It’s the first night of the tournament.
Krupin is going all-out for this one. He’s rented a massive warehouse in Shushary, and he’s going to be running four rings simultaneously in the first round.
I’ll be fighting a guy named Hitman first. I don’t know much about him—never seen him before. From what I hear he’s older, late thirties maybe. He’s been fighting MMA in the UK for the last five years. I heard he flew back to Russia last night, the prizes for this tournament drawing in all sorts from everywhere.
The fact that he hasn’t been strictly boxing lately is probably a good thing. But I don’t underestimate anybody. Especially someone I don’t know well. He’s probably learned a few things in the MMA ring that I won’t see coming.
I pace back and forth in the small space of my apartment, waiting for Meyer to pick me up. It’s tiny, but I don’t care. I’m the only one that comes here.
I hated sharing a room with a dozen other kids at the orphanage.
The first night I lay down in my own bed, behind a locked door, was the first time in years that I felt safe. I guess to someone else this apartment wouldn’t look like much—just a brick box, no art and barely any furniture. But it’s mine.
I know every inch of my flat. So when I hear a strange squeaking sound, it annoys me. It’s quiet, irregular. I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. For a few minutes it stops, and all I can hear is the traffic outside my window and my neighbor watching TV too loud. Then it starts up again.
It could be metal creaking, or a door. It seems to be coming from the direction of the window. It could be the iron fire escape, blowing in the wind . . .
Before I can figure it out, I see Meyer’s headlights pulling up in front of the building.
I grab my bag and head for the door.
Meyer is hunched over the steering wheel, trying to see through the sleet blowing across the windshield. Boom Boom is sitting in the backseat as usual. He’s uncharacteristically quiet. Either he’s bummed out that he wasn’t invited to fight in the tournament, or he’s still salty about me training with Afansi.
“Who do ya think’ll win between Pretty Boy and Sandman?” Meyer asks abruptly.
He’s trying to figure out who’s going to make it through to the second round, because he thinks I’m likely to be paired up against one of those guys.
It warms my heart, because it means Meyer believes I’m going to make it to the second round.
“Maybe Sandman?” I say. “He’s got better stamina.”
“Yeah,” Meyer grunts. “That’s what I thought.”
“How you doing back there?” I ask Boom Boom, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.
“Alright,” he says glumly. “Dentist says I have to have a tooth pulled out.”
“That one that got hit a month ago?”
“Yeah. He says it isn’t getting any better.”
“Oh.”
It’s one right up front, which isn’t going to improve Boom Boom’s goofy-looking smile.
Boom Boom isn’t smiling now. He’s looking out the window sadly, with his forehead pressed up against the glass like a little kid.
“Hey,” I say to him. “Let’s see a movie after the dentist—if you don’t feel too bad.”
Boom Boom sits up straight, cheered up a little.
“Yeah?” he says. “I heard at the Cinema Grand they have chairs that shake when something crazy happens on the screen.”
That sounds fucking awful.
“Sounds great,” I say.
I turn to Meyer.
“How about you, old man? You gonna come to the movies with us?”
“Three hundred rubles for popcorn,” Meyer says, shaking his head in disgust. “Never. Never will I pay that.”
“I’ll buy your popcorn, you cheap bastard,” I tell him.
“You!” Meyer scoffs. “How about you buy yourself a sweatshirt that doesn’t have holes in it.”
“That’s ventilation.”
Meyer scoffs again, so hard that he sounds like a cat with a hairball.
I just smile. Like it or not, the old man is coming to the movies with us.
We pull up in front of the warehouse, which is already busier than I’ve ever seen a Knockdown venue. The line of spectators stretches around the building. The lot is packed with luxury cars, as well as the usual motley assortment of juiced-up street cars and beaters driven by the boxers and the low-level gamblers that never miss a fight.
There’s nowhere for Meyer to park, so he drops Boom Boom and me in front of the warehouse, then drives down to the end of the lot.
We give our names at the door. As soon as we step inside, I smell whisky, beer, cologne, cigarettes, and sweat. It’s dark and hot. I can see the four separate rings set up in opposite corners of the warehouse, with seats all around each one.
I don’t know what this warehouse used to be—it looks like an air hanger. The ceiling is at least four stories up, with windows on all sides. The floor is bare cement. Music is already pumping, playing “Smack My Bitch Up,” by The Prodigy.
The crowd looks more upscale than I’ve ever seen it. Krupin has waiters passing around trays of champagne to his VIP guests, which seem to include dozens of Bratva bosses with their wives or mistresses. I see Stepanov, broad-shouldered and hard-faced, with a thick shock of gray-streaked hair, and a girl on his arm who looks young enough to be his daughter. Krupin and Stepanov are deep in conversation, looking up at the board where the odds for the evening’s fights have been posted.
I can see I’m favored against Hitman by a small margin. It doesn’t mean much, but I’ll take it.
The Bratva bosses all wear suits, their women wear sparkling dresses and heels, and piles of jewelry. The rest of the crowd is even more outrageous. Russian fashion has never been subtle. Big, loud, shiny, bright—the spectators want to be seen, that’s why they’re here. Underground boxing is becoming trendier than any nightclub.
In the midst of all these swagged-out gangsters and club rats, I see a girl standing on the opposite side of the room. She’s peeking out from a side door, like she doesn’t know how she came to be in this place. She’s wearing a pale blue blouse tucked into gray trousers. Her shoes are flat and sensible, though still expensive-looking, and her white-blonde hair is tied back in a french braid that hangs down to the middle of her back.
Her face is clean-scrubbed. She’s wearing glasses. She has a sort of sheltered, studious look, like she belongs on the cover of a pamphlet for some fancy private school.
She glances all around the room, her eyes lingering on Krupin and Stepanov. Like me, she looks back and forth between the two of them, and then up to the betting board as she follows the gist of their conversation from a distance.
I can see the girl is intelligent, which makes me all the more confused why she’s hanging around here. She doesn’t belong, that’s for sure. Is she somebody’s girlfriend, somebody’s daughter?
As if she can feel me staring, her head whips around and she locks eyes with me. I see a shiver of fright run down her slim body. I’m used to that reaction, but it still doesn’t feel good. When people treat me like an ogre, it makes me want to be all the more monstrous.
I glare at her until she drops her eyes and backs into whatever room is behind that metal door.
“What are you looking at?” Boom Boom says, his voice loud to overtake the music.
“Nothing,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets.
“Well, come on,” he says. “If I don’t get your hands wrapped up, Meyer’s gonna be pissed.”
We poke around until we find the locker room. There are two of them, to handle the massive number of fighters in the first round. Even so, it’s so crowded that I can hardly find a spare foot of bench to sit down. The Rowdy Rabbi pushes over to make room for me.
“I didn’t know you were fighting tonight,” I say.
“I was a last-minute addition,” he says, grinning. “After Chop Suey totaled his car and fucked up his neck.”
“Cheers to car accidents,” Boom Boom says.
“I could use the cash,” the Rabbi says. “Anastasia’s pregnant.”
“Congratulations,” I tell him, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Here’s hoping it looks like its mom,” Boom Boom says, shaking the Rabbi’s hand.
“Yeah, I guarantee those jug ears came from the mailman,” the Rabbi says, flicking Boom Boom on the top of said ear.
“Hey, hey,” Boom Boom protests, “I like to think my dad is somebody a bit fancier than that. A store clerk, at least.”
While he’s yakking, Boom Boom is wrapping up my hands.
By the time Meyer hustles in, puffing from his long walk across the parking lot, my hands are nicely taped.
“Shit,” the Rabbi says in admiration, “you wanna redo mine, Boom Boom?”
“Sure,” Boom Boom says amiably. “It’s my superpower.”
As he unwraps the Rabbi’s shoddy tape, he says, “You want a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t care,” the Rabbi says, grinning happily. “I’m gonna teach the kid to box either way.”
“A girl boxer!” Meyer snorts.
“Yeah,” the Rabbi laughs at Meyer. “They got iPhones and electric cars now too, man. It’s a whole new millennium.”
Meyer rolls his eyes. I know he’d usually have something rude to say about that, but the Orthodox School is pretty much the only other gym he likes, so he doesn’t want to bust the Rabbi’s balls too hard.
I can hear the show ramping up outside. They’ve got a team of pole dancers, jugglers, and a fire-breather. It’s a regular circus. Krupin’s putting on a show to impress Stepanov, to get this deal done.
“I wanna watch this!” Boom Boom says, peeking out the door.
“Go ahead,” I tell him. “I’m good.”
The Rabbi jumps up from the bench and starts bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.
“You in the first round?” he asks me.
“Yeah. Are you?”
“Yup. Different ring though.”
“What are they gonna do if you and I make it through to the end?” I ask him. We’re not remotely in the same weight class.
“I don’t know!” the Rabbi says gleefully, shaking his head. “I think they’re just throwing shit at the wall, man, seeing what sticks. It’s not the Olympics out there.”
He’s so high about this baby thing, and so amped for his fight, that he doesn’t give a damn what happens. But I frown. You can’t pair up fighters with that much of a size difference.
The MC starts announcing the first round of fights. I’m in Ring Four. I already saw Krupin and Stepanov sitting down at Ring One, so they won’t be watching me.
As soon as my name is called, I pull up the hood of my white robe to block out the noise and sound, and I head out onto the floor.
The crowd whoops and cheers as each fighter comes out. The sound is like a palpable wave hitting my face. I’ve never felt energy like this before. They’re already chanting the names of their favorites. Mostly Sandman and Pretty Boy from Ring One, but as I get closer to Ring Four, I hear a few shouts of “Snow! Snow!”
I slip under the ropes. Hitman follows after me, taking the opposite corner.
He looks lean and hard, like he’s carved out of wood. His skin is deeply tanned, his face bearing the scars of more than a few fights. He’s a veteran, alright.
As we face up opposite each other, I see that he’s a southpaw. That’s not going to help the awkwardness of boxing an MMA fighter.
The bell rings and Hitman starts swinging. He’s tight, but aggressive.
I take his shots on my arms and gloves, trying to get a feel for his angles. It’s different than what I’m used to. There’s a geometry to boxing—positioning your feet and body so you can land shots on open areas, while not receiving any clean hits yourself.
Once I have a feel for it, I start throwing shots at his body. I think this fight is going to go on for a while—Hitman has stamina from the long clinches and wrestling of MMA. I want to hit him in the ribs, the abdomen. Those are shots he can shake off now, but that will pay dividends down the road. His whole body will begin to throb and his speed will lessen. This happens more to old fighters than young, as they reignite ancient injuries.
The first round ends, and I see Hitman sit down gingerly on the opposite side of the ring. My strategy is working.
He’s gotten in a few good shots himself—tricky punches I didn’t see coming.
“Watch that right jab,” Meyer tells me, squirting water in my mouth.
“I know,” I say.
“He’s a tough old bugger, isn’t he?” Boom Boom says.
“Shut up, Boom Boom,” Meyer snaps.
Only in boxing is a thirty-seven-year-old man considered “old.”
The bell rings and I hop to my feet again.
This time, I take the offensive. I keep pounding Hitman in the body, over and over. I can tell he’s tender there. He’s got great technique, but he just doesn’t have the power he probably did at twenty-two. Whereas my punches are like a hammer against an anvil. Over and over and over on his ribs. I hit a sharp right hook and I feel the ribs crack beneath my glove. Hitman drops to the canvas like a stone.
The ref pushes me away and starts the count.
Hitman taps the ref’s arm. He’s ending the fight. TKO—technical knockout.
Boom Boom whoops with delight.
