery to put others on notice if anyone were able to distract himself from autofixation long enough to notice.
pace undress partially redress, not time yet, talk through handlers’ concerns meet local celebrities absorb familiars’ fears laugh senselessly at a promoter’s lame support tell a bottling company exec how much his sponsorship means
The few women in line clutch their men’s hands in an unspoken theatrical treaty: If all these guys are posers like you, sweetie, then I have nothing for you to protect me from and that’ll make you feel emasculated enough to drink too much and create a petty confrontation to save me from, so let me act a little frightened in this ridiculous red dress you bought me for this occasion to impress your buddies.
lower eyelids cradle napes with folded fingers imagine remembering a hundred training tips fantasize about the purse check stretch stretch doubt the other guy’s routine envy no one
Security at the door is a hyperbolic symmetry of the same sorts of men in line, though paid marginally less, and trying to put a charismatic mask on faces quick to trigger and show offense, all faux players in a faux presentation of peril and might. Keys, wallet, belt and hat resecured, there are the concession lines to navigate, which way’s the beer and why must bottled water be poured in a cup?
listen for noise from the other guy’s room field rumors about the other guy’s camp make fists then relax replay the weighin with goodfaith replay the weighin with badfaith worry what the eyes betrayed of fear or excitement like fear or calm like fearlessness feel lonely enough to blame the manager and familiars
Inside the usual human gambit of imitation for affirmation’s sake finds too many beers bought causing overwrought reactions to a combatant’s bravery via its contrast – his opponent’s inactivity, resignation, caution; failure. No fight is average, no match is scored fairly, no prizefighter makes a simple decent account of himself; every match is a war or a waste of time like I told ya was going to happen, every decision has a corrupt judge or an honest judge whose virtue is wildly offset by two villains, every prizefighter is a future great I saw first or worthless.
feel misunderstood wish the whole thing might be called envision a loss and how it can be soothed tomorrow catch scold think about bills say everything is handled concentrate worry concentrate worry worry worry concentrate begin to exert in relaxing postures get anxious about the middle knuckle of the left hand forget about that knuckle text a compassionate someone, wife friend mom, i love you
The lights dimmed and the main event entrance tunes beginning to roar, press row fills with yawns inexplicably – except yawns as a circuitbreaker, not an expression of boredom, a fatigue courted by anticipation, a recognition of the coming fight’s value, a collective plea that what happens next bring an unbearable spectacle but not quite, all underwritten by a collective of individual fears about talent and presence and the tall pile of unpredictables and unknowables and uncontrollables (luck) that conspire to make a written account of combat either something that duly honors its subject or doesn’t.
obey orders begin to warm meet the referee and seek connection try to read sympathy get frustrated by the cameras and their effect take the trunks off their hanger and leave the robe adjust the cup both balls in and snug but not tight or queasiness put the boots on and slam the heel left foot first and tie the laces watch the other guy’s trainer watch the hands get wrapped notice the games transcend the games wonder if feeling above the games is being a victim of the games then try to be oblivious of the other trainer’s games unless it’s too much but what is too much if it’s his job to be too much
The heeltapping triples its time under the collapsible tables as young writers do a last rewrite of their prework and old writers wish they would just get on with the fight for fuck’s sake.
punch palms with freshwrapped fists out of habit force the open hands in leather stiffness and scent watch the white taperoll go round round round round wonder what the official’s blackmarker scribble means to him more posturing hit the pads endure the national anthem going on and on hear the name amplified wish it were over hear the first notes push through the door surge surge surge clear bright loud glide doubt affirm affirm nod trust hope doubt hope hope . . .
The bell rings and everywhere everything wiggles: relief, no relief, relief, no relief.
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
