Moses
THE ARENA WAS bright flashes and swinging strobe lights, and the seats I’d garnered were just to the right of the announcer’s table on the left side of the octagon. I had it on good authority that we would be able to see Tag’s corner and he should be able to see us if I could get his attention. I would have to sell one of my lungs to recoup the cost of the tickets, but we were in. Axel, Mikey, and the rest of the guys had managed to come up with seats as well, but they were somewhere else in the arena, and I hadn’t spotted them yet.
Henry’s face was blank, but his eyes swung wildly, soaking in the celebrity sightings, the electric energy, the announcers, the ring girls, the music. Millie had her game face on, and she held Henry’s hand tightly so he could guide her through the crowd, but I was afraid the two of them were going to be swept away, so I reached down and held her other hand, the three of us linked like a line of kindergarteners in a crosswalk.
The crush of people made me nervous, and I could see. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like for Millie, bumping through the crowd in total darkness, senses on overload, unable to get her bearings. She gripped my hand and flashed me a smile as we wound our way to our seats. Tag’s fight wasn’t the main event, but he was the last fight before the final, and there were two fights lined up before his.
He still wasn’t answering his phone. In fact, calling his number resulted in a message that the user’s mailbox was full. We had tracked him down the best we could, and now we had to wait.
Millie had been subdued on the trip to Vegas, her face shadowed and shuttered, looking after Henry and making quiet conversation with me, and beyond the tears that had leaked out when she had listened to one of Tag’s tapes, she’d kept her emotions close to her chest. Me? I was angry. If Tag didn’t get his ass kicked in his fight, I was going to kick it afterwards. The anger kept me from being afraid. I had enough self-awareness to know that. But I didn’t understand what Tag was thinking. Not really. I didn’t understand just cutting us off and leaving. I’d seen a documentary once about how old Native Americans left their tribes when they were ready to die. But Tag was twenty-six. And he wasn’t Native American. And I refused to believe he was dying. The rage built in my chest again, and I mentally changed the subject.
Henry was tuned into the announcer’s table, more interested in the commentators than the fights themselves, and his interest drew my own. They were talking about Tag, and I felt Millie stiffen next to me.
“For our viewers who are just tuning in, Tag Taggert was not scheduled to fight tonight. But when Jordan Jones pulled out at the last minute due to a shoulder injury, fight commissioner Cliff Cordova called Tag Taggert, definitely a rising star in ultimate fighting, and asked him if he wanted to step in. Tag defeated Bruno Santos by technical knock-out in the fifth round only a month ago, which is the second time he has completely obliterated his underdog status and beaten a highly-favored opponent.
And now, David Taggert is entering the arena wearing his signature Tag Team gear. But he’s completely alone. He has two arena security guards with him. That’s it. No corner help, no coaches, no team whatsoever. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before. For a guy who has been building the Tag Team brand so aggressively, that’s a little odd.”
“Tag! Tag!” Henry was screaming and jumping up and down, trying to draw Tag’s attention, and Millie was shaking so hard I gritted my own teeth to help her stop. Tag saw Henry, saw me, and then he saw Millie. His jaw clenched, his eyes widened, and he slowed, almost stopping, before he seemed to remember where he was. He actually stepped toward us, and Henry yelled his name once more and waved theatrically. Tag’s eyes shot to mine again and he pointed at me and then pointed at Millie, as if to say “take care of her.” I could only stare back.
Then, after a nudge from security, he continued on to the edge of the octagon, pulled off the Tag Team warm-ups, stepped out of his shoes, stuck a mouth guard over his teeth, and waited for the official to call him forward. He didn’t look toward us again, and I recognized the set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin. I’d seen this Tag more times than I could count. It was game time, and sadly, this wasn’t a game.
“What’s happening, Moses?” Millie asked, the fear in her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd around us. I leaned down and put my head next to hers. I didn’t have enough air in my lungs to shout.
“He’s going to do it. He’s going to fight.”
“I hate that I can’t see him.” Her face was white and her mouth trembled. I marveled for the millionth time at her courage. How would it feel to go through life in perpetual darkness, putting yourself out there and hoping the world could see you, even if you couldn’t see it? I saw more than I wanted to see, and for much of my life I’d hated it. I’d hated what I could see. But it was better than seeing nothing at all.
“He saw you, Millie. He knows you’re here. He knows we’re here.”
“How does he look?”
“He looks ready.” It was the only thing I could say.
“Why is he doing this?” The question was almost a sob, and I took her hand again. I didn’t have an answer.
The announcer began his build-up, introducing Tag first, and Henry mouthed his sequence almost word for word, the wins and losses, the nicknames and finally David “Tag” Taggert, as the crowd roared and my conscience screamed. Tag was such an idiot. It was David and Goliath, and I could only look on helplessly as Terry “Shotgun” Shaw was announced and the referee called the two fighters to the center of the octagon. Henry knew Shotgun’s stats as well.
Millie’s attention was once again riveted on the television play-by-play, the two co-hosts chatting excitedly, giving her information that she couldn’t see. I listened to them launch into an introduction of the upcoming fight as the referee stood in the center of the octagon and talked to the two fighters who stood chest to chest, eye to eye, trying to take each other apart before the buzzer sounded. Tag had told me once that those few seconds of intimidation were invaluable.
“Shotgun’s camp wasn’t very happy about the match-up. They don’t think Taggert has earned the right to be in the octagon with Shotgun. They really wanted the fight with Jones, but Jordan Jones was out, and after Taggert’s big win against Santos last month, he was the obvious choice in my opinion. He’s a rising star, popular with the fans, popular with other fighters, just an all-around great ambassador for the sport. He’s a solid striker, solid grappler, and his wrestling skills have improved immensely. He was a bull-rider in high school, so he’s definitely an adrenaline junky, though he claims a few broken bones was all it took to convince him to leave the bulls alone. But more than anything else, the man just enjoys the sport. He loves getting in the octagon, battling it out, and he claims that’s the reason he’s any good. He loves to fight, and he has a hell of a chin.”
The buzzer sounded and the announcers grew silent for all of five seconds. Tag and Shotgun circled each other, and the broadcasters couldn’t help themselves. They had to jump back into the fray.
“That’s right, Joe. In his recent fight against Bruno Santos, there were a few times where everyone thought he was going down. Bruno landed some brutal shots, and Taggert just kept coming. He just kind of wore Bruno out, and in the end, caught Santos just right and sent him to the canvas, absolutely stunning the fight world. Santos was the clear favorite, just like Shotgun is the favorite here today. But don’t count Tag Taggert out. Don’t count him out, because he just might surprise you.”
My heart bounced like a ball in my chest and the sweat trickled down my back. Tag attempted a take down and caught a flurry of fists instead.
“Oh, Shotgun lands a solid combination to Taggert’s body! And out comes the smile from Tag Taggert! He is grinning from ear to ear.
“Is it part of his game plan? Smile through the pain?”
“You know, it might be, but I’ve watched several of his fights, and I honestly think he just loves the battle. He starts smiling when the fists start flying, and he doesn’t stop.”
I had to tune the announcers out. They were making me nervous. But they were right. The harder Shotgun came at him, the bigger Tag’s smile grew. With his dimples flashing, the women in the crowd were all solidly in his corner after the second round. I’d seen it before. Tag smiling as blood dripped out his nose and from his mouth. The man was a lunatic.
But he didn’t look sick, and he didn’t act sick, and I felt a sliver of relief that Tag wasn’t trying to die. Not yet. Shotgun’s fist glanced off Tag’s forehead at the end of the first round and for a minute, Tag’s legs stiffened. Shotgun saw that Tag was temporarily rocked and flew at him, fists flying, only to have his confidence and momentum used against him. Tag lunged into a perfect double leg, wrapping his arms around Shotgun’s knees, and toppled Shotgun cleanly to his back.
The crowd went crazy, the announcers went wild, and Millie strained to hear their commentary, her hand in mine, her other hand resting on Henry.
“Tag took him down,” I yelled downward, giving her the play-by-play I knew she needed, but my eyes stayed locked on Tag’s back as he struggled to grind his way past Shotgun’s guard.
“Ground and pound!” Henry shrieked.
But the round ended, and Tag was forced to let Shotgun up. Tag stood easily and walked to his empty corner, but he didn’t sit on the stool that was placed there for him, nor did he lean against the ropes, giving the crowd his back. Instead, he grabbed a towel, shot his mouth with water, spit it out again, took another drink and found Millie in the crowd. He stood, fingers clinging to the cage that surrounded the octagon, and he didn’t look at me or anyone else. He kept his eyes on her long enough that the announcers were turning their heads, trying to see who or what held his attention.
“I’ve got this, Millie!” he roared suddenly. “I got this! I got this, baby!”
“Did you hear him, Millie?” I yelled down at her, my eyes never leaving Tag as his eyes stayed planted on Millie’s face. She nodded vigorously. “He wants you to know he’s okay.”
Everyone was staring at her now, and the announcers were wide-eyed and openly speculative as the buzzer sounded and Tag turned away.
It continued on that way through the next four rounds. When the buzzer sounded, Tag would find his corner, find Millie, and reassure her, always in the same way. “I got this, Millie. I got this.”
And the crowd started to believe him. They started to chant for him, a chant that began with Henry.
“Tag Team! Tag Team! Tag Team!” he’d yelled continually, and before too long, the people around us picked up the chant, and it spread through the crowd in pockets and in power, until Shotgun caught Tag on the forehead again, staggering him, causing him to go down on one knee only to surge up and catch Shotgun beneath the chin, knocking his head back with a whip-lash inducing crack.
Shotgun crumpled.
For half a second there was a collective intake of breath, a shared, stunned heartbeat that silenced the crowd before pandemonium broke out and the referee practically slid to Shotgun’s inert form, frantically waving his arms over his head, indicating the fight was over. Tag had won.
“It’s over!” I screamed. “He did it!”
“Tag!” Henry howled in wild delight. “Tag!”
But Millie just stood, shaking, her eyes dry, her palms drenched. Or maybe that was my hand. We clutched each other, and Henry hung on too, the three of us caught up in the surge and swell that raged around us. The crowd was hollering, people clapping, jumping up and down, jostling us, patting us on the back, congratulating us. Everyone had watched as Tag zeroed in on Millie throughout the fight, and they were zeroing in on her now.
Tag approached his corner again, this time with his hands raised above his head. But as he found Millie once more, his eyes narrowing on her face, his right leg buckled and his hands came down, relinquishing celebration for something to hold onto. He swayed wildly, the crowd gasped, and I lunged forward, letting go of Millie’s hand, my arms out-stretched as if I could catch him.
His fingers tangled in the netting, his eyes rolled, and his body jerked, collapsing into a shuddering heap on the octagon floor. And he continued to convulse.
I was up and over the cage wall before anyone could stop me.
The crowd grew silent beyond the octagon, and strangely enough, no one challenged me. I knelt beside him, trying to hold onto him, not knowing what to do, and the referee was immediately at my side, as well as someone from Shotgun’s corner.
“He’s seizing!” the referee said sharply, and someone shoved a mouth guard back between Tag’s teeth to keep him from biting his tongue. I slid my arm beneath his head to prevent it from knocking against the floor.
Shotgun was sitting up blearily, and the medical personnel who had come immediately to his aid abandoned him for the new emergency. From the corner of my eye I thought I saw Molly. Blond hair, blue eyes, silently waiting. And I bit back a curse and slammed down my walls, refusing to acknowledge her.
THE TELEVISION IN the emergency waiting room was tuned into a local station, and Millie, Henry and I sat in numb silence, listening to a Vegas reporter sharing the news of the day. Axel, Mikey, Cory, Andy and Paulo were there too, looking as grim and gutted as I felt, and they raised their eyes to the screen when Tag’s name was mentioned. The reporter stood outside of the MGM, where people were still streaming in and out of the venue, her hand clutching a fuzzy blue microphone, her expression both serious and exultant, telling us what we already knew about Tag’s fight and none of the stuff we wanted to know.
It was fight night at the MGM this evening, the main event one many had been waiting a long time to see, but it was an undercard fight featuring a last-minute fill-in that has been the subject among fight fans here tonight. David Taggert was called up only three days ago to fill the slot vacated by Jordan Jones. Jones had been scheduled to fight long-time UFC favorite and former Light Heavyweight champion, Terry Shaw, when he sustained an injury that left him unable to fight.
David Taggert, after a stunning upset in April against Bruno Santos, was called in to take his place. Fight fans definitely got their money’s worth when Taggert and Shaw went a full four rounds before Taggert knocked Shaw out cold. However, that’s not where the story ends. The controversy is over an apparent seizure Taggert had after the fight ended. Shaw was out cold. The fight was over. The referee raised Taggert’s hand, Tag Taggert turned toward the crowd, raised his hands, took a few steps, and collapsed.
He was taken to an area hospital in critical condition, and we are now hearing reports that shortly following the April fight where Tag Taggert defeated Bruno Santos, he had a run-in at his Salt Lake City bar with a former employee. Taggert was struck across the forehead in the altercation and sustained a fairly serious head wound. Word is that he was treated and released that night, but has kept a very low profile in the weeks following the altercation. Speculation is now running rampant. We will keep you posted about his condition and any developments that may shed more light on this stunning series of events.
Tag went into surgery about an hour after arriving in the emergency room. He actually regained consciousness briefly in the ambulance, or so we were told. He asked about the fight, was told he had a seizure, and he went under again. He had the gall to make sure he really won before losing consciousness again. It almost made me laugh. I would have laughed if I wasn’t so angry.
According to the doctor who came and talked to us about three hours after we arrived in the hospital waiting room, Tag’s brain had started to bleed and swell, most likely during the fight. I thought of the blow he took to the forehead at the end of the first round, when his legs had wobbled and we all thought he was going down. He’d fought for three more rounds before he took another blow to the same spot right before the fight ended. The swelling created pressure which had then caused the seizure, which in turn helped them discover the bleed. Apparently, people who undergo a craniotomy and have tumors removed from their brains shouldn’t enter the octagon less than three weeks post-surgery.
I wasn’t able to ride in the ambulance with Tag. I’d had to stay with Millie and Henry. We’d fought our way through the crowd as quickly as we could, which hadn’t been easy, and then sped to the hospital, arriving a good twenty minutes after Tag had been rushed through the emergency room doors. I’d told the nurse at the desk everything I knew, everything Tag had confessed in his tapes, and asked her to please relay it to those caring for my friend. She’d given me a look like she thought I was high and dangerous, peering at me over the tops of her little glasses and pressing her fat chin into her chest in bafflement. She listened and then stood, exiting through swishing doors where Millie and Henry and I weren’t allowed to follow.
I could just imagine the stunned reactions of the nurses and doctors when they got Tag in there and started pulling up his medical history and running him through the MRI. He’d pulled his shaggy hair into a tail at the back of his head for the fight, completely covering up the shaved lines crisscrossing his skull, evidence of the craniotomy, but those things don’t stay hidden. His hair was coming loose from the band and falling around his face when I held him in my arms in the octagon. I’d seen the evidence, and so would they.
When the fat desk clerk had finally come back to her post, she was shaking her head, and she kept looking at us like we’d escaped from a freak show. I’d been looked at that way a time or two, so I just stared back with all the insolence I felt, and Millie was obviously unaware that she was the focus of such suspicious attention. Henry was a jittery, trivia-spouting mess, but Millie just held his hand, stroked his hair, and commented on his inane trivia as if he was the smartest kid in the universe. Before long, he was eating peanut M&Ms and guzzling Sprite from the vending machines with relative calm, whispering a stat to himself every once in a while.
“He’s out of surgery. We were able to stop the bleed,” the doctor said solemnly. He looked from me to Millie. His eyes widened and he looked back at me again, obviously realizing that he could only make eye contact with one of us. To his credit, he went right on talking, hardly pausing.
“He’s unconscious, and we’d like to keep him that way at this point, but we think when the swelling eases in the next twelve hours or so, he’ll come around. We need to watch him over the next few days, but he should be fine. Brain activity looks good, vitals are good. I have consulted with Dr. Stein and Dr. Shumway at LDS hospital. Dr. Shumway performed the craniotomy on your friend, and I can’t tell you much more, but Mr. Taggert’s got some big decisions to make. I think having you here, having people call him on what he did, and on what he needs to do, is important. What he did tonight was incredibly foolish. He’s lucky to be alive.”