Fight Fan
Tonight, the voices of Carl's parents come through the bedroom wall. He can't ever quite hear what they're saying, but their sharp, clipped tone makes one thing clear enough. When they get like this he can't sleep. He opens his laptop and watches old PRIDE fights on Youtube. There's something reassuring in the simple violence of the Japanese MMA promotion.
His parents have never admitted anything in front of him. His mother has always left the table early because she's a little bit tired. Sleeping on the couch has always been more comfortable for his father's back. But in the past few months, things have escalated, like the last minute of a fight when both fighters burn themselves out to secure a last point on the judges' scorecards.
His father has been slowly building a wall of cardboard boxes full of his books, dress shirts, and decaying loafers in the living room. ("Oh, your father just needs more space. Our closet was getting a little cramped."). His mother has taken to preparing his father's least favorite dish, eggplant casserole, several times a week, and his father scarfs it down with a look of determined calm on his face. And every night the staccato rumble of their voices seeps through the wall.
Now, just as he pulls up a Cro Cop head kick compilation, his parents' voices rise, and for the first time he actually hears what they're saying. The laptop trembles as it rests on his lap. ("You want to know why, Mary? It's the way you're acting right now.
That's why!") Thousands of miles away and a decade in the past, Igor Vovchanchyn falls to the canvas. ("You think you did the right thing by telling me, Pete? That wasn't for me. That was for you, to settle your conscience. Everything's always about you.") Dos Caras Jr. crumples against the ropes like a coat falling off its hanger. He hears his father run down the stairs, pick up the boxes in the family room, and start the car in the garage. He feels a strange blankness in his mind, a nothingness—his emotions have punched themselves out.
His mother lumbers back up the stairs. She knocks on his door and he invites her in.
"Carl...your father-"
"I know."
The video is still playing on his lap. She sees it, and her voice cuts off midway through a word. She stares at the screen, eyes glassy and prismatic in the post-knockout pyrotechnics show.
Eventually, Carl starts to talk, as if his voice might fill the silent space between them. He tells her about PRIDE-about the ten minute first round and the soccer kicks and the knees to a grounded opponent. About how their fighters fought three times in the same night. About the great champions: Fedor, Cro Cop, and Sakuraba. About how PRIDE has never lied to him. When you see two fighters walk into the ring, you know they're going to beat the shit out of each other. You know when it's going to happen, you know how, you know that when it's all said and done and the canvas is spattered with their blood, they will still shake hands in the center before the winner's hand is raised.
Daniel Sipes