Sugar Rush
Page 41
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It’s fight night and I’ve somehow slipped into hostess mode for the men. I’ve never entertained before. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner for Beck, Caroline, and Ally was my first and only attempt at playing Martha Stewart. I was terrified, mostly because I wanted Caroline to like me, but it all ended up being fine. So when Beck told me he invited Dennis over to watch the Mariota-VanZant fight with us, I immediately decided we would need snacks and alcohol.
I spent the morning at the grocery store and bought enough food to feed an army. My menu consisted of sweet-and-spicy meatballs, buffalo chicken dip and little ham-and-cheese sliders. My afternoon consisted of making these snacks and batting Beck’s hands away when he tried to taste.
I then focused on making Devil’s Brew, a secret punch handed down through the generations of the Halstead family. I had to call my dad for the recipe, as I’d never made it before, but it was pretty simple: brut champagne, vodka, brandy, frozen limeade, maraschino cherries, and ginger ale. Mix it all up and prepare for your worries to melt away. I thought it was important to have a concoction like this because frankly, until I saw VanZant take the dive, I was going to be stressing out about it.
Dennis came over at five o’clock when the prefights started, lesser-ranked MMA fighters hoping for their chance at fame and fortune. This was opportune, because it let me get acquainted with the sport and Dennis and Beck explained things to me as best they could. While both men sneered at my Devil’s Brew, once they heard it had champagne in it, they tried it. By the third glass, they were mellow and happy and waging personal bets on the fighters, yelling at the TV and high-fiving each other when something amazing happened.
I liked hanging with Beck and Dennis. It was fun watching them have a good time, given the heavy nature of the fight that was about to come. I was enjoying everything myself until about 8:30 P.M. when Mariota and VanZant were brought into the cage.
The fighters went at it in an octagonal cage bordered with vinyl-coated chain-link fence, which lent a sinister air to the match. I’d learned quite a bit watching the early fights, including some of the rules. Dennis told me when the Ultimate Fighting Championship was first created, there were very few rules in place to ensure the safety of the combatants. But over time and in an effort to legitimize the sport, rules had been enacted to help prevent serious injury or even death. That didn’t mean there still weren’t serious injuries though. In the ten preliminary fights before the main event, every fight ended with either a knockout—where one fighter was knocked unconscious—or a technical knockout, where the ref intervened and stopped the fight based on his opinion a fighter could not continue. It’s a vicious sport where the blood flows freely. So freely, in fact, that by the time Mariota and VanZant enter the octagon, there’s blood smeared over most of the flooring, and I have to wonder what possesses men to get in the ring to do that, especially when the pay isn’t all that great for most of them.
“Anyone want a refill on something?” I ask the men before I sit down on the couch beside Beck. They both look at me and shake their heads, eyes going immediately back to the TV screen as the fighters are being announced.
Mariota is shredded, rocking a tattoo-covered eight-pack and a shortly trimmed Mohawk. Most men tonight had closely cropped hair or shaved heads so that their opponents couldn’t grip their head that way. VanZant looks slightly bigger than his opponent, as he was in a higher weight class before he dropped down, but he doesn’t seem as chiseled. Having watched the other fights, however, I also know this means nothing. In those fights, it seemed to boil down to speed and skill, with many knockouts, technical or otherwise, happening when one opponent went to the mat and the other straddled him, landing a flurry of quick blows to the head, or sometimes just a fast, well-placed kick to the head.
Taking my seat next to Beck, I can’t help but mimic his and Dennis’ posture. Both on the edge of their seats, legs slightly spread, elbows resting on knees. Hands clasped tightly and intense focus on the TV screen. We’re all nervous as hell right now, wondering if VanZant will go through with his commitment to take the dive. I have to think that JT is watching the fight right now, with probably the same nervousness. Or hell…perhaps he’s enjoying this moment, the type of addictive personality that enjoys the euphoria of the gamble and the possibility of a big win.
“What round do you think he’ll go down in?” I murmur to no one in particular.
“He’ll take it all the way,” Dennis says. “To preserve his credibility for future fights. I’m guessing late in the last round.”
I’d learned tonight that there are five rounds, five minutes each, and those few fights that went the distance, both fighters were huffing and puffing hard near the end.
“Makes sense,” Beck says as the announcer introduces the fighters to the crowd and the millions watching on TV. It doesn’t appear there’s a favorite, the crowd equally cheering for both men when announced.
A few more minutes of the fighters meeting in the middle of the ring for the ref to go over the rules, and then the bell rings for round one to start.
My heart is practically in my throat as they come at each other warily, circling and pawing the air with hands protected with fingerless gloves. Testing each other out, I learned. Waiting to see who would make the first move.
I vaguely hear the announcers on TV discussing VanZant: “He’s been criticized a bit about being a counterfighter, so I think we’ll see him try to disprove that by coming out strong…”
Mariota makes a short, quick lunge at VanZant, looking like he’s going to throw a cross. VanZant’s hands come up higher to protect his face, only to take a sharp kick to his ribs. It doesn’t seem to hurt him though, because VanZant moves in closer and throws a volley of punches left and right to Mariota, who now goes on the defensive by moving back across the ring and covering his head with his hands.
“See, that’s exactly what I expected,” one of the announcers says. “VanZant wants to put Mariota on the defensive right away. Let him know he’s not just going to counter his moves.”
VanZant backs his opponent right up to the chain-link fence and continues to throw jabs, crosses, and hooks, these punches I learned quickly enough with Dennis’ explanations during the first fights. My heart now feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest as VanZant seems intent on pounding the ever-loving shit out of the other man.
I spent the morning at the grocery store and bought enough food to feed an army. My menu consisted of sweet-and-spicy meatballs, buffalo chicken dip and little ham-and-cheese sliders. My afternoon consisted of making these snacks and batting Beck’s hands away when he tried to taste.
I then focused on making Devil’s Brew, a secret punch handed down through the generations of the Halstead family. I had to call my dad for the recipe, as I’d never made it before, but it was pretty simple: brut champagne, vodka, brandy, frozen limeade, maraschino cherries, and ginger ale. Mix it all up and prepare for your worries to melt away. I thought it was important to have a concoction like this because frankly, until I saw VanZant take the dive, I was going to be stressing out about it.
Dennis came over at five o’clock when the prefights started, lesser-ranked MMA fighters hoping for their chance at fame and fortune. This was opportune, because it let me get acquainted with the sport and Dennis and Beck explained things to me as best they could. While both men sneered at my Devil’s Brew, once they heard it had champagne in it, they tried it. By the third glass, they were mellow and happy and waging personal bets on the fighters, yelling at the TV and high-fiving each other when something amazing happened.
I liked hanging with Beck and Dennis. It was fun watching them have a good time, given the heavy nature of the fight that was about to come. I was enjoying everything myself until about 8:30 P.M. when Mariota and VanZant were brought into the cage.
The fighters went at it in an octagonal cage bordered with vinyl-coated chain-link fence, which lent a sinister air to the match. I’d learned quite a bit watching the early fights, including some of the rules. Dennis told me when the Ultimate Fighting Championship was first created, there were very few rules in place to ensure the safety of the combatants. But over time and in an effort to legitimize the sport, rules had been enacted to help prevent serious injury or even death. That didn’t mean there still weren’t serious injuries though. In the ten preliminary fights before the main event, every fight ended with either a knockout—where one fighter was knocked unconscious—or a technical knockout, where the ref intervened and stopped the fight based on his opinion a fighter could not continue. It’s a vicious sport where the blood flows freely. So freely, in fact, that by the time Mariota and VanZant enter the octagon, there’s blood smeared over most of the flooring, and I have to wonder what possesses men to get in the ring to do that, especially when the pay isn’t all that great for most of them.
“Anyone want a refill on something?” I ask the men before I sit down on the couch beside Beck. They both look at me and shake their heads, eyes going immediately back to the TV screen as the fighters are being announced.
Mariota is shredded, rocking a tattoo-covered eight-pack and a shortly trimmed Mohawk. Most men tonight had closely cropped hair or shaved heads so that their opponents couldn’t grip their head that way. VanZant looks slightly bigger than his opponent, as he was in a higher weight class before he dropped down, but he doesn’t seem as chiseled. Having watched the other fights, however, I also know this means nothing. In those fights, it seemed to boil down to speed and skill, with many knockouts, technical or otherwise, happening when one opponent went to the mat and the other straddled him, landing a flurry of quick blows to the head, or sometimes just a fast, well-placed kick to the head.
Taking my seat next to Beck, I can’t help but mimic his and Dennis’ posture. Both on the edge of their seats, legs slightly spread, elbows resting on knees. Hands clasped tightly and intense focus on the TV screen. We’re all nervous as hell right now, wondering if VanZant will go through with his commitment to take the dive. I have to think that JT is watching the fight right now, with probably the same nervousness. Or hell…perhaps he’s enjoying this moment, the type of addictive personality that enjoys the euphoria of the gamble and the possibility of a big win.
“What round do you think he’ll go down in?” I murmur to no one in particular.
“He’ll take it all the way,” Dennis says. “To preserve his credibility for future fights. I’m guessing late in the last round.”
I’d learned tonight that there are five rounds, five minutes each, and those few fights that went the distance, both fighters were huffing and puffing hard near the end.
“Makes sense,” Beck says as the announcer introduces the fighters to the crowd and the millions watching on TV. It doesn’t appear there’s a favorite, the crowd equally cheering for both men when announced.
A few more minutes of the fighters meeting in the middle of the ring for the ref to go over the rules, and then the bell rings for round one to start.
My heart is practically in my throat as they come at each other warily, circling and pawing the air with hands protected with fingerless gloves. Testing each other out, I learned. Waiting to see who would make the first move.
I vaguely hear the announcers on TV discussing VanZant: “He’s been criticized a bit about being a counterfighter, so I think we’ll see him try to disprove that by coming out strong…”
Mariota makes a short, quick lunge at VanZant, looking like he’s going to throw a cross. VanZant’s hands come up higher to protect his face, only to take a sharp kick to his ribs. It doesn’t seem to hurt him though, because VanZant moves in closer and throws a volley of punches left and right to Mariota, who now goes on the defensive by moving back across the ring and covering his head with his hands.
“See, that’s exactly what I expected,” one of the announcers says. “VanZant wants to put Mariota on the defensive right away. Let him know he’s not just going to counter his moves.”
VanZant backs his opponent right up to the chain-link fence and continues to throw jabs, crosses, and hooks, these punches I learned quickly enough with Dennis’ explanations during the first fights. My heart now feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest as VanZant seems intent on pounding the ever-loving shit out of the other man.
