continued, that you fight tonight, and there be no more after that. They leave you alone, no matter who win.
I thought for a minute. It was intriguing, I had to admit. Not because I wanted the fighting to stopâI was indifferent to that. No, I was intrigued because
they
obviously wanted the fighting to stop, and they imagined this proposal an acceptably macho way to end it and save face at the same time.
The
gallera
was a large corrugated aluminum building set beside the main drag in Isabel, like the worldâs biggest garden shed. The ring in the center, a ten-foot-diameter scrap of Astroturf hemmed by a short concrete wall, was surrounded by concentric circles of theatre-style seats rising up to the rafters. Big Medalla banner on the wall. A small window through which beer and roasted chicken
pinchos
were sold. Cumulus zeppelins of cigar smoke and chlorinated fluorescent light and crowds of men who never bothered to use the seats provided. This was where I found myself that evening, nine sharp, the hour when the actual cockfights always started.
Ajax stood across from me, stripped to the waist, three hundred pounds if a pound and streaming sweat just standing there. He sneered at the comparatively insignificant amount of air I displaced, and here was my chance, if I had any: hubris always makes one vulnerable, no matter how strong.
His arrogance was the only stroke in my favor, though. Everything else worked against me: the crowd; my poor physical shape after so much heroic drinking; the tiny ring, designed to house the clash of angry fowl, not a no-holds-barred match between grown men. I was giving up over a hundred pounds and had nowhere to run, let alone hide.
But things were even worse than they appeared at first blush. Because I realized quickly, after the buzzer screeched to begin the bout, that not only was Ajax massive and fierce, but he also knew how to fight. He had training. He slipped my berserker rush out of the corner, intended to surprise and intimidate, with a deft, practiced side step, and as I passed he cuffed me with a left jab, then landed a blinding right cross to the nerve center just below my ear.
I staggered, tripped over my own feet, nearly went down. The crowd, as smug as Ajax himself, and as certain of his victory, murmured approval. Ajax waited for me to clear my head and made a show of looking bored, letting his hands drop a bit.
Of course he knew how to fight. Half the islandâs men had spent more net time in the boxing gym than in school. While Iâd been busy playing JV basketball and getting into the occasional undisciplined scrape in the neighborhood, conflicts that usually looked more like an awkward slow dance between two dudes than an actual fight, Ajax had passed his days cutting class and working the speed bag and sparring without a head guard.
I went after him again. He tried the same side step, but I anticipated it and met him at the spot. I lowered my head into his belly, felt him cough up the air in his lungs. The crowd grumbled, but as far as I was concerned the fact that no one had outlined rules meant that there were none. This wasnât a boxing match, it was a street fight.
But though Ajax was winded, I couldnât press any advantage. He was too big. I tried to wrap him up and pin him against the wall, but my arms werenât long enough to circumscribe his girth. Then I put my forearms against his hips and tried to push him backwards, but the physics wouldnât cooperate, and as I shoved at him in vain he sucked air and landed kidney and rabbit punches with impunity.
The third shot to the back of the skull dazzled me, and when I felt his arm wrap under mine to hold me in place I knew heâd recovered from the head butt to his belly, and I knew I was in trouble, and so, in desperation, I bit the loose flesh where his hip met his upper thigh.
Ajax moaned and let go of my arm. He stumbled back against the concrete barrier, looking down at his
I thought for a minute. It was intriguing, I had to admit. Not because I wanted the fighting to stopâI was indifferent to that. No, I was intrigued because
they
obviously wanted the fighting to stop, and they imagined this proposal an acceptably macho way to end it and save face at the same time.
The
gallera
was a large corrugated aluminum building set beside the main drag in Isabel, like the worldâs biggest garden shed. The ring in the center, a ten-foot-diameter scrap of Astroturf hemmed by a short concrete wall, was surrounded by concentric circles of theatre-style seats rising up to the rafters. Big Medalla banner on the wall. A small window through which beer and roasted chicken
pinchos
were sold. Cumulus zeppelins of cigar smoke and chlorinated fluorescent light and crowds of men who never bothered to use the seats provided. This was where I found myself that evening, nine sharp, the hour when the actual cockfights always started.
Ajax stood across from me, stripped to the waist, three hundred pounds if a pound and streaming sweat just standing there. He sneered at the comparatively insignificant amount of air I displaced, and here was my chance, if I had any: hubris always makes one vulnerable, no matter how strong.
His arrogance was the only stroke in my favor, though. Everything else worked against me: the crowd; my poor physical shape after so much heroic drinking; the tiny ring, designed to house the clash of angry fowl, not a no-holds-barred match between grown men. I was giving up over a hundred pounds and had nowhere to run, let alone hide.
But things were even worse than they appeared at first blush. Because I realized quickly, after the buzzer screeched to begin the bout, that not only was Ajax massive and fierce, but he also knew how to fight. He had training. He slipped my berserker rush out of the corner, intended to surprise and intimidate, with a deft, practiced side step, and as I passed he cuffed me with a left jab, then landed a blinding right cross to the nerve center just below my ear.
I staggered, tripped over my own feet, nearly went down. The crowd, as smug as Ajax himself, and as certain of his victory, murmured approval. Ajax waited for me to clear my head and made a show of looking bored, letting his hands drop a bit.
Of course he knew how to fight. Half the islandâs men had spent more net time in the boxing gym than in school. While Iâd been busy playing JV basketball and getting into the occasional undisciplined scrape in the neighborhood, conflicts that usually looked more like an awkward slow dance between two dudes than an actual fight, Ajax had passed his days cutting class and working the speed bag and sparring without a head guard.
I went after him again. He tried the same side step, but I anticipated it and met him at the spot. I lowered my head into his belly, felt him cough up the air in his lungs. The crowd grumbled, but as far as I was concerned the fact that no one had outlined rules meant that there were none. This wasnât a boxing match, it was a street fight.
But though Ajax was winded, I couldnât press any advantage. He was too big. I tried to wrap him up and pin him against the wall, but my arms werenât long enough to circumscribe his girth. Then I put my forearms against his hips and tried to push him backwards, but the physics wouldnât cooperate, and as I shoved at him in vain he sucked air and landed kidney and rabbit punches with impunity.
The third shot to the back of the skull dazzled me, and when I felt his arm wrap under mine to hold me in place I knew heâd recovered from the head butt to his belly, and I knew I was in trouble, and so, in desperation, I bit the loose flesh where his hip met his upper thigh.
Ajax moaned and let go of my arm. He stumbled back against the concrete barrier, looking down at his
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