Ryan
I’m sweating my ass off in the gym. Not because of the scorching heat in Mexico, which is brutal, but because I ran four miles this morning before attacking the punching bags at the gym.
The problem is that Dalila, with her silky hair and questioning eyes, is etched into my mind.
Damn.
I’m not one to get stuck on a chick, especially one with ulterior motives. Hell, for all I know her boyfriend’s got a hit out on me. Not that I care. At this point I’ve got a couple of weeks before I’m kicked out on my ass and then it won’t matter if I’m dead or not.
“If you relax your shoulders, you’ll have an easier time focusing on your target.” A voice echoes through the gym.
I turn to find none other than Juan Camacho, the greatest Mexican boxer of all time, walking toward me. He’s got a head full of gray hair and he moves slow but I bet he could still kick ass in a fight.
“I. Uh. Wow, um . . .” I’m too stunned to speak coherently.
“Go on,” he says. “I hear you’re a good fighter. Show me what you got.”
I don’t move. I saw videos online of when he knocked out Cody Sanchez in the first round of the championship back in the seventies. And when he fought Hunter McGehee, known as the biggest threat to his winning streak, he surprised everyone with a huge upset. McGehee was supposed to give Camacho a run for his money, but that didn’t happen. McGehee stopped fighting after Camacho knocked him out in the third round.
“You’re here,” I say dumbly. “Wow. I’m Ryan Hess.”
He nods. “I know.”
My mind is a blur. I realize I’m pretty much frozen, and I tell myself to snap out of it.
“Hit the bag, but make sure your shoulders are relaxed and square,” he says.
I work on the bag until Camacho tells me to stop. When he puts on target mitts and orders me into the ring, I jump in without hesitating. I want to show him this isn’t just a hobby for me. Boxing defines my life. It makes me feel worthy of living.
I know that sounds stupid. But when you’re told all your life that you’re a worthless loser, you search for something to validate your existence.
I show off every skill I have. I jab fast and furiously in a perfect rhythm that feels like music.
After an hour Juan puts the mitts down. “You’ve got skills,” he says. “But you’re overly eager and you’re in your head too much.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll work on it.”
Mateo and a couple of other guys walk into the club. Even Mateo, who’s been trying to get Camacho to come watch me fight, widens his eyes as he stares at the legend.
They all greet Camacho with a mixture of eagerness and awe. I’m still feeling like a little kid who just met his hero.
Camacho stays for a while, watching us spar while giving pointers.
But it’s over all too soon. Before he leaves, he shakes our hands and starts walking out of the club. It occurs to me that I might never see the guy again. I know it’s a long shot, but I rush to the parking lot.
He’s walking to his car but stops when I stand in his path.
“I need a trainer,” I blurt out as the hot Mexican sun beats down on my back.
He pulls out his car keys from his pocket. “I don’t train anyone. Not anymore.”
Before he gets into his car, I call out. “Wait!” He looks at me with impatience written on his face. “I came to Mexico with nothing but a few bucks in my pocket. Just a dream to meet you and the hope that you’ll teach me what you learned. I’ve watched videos of you boxing. The way you moved, the way you played with your opponent . . . it was like a warrior’s dance. I wanted to be you when I grew up, someone that people admire.” I swallow the lump that’s forming in my throat. “Someone who wasn’t just defined as an unwanted bastard.”
Camacho stares at me as my words sink in, then pats me on the back. “You’re a good fighter, Ryan. But I heard you were fighting in the underground cages. That kind of fighting is dirty. It won’t teach you strategy or discipline.” He gestures to the bruises on my face. “It’ll just teach you to beat the crap out of your opponent until they’re lying flat on their back.”
“Isn’t that what it’s all about?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. That’s not what it’s all about.”
I watch as he slides into his car.
I can’t let him leave, not now when his help could mean the difference between a life worth living and one that isn’t worth a peso. “I’ll pay you whatever you want, Mr. Camacho.”
He cocks a brow. “You just said you’re broke.”
“I made fifty pesos last night. I’ll give you everything I have.”
“Fifty pesos, huh?” His upper lip twitches in amusement. “I’ll tell you what, Ryan. I’ll come by a couple days a week to train you. You do what I say, eat what I say, and sleep when I tell you to. Then I’ll get you a legitimate fight, and we’ll see if you really have what it takes. ¿Entiendes?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He closes the door to his car but rolls down the window. “One more thing. Get a tan and learn some Spanish. You stick out like a piñata in the White House.”
As he drives off I feel like I’ve just won the lottery.
Juan Camacho just agreed to train me.
It’s too unreal. Not able to contain myself, I let out a triumphant yell that can probably be heard in the next town over.
Back in the gym, I share the news with Mateo. “Thanks for everything, man,” I say, grateful he was able to get Camacho into the gym.
“Dude, you did it all. You did it!” he says as we do a bro handshake. “I knew if he just saw you in the ring he’d train you.”
“What about you?” I ask him. “Don’t you want him to train you?”
“I wish, but I’ve got so much shit goin’ on I don’t have time to commit to anythin’ right now.”
“You giving up boxing?”
“Nah,” he says. “Just taking a mini break for the summer. I’ll be closely watchin’ you from the sidelines though, Hess. I’ve got your back, remember?”
I want to call my mom and tell her the news. It’s stupid, I know, but I’d like to hear that she’s proud of me for what I’ve managed to accomplish. Although to be honest, I haven’t accomplished anything but winning fifty pesos and Juan Camacho’s promise to train me a couple days a week. It’ll sound pretty weak to someone who doesn’t know anything about boxing.
For the next two days I focus on working out and sparring with anyone who walks into the gym. Some guys refuse to spar with me because I’m a gringo. The fact that I don’t have any championships or real fights behind me makes me a noob.
But when Camacho comes in, I earn a little street cred.
Most of the guys hardly talk, so the language barrier isn’t an issue.
I’m not so lucky when Camacho is training me.
“Mantén las rodillas dobladas,” he says. “O perderás tu equilibrio.”
I look at him with a deadpan expression on my face. “I have no clue what you just said,” I tell him.
He points to his knees. “Rodillas. Knees. Bend your knees, Ryan.”
When I do what he says, he nods in approval. “Muy bien.”
At the end of our session he lays down the rules. “Sleep by ten, wake by six, and run for an hour. Eat four eggs for breakfast with spinach and tortillas. Girls are a distraction, so no girls.”
“Of course. No girls.”
Camacho shakes a crooked, arthritic finger at me. “And no cage fighting. You fight outside of the gym, I’m done. ¿Comprendes?”
“I won’t let you down.”
“You better not.”
After Camacho leaves, Mateo enters the gym wearing a suit and tie.
“You getting married?” I ask him. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
“There’s no wedding.” He puts his foot up on a chair and poses as if he’s on the cover of GQ magazine. “What do you think? I look good, right? I’ve got bodyguard duty for some rich girl’s birthday tonight. Pays two hundred bucks.”
“Bucks or pesos?”
“We’re talkin’ cold hard American dollars.”
I’m so hard up for money that two hundred bucks for one night’s work sounds like a fucking fortune.
“I’d ask you to come, but I’m gonna take a wild guess that you don’t have a suit. Besides, all the security and bodyguard positions are filled.”
“It’s cool,” I tell him. “I’ll just hang in the gym tonight.”
Mateo shakes his head. “I already told you. Too much time in the gym’ll make you go loco, Ryan.”
“Yeah, well I don’t have much of a choice. My car is almost out of gas, I’ve got less than ten pesos left to my name . . . and I’ve got a fight coming up.”
“Life could be worse, mi amigo.”
“You don’t see me complaining.”
“Well, let me know when you’re fighting,” he says. “I’ll be rooting for you, even if I’ll be the only one rooting for the anonymous white dude.”
It’s nice having a friend like Mateo who doesn’t give a shit about where I come from. He’ll root for me no matter what, which is more than I can say for my blood relatives.
He starts bragging about some girl he met last night when he gets a text. “Damn. This guy Arturo canceled tonight and they’re looking for another bodyguard.” He looks up at me. “Someone in charge saw us together at the cage fight the other night. He wants me to ask if you’re interested in filling in for Arturo. He’ll lend you a suit. Two hundred bucks to stand around while some rich princess gets showered with gifts.”
I don’t even have to think about it. “I’m all in.”