Feinting Spells 1-2
Later September, That Year In a MMA gym in the San Gabriel Valley, CA, USA....
“Ugh, do we have to?” Bailey pouted. Upstairs in the gym on a Tuesday night was the last place she wanted to be. Watching bits and pieces of her last tragic fight was the absolute last thing she wanted to do, but here she was, staring at the flatscreen. She'd watched videos of her fights before, including her only professional loss to date, but that video, that night, hadn't ended with her in an unconscious heap on the floor...
Her disdain emanated off of her in palpable waves, prompting her coach to put a warm hand on her 22 year old shoulder.
“C'mon Lee; I don't much like watching you lose either, but hell, we figure out what happened, why it happened, we can keep it from happening. Obviously it didn't end the way we wanted it, but it's not like it was bad from start to finish: you got a good solid takedown almost immediately.”
The young Texan woman began to soften up with a deep sigh. “So what should I be looking for?”
“Same thing as last time,” came the warmest reply her coach could muster, “Opportunities, shifts in momentum, what you tried versus what you trained versus what happened.”
Bailey Hutchins sat on the couch in the upstairs room clutching her knees, cringing each and every time the version of her onscreen absorbed another jolting strike: a whiffed straight right was met was a chopping kick to a calf whose bruises she still felt days later, a lunging shot for a single leg takedown met with a sharp left hand. Her hand ran unconsciously along her still discolored jaw, a rainbow of purples, blues, greens.
“Gawd, did I really just chase her in a straight line like that the whole round? It's kinda ridiculous watching it from here,” she chuckled.
“Remember me yelling 'cut her off?'” her coached volunteered, “I wasn't yelling for my health,” eliciting a smile from the young fighter.
The more Bailey watched, the more distance grew between the young woman on the couch wearing the baggy heather grey sweatshirt and the one in the cage sweating and struggling to get a bead on her rangy black opponent. She wouldn't be doing any heavy training for the next month on account of the concussion she suffered at the end of the fight playing onscreen, but for the first time since that night, the young MMA fighter felt a reason to keep her head up. “Somewhere in there is a lesson to learn, I guess...” she said, halfway between a chuckle and a mutter. She didn't hear her coach's sigh of relief at the returning spark in his fighter's eyes.
“Ugh, do we have to?” Simone pouted. Upstairs in the gym on a Tuesday night was the last place she wanted to be. The fight playing on the screen ended with a stocky blonde faceplanting onto the mat in the middle of the third round. Mission accomplished.
Why review it?
A familiar hand, tawny, sturdy, and swifter than its age should allow, struck out to rap her upside the head as if summoned by her hubris. “Ow,” Simone recoiled, quickly muffling an obscenity, “Mom is here too? I must actually be in trouble then.” The surly edge to her voice softened as she sat up straight. Subconsciously, Simone Waterson began reviewing the fight in her head, scanning for points her two coaches would pick on. Even with her incomplete recollection there were plenty, and she sighed, preparing for an onslaught.
She felt more nervous now than she had at any point during the actual fight they were discussing.
Her lead trainer pointed the remote at the screen and the three of them watched a fighter, a student, a daughter, get wrapped up and driven to the mat within the first 15 seconds of her third professional MMA bout. Andre “Dynamite” Carter, himself a retired MMA veteran, looked over expectantly. “Just... what? C'mon...” He hung his head and sighed. “Baby girl, did you know the fight had started? Where you aware that you were engaged in a fighting competition?
Simone knew better than to look at her mom for safety; a retired boxer and kickboxer in her own right, there was a good chance Yolanda Waterson was more incensed than 'Dre' was. Her mom might not grasp all the nuances of grappling, but she knew bullshit when she saw it. Moments like these made their lofty expectations of her abundantly clear. “I was expecting a feel out period: work the jab, circle for a bit, find the range, see what she was giving me. I mean, c’mon y’all, she didn’t even throw a punch before trying to take me down.” Simone complained, scratching her head softly. It was true.
It also wasn't nearly enough to stem the coming wave.
“Cause she did her homework: knowing who your mom is, or what your last two fights looked like, or how much you seem to enjoy handing out and throwing hands, would you wanna strike with you? If i was her I woulda jumped your ass soon as we touched gloves. You knew this, and I know you knew this because everyone knew it and we all told you it was coming and somehow it still happened.” Yolanda Waterson’s deep brown eyes held a fierce intensity, two lit coals burning brightly. Her head tilted from side to side as she spoke and she clapped at the end of her sentences, hoping something she said was piercing the thick skull and thicker ego of the daughter who seemed intent on squandering her ample talent playing pattycake with prospects. If her youngest daughter had a meanstreak, a killer instinct she had yet to uncover it. Instead the college sophomore she'd poured into was the world's friendliest lion, with the smiling disposition of an animal only marginally aware that is in fact lethal.
“But i scrambled away, and outworked her, and I still won that round,” Simone interjected. Her black twists bounced as she looked back and forth between her mom and the longtime family friend, between striking coach and general MMA tactician.
She could really use a friend here, and knew there was none to be found. She’d have to look elsewhere for empathy. She could feel a lecture brewing, like a storm just off the coast.
“That's the point. Why work harder? Why have to come from behind and win the round? Why give her any hope, or risk an injury, or…” her mom’s tone was like spiced honey, and it softened as she spoke. Finally. “Listen, between Dre and i there's 60 something professional wins. We know what it takes to win at the highest levels. We wanna help you get there without the drama we...”
And with that, that Simone had officially checked out. It was all she could do to keep her focus ostensibly on whoever was talking right now. She'd heard the “60-something wins” speech, or some variant thereof, since she'd thrown her first punch at the ripe age of 4. She'd heard fragments of it in her nightmares twice in the past year. She knew where this was going and resigned herself to her fate. maybe they couldn't help themselves.
In the meantime she had math homework due Thursday... ugh.. and Chem lab, the bane of her existence. College classes weren't going anywhere, professional fighter or not.
Where was dad when she needed him? He was always good for a reprieve from mom’s intensity. That’s why Mom had asked him to stay at home tonight.
Simone knew they weren’t lying about winning at the highest levels: they really did want the best for her and knew how, on a technical level, to get her there. That’s what made their overbearing micromanagement of her career and life so unbearable: they were probably right.
Perhaps she could stand to actually take things a little more seriously, or maybe do things the easy way more often. But the easy way was so frequently boring and overdetermined and cut and dry. What good was winning if she had to sacrifice her fun to do so? There had to be a happy compromise she hadn't quite discovered yet. Maybe she could make them understand...
She sat up in the gym her coach and family friend had founded alongside her mother and made her peace with the onslaught.
Maybe she might actually glean some insight from this...
#Writing #Series #FeintingSpells #Fiction #Action #Fight #MartialArts
Last Chapter First Chapter Next Chapter
Find shorter thoughts at https://c.im/@NaClKnight