No, I told myself. It can’t be. It can’t be the same guy. But it was. Out of the dark corridor strode Hector Maldonado’s cousin. The audience booed, and he lifted his black fedora and waved it at them. The image of Robo-Troy on top of Dancin’ Dan flashed into my head. This wasn’t going to be good.
Then Beto did something strange. He smiled at me and winked.
Nash led me to my side of the ring, and Rowan brought my boxing gloves. Rowan’s like, “I don’t know what you’re up to, Nash, but this isn’t funny. Bad karaoke is one thing, but this is out of hand.”
“Hey,” Nash said. “You’re not giving my boy, Dylan, enough credit. He’s a hero.” Then he turned to me and told me to take my shirt off.
Of course, I’m like, “No way.” Taking my shirt off in public was pretty much at the top of my things-to-never-do list. I mean, I always cringed when I had to do it in gym class, and that was with just a bunch of sweaty guys around.
Nash wouldn’t take no for an answer, though. It was part of the rules—you had to take your shirt off before they put the gloves on you. If I didn’t take my shirt off, then both of us would have to fight bare-knuckle style, he said. I glanced at Beto. Suddenly, getting hit in the face with one of his naked fists knocked my anti-shirtless policy down to second place on the list of things to never do.
So I peeled off the Notorious B.I.G. T-shirt, and Nash and Rowan stuffed my hands into the boxing gloves. Nash took my glasses for safekeeping. Then they moved away and left me standing there in the harsh light with not even a hint of a tan and my belly sagging over the waist of my jeans. Somebody yelled, “Look at that sexy, sexy jelly belly!” And the laughter that followed didn’t exactly bolster my confidence.
Rowan went over the rules again, and the whole time Beto stared at me. He seemed to be trying to communicate something through his eyes, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Then came the countdown, and at zero he stalked into the middle of the ring. I wasn’t so eager to go there, but Nash gave me a shove to get me started. Keeping a wide distance between me and Beto, I circled to the right the way I saw the other fighters do, and he did the same.
The crowd booed. “Quit stalling!” somebody yelled, and Beto moved in closer.
His first punch came at me almost in slow motion, but I still wasn’t able to block it. His aim wasn’t good, though, and his fist whooshed by my face, catching nothing but air. The same thing happened with the next two jabs, and I started to wonder if maybe he was missing on purpose.
“Come on, Nitro!” This time I recognized Brett’s voice. “Show him what you can do!”
I had absolutely no idea what I could do, but I figured I ought to try something, so the next time Beto lunged at me, I took a wild swing. He blocked it easily and countered with a smack to my chest. It stung but not that bad. It reminded me of my short football career. Sure, I didn’t like hitting people, but getting hit never hurt that much. Maybe I have tough skin, I thought. Maybe I can actually get through this fight okay.
Then Beto faked a high punch, and when I threw up my arms, he ducked and tackled me to the floor. My head hit pretty hard, and I was so stunned I couldn’t keep him from wrestling me over onto my stomach and grinding my face into the concrete.
Expecting punches to start slamming into the back of my head, I gritted my teeth, but the punches didn’t come. Instead, Beto pressed his mouth close to my ear and goes, “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. When I let you up, I’m going to c**k back my right arm so you can see the punch coming, but I’ll pull up short. You just act like I hit you and go down and don’t get up. You got that?”
I nodded as much as I could considering the circumstances.
“Okay, I’m going to hit the floor next to your head two times, and then you act like you’re throwing me off.”
His fist pounded the floor next to my nose, and I lurched upward. He pretended to spill off to the side, and then we jumped to our feet and started circling each other again. My head was a little woozy from bouncing off the floor, but I concentrated on his right fist, preparing for the phony knockout blow. I didn’t know why Beto would want to help me like this, but I was glad he did. I just hoped Nash and the rest of the audience would buy it.
Beto came at me, but his right fist never cocked, and instead he peppered my shoulders with a volley of lefts. The crowd wasn’t happy. They kept calling out for more action. I threw a couple of punches, but again Beto blocked them easily. Unlike Huy, I didn’t have speed on my side. Then Beto motioned with his head for me to come in closer. I did, and he started to set his right for the big punch. One problem—the floor was slick from my own sweat, and I slipped just as his fist launched, so instead of jerking back before he could hit me, I fell right into the punch. His fist crunched into my nose, and the next thing I knew I was lying facedown on the floor again, no faking to it.
I wasn’t exactly knocked out. I could hear everything around me—jeers and laughter and boos—but it all sounded as if it came from far away. Nash’s voice finally reached me, yelling at me to get up, and then other voices joined in the chant: “Get up! Get up! Get up!”
My brain heard the chant, but my arms and legs didn’t. It was like they belonged to someone else, someone who was pissed at me for getting them into this situation. Then a collection of anonymous hands grabbed me around the biceps and rolled me over onto my back. Rowan and Beto leaned over me.
“Are you okay?” Rowan asked.