like this.
We race the sun through central Mexico, crossing urban sprawl, villages, mountains, and plains. And as we pass town after town named after saints, I think about how holy this country is; yet, people like us only come here when we want to do things that are anything but.
****
After a night at a forgettable motel, another three hours of roadway puts us at Miguel’s place. It’s one of many one-story, tan stucco, red tile-roofed homes on the block, with a haphazardly constructed picket fence wrapped around a pristine lawn.
“ Mi amor !” Miguel says, dashing from the low stone steps out front to greet Drew as I pull up to the curb. He’s lifting her up a few seconds after I park, and swinging her around. I give them a moment, reluctant to intrude until she invites it. He prattles off in Spanish, even though Drew admitted to me that she’s only fluent in the insults and curse words. When she shoves him backward, he finally speaks to her in English.
He’s a few years older than we are, she told me, though , he doesn’t look like he can even grow facial hair yet. He’s in loose jeans, a white t-shirt, and there’s short, wild hair poking out from under a Dodgers cap. Miguel has dark features—complexion, hair, eyes—and he’s lanky with long limbs. He doesn’t have the musculature for fighting. I catch him sizing me up, too, over Drew’s shoulder, but I can’t read his face. I’m anxious to impress him because he’s the gatekeeper to the underworld.
After Drew’s introduction, Miguel gets in the backseat, preferring to talk away from his house. “My mother and little brother, Eduardo, live here, too,” he explains as he texts rapidly on his phone. “My older brother, Santi, was killed during a shootout at a fight four years ago. My father, too, was killed in the ring when I was a child. If Mamá knew I was involved with fights, she would never speak to me again.” I’m struck by the casual way he talks about death, but I get the feeling I’m only hearing the abridged version of what he’s seen. His English, learned from years of The Price is Right and Jeopardy Internet downloads, is near perfect, and he speaks very quickly about everything, from the mundane to the important, like he’s always pressed for time. His day job is a bunch of day jobs, and he promotes new fighters at night. He grew up in Guadalajara, but his mother moved them around a lot, trying to keep a house full of sons from ending up like their father. Not that it mattered. With a chuckle, Miguel says, “Sometimes fathers pass on more than just high blood pressure.” Don’t I fucking know it.
He directs me down a scenic route to the Plaza De Armas , the busy town square, where people are milling about. On the way, we cruise past a cathedral and the fortress of a city hall that loom over the quaint, quiet town. I marvel at my academic wet dream and try not to bore them by pointing out the imposing, symmetrical French Baroque elements in the structures. Tepatitlán is beautiful, and just beautiful enough to hide the pipeline to a seedy underground fighting nightlife.
We end up at a popular upscale café that doubles as an art gallery, a place not too far from our motel, where twenty-something hipsters and urban sophisticates are sipping wine under impressionist paintings. The sea of foreign words swamps me and leaves me feeling incredibly out of my element. Miguel orders for the table when a waiter approaches: beers for them, mandarin Jarritos for me, plus tamales and panes dulces for everyone. After eating in our comfort zone at American places during the drive, Drew and I indulge and get seconds of everything. While we’re cramming food into our faces, Miguel explains that all fights here are not created equal. Amateur fights, which have a lot of unknown fighters, don’t draw much attention or bets, which means the prize money is abysmal. The next tier has some cartel-sponsored fights—and better fighters—and
We race the sun through central Mexico, crossing urban sprawl, villages, mountains, and plains. And as we pass town after town named after saints, I think about how holy this country is; yet, people like us only come here when we want to do things that are anything but.
****
After a night at a forgettable motel, another three hours of roadway puts us at Miguel’s place. It’s one of many one-story, tan stucco, red tile-roofed homes on the block, with a haphazardly constructed picket fence wrapped around a pristine lawn.
“ Mi amor !” Miguel says, dashing from the low stone steps out front to greet Drew as I pull up to the curb. He’s lifting her up a few seconds after I park, and swinging her around. I give them a moment, reluctant to intrude until she invites it. He prattles off in Spanish, even though Drew admitted to me that she’s only fluent in the insults and curse words. When she shoves him backward, he finally speaks to her in English.
He’s a few years older than we are, she told me, though , he doesn’t look like he can even grow facial hair yet. He’s in loose jeans, a white t-shirt, and there’s short, wild hair poking out from under a Dodgers cap. Miguel has dark features—complexion, hair, eyes—and he’s lanky with long limbs. He doesn’t have the musculature for fighting. I catch him sizing me up, too, over Drew’s shoulder, but I can’t read his face. I’m anxious to impress him because he’s the gatekeeper to the underworld.
After Drew’s introduction, Miguel gets in the backseat, preferring to talk away from his house. “My mother and little brother, Eduardo, live here, too,” he explains as he texts rapidly on his phone. “My older brother, Santi, was killed during a shootout at a fight four years ago. My father, too, was killed in the ring when I was a child. If Mamá knew I was involved with fights, she would never speak to me again.” I’m struck by the casual way he talks about death, but I get the feeling I’m only hearing the abridged version of what he’s seen. His English, learned from years of The Price is Right and Jeopardy Internet downloads, is near perfect, and he speaks very quickly about everything, from the mundane to the important, like he’s always pressed for time. His day job is a bunch of day jobs, and he promotes new fighters at night. He grew up in Guadalajara, but his mother moved them around a lot, trying to keep a house full of sons from ending up like their father. Not that it mattered. With a chuckle, Miguel says, “Sometimes fathers pass on more than just high blood pressure.” Don’t I fucking know it.
He directs me down a scenic route to the Plaza De Armas , the busy town square, where people are milling about. On the way, we cruise past a cathedral and the fortress of a city hall that loom over the quaint, quiet town. I marvel at my academic wet dream and try not to bore them by pointing out the imposing, symmetrical French Baroque elements in the structures. Tepatitlán is beautiful, and just beautiful enough to hide the pipeline to a seedy underground fighting nightlife.
We end up at a popular upscale café that doubles as an art gallery, a place not too far from our motel, where twenty-something hipsters and urban sophisticates are sipping wine under impressionist paintings. The sea of foreign words swamps me and leaves me feeling incredibly out of my element. Miguel orders for the table when a waiter approaches: beers for them, mandarin Jarritos for me, plus tamales and panes dulces for everyone. After eating in our comfort zone at American places during the drive, Drew and I indulge and get seconds of everything. While we’re cramming food into our faces, Miguel explains that all fights here are not created equal. Amateur fights, which have a lot of unknown fighters, don’t draw much attention or bets, which means the prize money is abysmal. The next tier has some cartel-sponsored fights—and better fighters—and
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