Caged Warrior (9781423186595) Read online

  ALSO BY ALAN LAWRENCE SITOMER

  The Hoopster

  A Teacher’s Guide—The Hoopster

  Hip-Hop Poetry and the Classics

  Hip-Hop High School

  Homeboyz

  The Secret Story of Sonia Rodriguez

  Nerd Girls—The Rise of the Dorkasaurus

  Nerd Girls—A Catastrophe of Nerdish Proportions

  Copyright © 2014 Alan Lawrence Sitomer

  Cover design by Tanya Ross-Huges

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-8659-5

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Alan Lawrence Sitomer

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  About the Author

  Dedicated to Quinn, the fighter & Sienna, the strong— Always believe in yourselves, girls.

  With special appreciation for Wendy Lefkon, pound-4-pound the best! And Al Zuckerman, a man who believes in me—and brings out the best in me—like no other.

  Plus, a deep, loving kiss for my inimitable Tray, a giant hug for my bro Roberto, and the biggest fist bump I’ve got for G-Money. (And a li’l shout-out for the GaGa’s, too.)

  “THE FIRST THING I THINK ABOUT WHEN THE CAGE CLOSES IS, I HOPE GOD FORGIVES ME FOR WHAT I’M ABOUT TO DO.”

  —ANONYMOUS

  ONE

  Some people call it human cockfighting. They’re wrong. Mixed martial arts is a sport. A bloody sport. A violent sport. A sport filled with pain and hurt and injury. But inside the cage, the sport is filled with something else, too.

  It’s filled with truth. See, it doesn’t matter who you are—life is a fight. A ferocious one. Being an MMA warrior simply reveals what you’re made of on the inside.

  Me, who’m I? Name’s McCutcheon Daniels. Soon as I was born my father started calling me M.D.

  As in, “If you get in the cage with my son, you’re gonna need an M.D.”

  When I was nine I pulled off my first flying arm bar and snapped an opponent’s elbow at the joint like a crispy fried chicken wing. The sickening crack made a middle-aged lady in the front row faint.

  Must be her first time at the Sat Nite Fights, I thought as she collapsed to the ground. People in the audience just stepped over her to collect their winnings on the bets they had placed. Everyone knows there ain’t no love lost between gladiators in a Detroit cage fight. Apparently, there ain’t no love lost cageside, neither.

  At the age of eleven, I used a gator roll to land my first anaconda choke hold and took out an opponent three years older than me, a kid who up until that point had never lost a match. He tapped out before I could rip his shoulder off.

  I always respect the tap. Not like some fighters who add a bit of stank to their work after an enemy has already surrendered. Without honor, a fighter has nothing.

  At fourteen my skills really began to develop. In one fight I choose to go sprawl-’n’-brawl against a fool who had at least twenty pounds on me. Dude wanted get all down and dirty and grapple. Woulda been smart for him, too. What was dumb was he hadn’t spent more time working on his stand-up striking defense because he ended up eating a Muay Thai knee smash to the center of his face.

  I needed six stitches to seal me back up after the broken chunks of his teeth were removed from my knee. Later that night, I sat on a stained sink in a dirty gray locker room that smelled like sweat, mold, and lingering farts while a white-haired old man with a white beard injected a three-inch hypodermic needle into the cartilage below my kneecap. Wanted to make sure I didn’t get tetanus or something. I watched as the silver syringe slowly pierced my skin, disappeared into my flesh, and shot streams of liquid fire up my nerve endings.

  I didn’t flinch. Not even wince. Instead, all I could think about was one thing, one question that looped over and over in my mind.

  Did doing all this make me a savage?

  Without my shirt on, my abs carved from granite, bubbly scars from where torn flesh had healed, blood trickling from my cut, swollen knuckles, I know I looked vicious. And glistening “where-exactly-is-he-from?” skin color only added to that sense, too. My dad’s half black, half Asian. My mom’s half Hispanic, part Anglo, and got some Brazilian mixed as well. They say that’s where I get my bright white eyes, tanned-by-tropical–island-sun skin, and long, thick eyelashes. Basically, I’m a street mutt.

  But was I an animal?

  No.

  Way I see it, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Even if I am barely sixteen. Nope, it ain’t pretty, but fact is if I don’t win, Gem don’t eat.

  For me, the math doesn’t get more simple than that. I mean what kind of older brother lets his five-year-old kid sis go hungry?

  “You’re lettin’ this punk overhook you,” my father shouted, a chunk of white spit flying out of his mouth as he yelled at me. His bubbly spew landed on my shoulder and though we both saw it, we both ignored it, too. “Don’t go for the clinch. That’s what he’s expecting. When he comes in to tie you up, hammer this bitch with an elbow smash, look for a throat strike, and if it ain’t there, spin around, bury your heel in his kidney, and make him piss blood for a week. Got me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” he roared. “Then end this fucking thing! Remember, leverage, leverage, leverage.”

  Some kids have dads who raise them to be golfers. Others, quarterbacks. Still others to play tennis or soccer or baseball. I was raised to cage fight. Ever since I was three, my dad schooled me to brawl. Taught me to grapple, box, ground-and-pound, strike while standing up, and submit an opponent while lying down. From Sambo to Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Greco-Roman wrestling to Aikido, joint locks to pin holds to pressure-point manipulation, I’m an assassin in the art of hurt. My father wants me to do more than just defeat my opponents; he wants me to destroy them.

  “It’s how champions are made,” he tells me. “And one day, you will be world champion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  How do I feel about all this? Fact is, I don’t really give much thought to those kinds of questions. Feelings are luxuries when there’s a growl in your family’s stomach.

  The bell rang to begin Round Two. I rose from my stool and headed back out onto the dance floor, my body a weapon poised to strike.

  It used to be that there
were no rounds at all in underground cage fighting. When I first started out, opponents just went toe-to-toe gladiator-style until there was only one warrior left standing. However, a few years ago the Priests recognized that having seven-minute rounds followed by ninety-second battle breaks created more action.

  And more bloodshed and more dynamite exchanges and more destruction, too. Therefore, since those were the things that paying people loved to see, those were the things that paying people got. The only thing that really matters to the Priests anyway is the money. As the Mafia-style organization in charge of underworld cage fighting, the Priests of the Street were a criminal crew who understood that happy customers would also be returning customers. Sanctioned fights could be seen at home on TV. Raw, underage, gloveless, savage wars could only be seen live.

  Funny, but bootleg recordings of the Sat Nite Fights and piracy wasn’t really a problem for the Priests, either. Not at all. Ever. Anyone who had the balls to try to secretly film our cage battles to post on the Internet would discover the pleasure of tire irons shattering their shinbones or brass knuckles tickling their jaws. Too much money was being made on the weekend war circuit. And too much attention on the underground battles could jeopardize the other streams of black-market cash the Priests were raking in from their wide variety of extensive criminal enterprises.

  Essentially, as a gang, the Priests had their fingers in all kind of pies, so they made sure every fan in attendance was aware of the rule: the No Cell Phone policy would be strictly enforced and violators would get no second chances.

  The break in the rounds, however, didn’t just give fighters a small rest to collect their thoughts, regain their wind, and rethink their strategy; they gave the peeps in the crowd more of an opportunity to place extra side-bets, too. Broke people just love to gamble, and the more money in the air, the more energy, excitement, and juice. In this country, it’s all about the cash. Anyone who tells you different ain’t never slept in the hallway of an unheated apartment building before.

  I rose from my stool and took a moment to center myself, to slow down my breath and focus on the mission at hand. The night’s fight was going down in an abandoned middle school on the outskirts of D-town. Rusted pipes hung from the ceiling, broken school desks lay tossed in a corner, a makeshift cage made out of jagged steel fencing that looked as if it had just been stolen from a nearby construction site had been set up in the center of what was once a gymnasium. When I first started brawling, I’d be lucky if there were thirty people watching. Tonight, there musta been three hundred.

  Success has a way of doing that for a fighter’s career.

  “Do like I say now, M.D. It’s killa instinct time.” My father’s eyes were wild, his pupils the size of dimes and pitch black. “The cheese comes from a KO in Round Two. You know the old man’s flying naked tonight, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” he told me. “Then do your thing.”

  Sure, I coulda finished this dude in Round One, but there was more money to be made through betting if I prolonged it a bit, dragged things out for my dad and made the match look closer than it really was. Of course, to do this cost me a few blows to the face—one shot to the ear really spanked me good—but that was the price to be paid so we could get those extra dollar bills.

  But now that Round Two was here, it was time to end the evening. The sooner, the better, as far as my father was concerned. That’s ’cause my dad hadn’t just placed a bet on me to win by K.O. in the second; he’d placed a bet he couldn’t cover. That’s what he meant by flying naked. If I didn’t finish my opponent in the next four hundred and twenty seconds, chances were excellent that my father would be leaving the venue in a neck brace.

  Maybe even a body bag.

  Nobody messed with the Priests.

  No pressure, right?

  At the crack of the bell, the seventeen-year-old Samoan at the other end of the cage charged forward. His arms were the size of legs, his legs were the size of tractor tires, and after one round of rolling around with him in the center of the battle box, I could tell that size was his strength.

  But size wasn’t ever what determined who won or lost inside the steel coop. Size could be neutralized. With technique. For the Samoan, his mass came at the expense of speed and agility, so I began Round Two with a flurry of quick jabs from the outside.

  One-two, in-’n’-out, one-two, almost classically boxing. He lunged at me. I slipped his clumsy swipe, ducked, and countered, one-two, tagging him good. Then I pump-faked a jab and fired off a blistering leg kick that landed with a Boom! Some spectators don’t think sidekicks to an opponent’s thigh really do all that much in a cage fight. Obviously, they’ve never been smashed in the leg with a baseball bat.

  Hands up, in-’n’-out, rat-a-tat-tat, more jabs. One of the Samoan’s eyes began to twitch. He raised his hands to better protect the side of his head I’d been peppering, clearly favoring his left.

  And favoring his left meant he’d become vulnerable on his right. I saw my opportunity.

  “Let him in,” my dad ordered with a What-are-you-doing? scream. “Let the little whore in!” Nervous that this match might head to Round Three if I didn’t hurry up and take the big fella out, my father belted out instructions. Sure, by striking from the outside I’d whittle my opponent down—however, as my dad well knew, a victory against a kid this size was only gonna come through grappling, not striking, because on the ground is where I’d either choke him out or get him to submit. Stinging jabs weren’t going to bring down an oak tree.

  By my mental calculations about three and a half minutes remained in the round. “Let him the hell in!” my father screamed; and so, despite the fact that I had planned to take a different path to victory, I did as my father ordered and let him in.

  It was a mistake. I recognized it immediately. The Samoan lumbered forward looking to clinch, and I missed with an elbow smash, barely grazing the right side of his cheek. A moment later he capitalized and locked me in a bear hug. His adrenaline flowing, his rage boiling, the laws of physics behind him, he began to squeeze. The Samoan’s plan was simple: crush me like a disease-carrying bug crawling across a white kitchen counter. The fight had swung his way.

  Well, at least for a moment it did.

  My counterattack began with a heel smash. It landed on the top of his right foot like a jackhammer, but still he squeezed, seeking to restrict my air intake. However, with all the roadwork I do, I knew I could count on my oxygen supply to last me for a good long while, so I allowed him to trade me squeezes for smashes, and I dropped my heel again. Then a third time. My fourth fell on his foot like an anvil, and I could feel the metatarsal bones on the top of his right foot break underneath the force of my blow.

  The pain caused him to loosen his grip. I quickly slithered out of the Samoan’s smothering grasp and shot an exploding uppercut to the base of his chin. It didn’t land flush, but my spinning back punch to his unprotected midsection hammered him with the force of a cannon.

  It was my best shot of the fight.

  And it was the last shot I’d need.

  It’s one thing to see an opponent fall from a knockout strike to the head. Seeing an opponent fall from a knockout strike to the midsection, however, was something else entirely. It meant I’d gone beyond a mere body blow; I’d damaged an organ.

  The Samoan fell to a knee and wheezed. Blood began to fill his mouth, red liquid covering his white teeth like a bottle of spilled shiny cherry paint. Internal bleeding, I thought, a classic sign. Like a cougar I was on him, my knees pinned to his shoulders, my fists and elbows ready to rain down a hurricane of terror on his unprotected face.

  The crowd cheered wildly, thirsty for destruction. Fear came to the Samoan’s eyes. I narrowed my gaze into daggers of heartless ice and paused. He’d get one opportunity to tap.

  He took it. Fight over.

  I stood,
turned, and walked back to my corner victorious, the fans in attendance exploding with cheers.

  Bam! My father smashed me across my face.

  “Finish your opponent!”

  A warm stream of salty liquid began to trickle from my lip.

  “You always finish your opponent.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “And don’t you dare look at me like that,” he commanded. “I know, you’re thinking, ‘Hell, I won, didn’t I?’ Well, you ain’t never gonna be a world champion without the killa instinct.”

  Willie the Weasel, a skinny guy with a crooked teeth and a poorly inked neck tattoo of a pair of unevenly drawn dice, interrupted. A low ranking Priest, Weasel served as the go-between who set up all our fights. He talked too much, he talked too fast, and despite all the words that came out of his mouth, a person never knew which ones were true and which ones were bullshit.

  “Good fight, kid, good fight. Here’s your cheese.” Weasel extended his arm to hand me a manila envelope. Tonight’s fight was a fifty plus three, meaning that each fighter got fifty bucks for showing up with the winning fighter taking home an additional three thousand dollars for putting a W in the win column.

  The loser, aside from a broken body, got nothing more than half a Benjamin.

  My dad snatched the envelope and peered suspiciously inside.

  “It’s all there, Demon. It’s all there.”

  Didn’t matter a gob of spit what Weasel claimed, my dad wasn’t letting anyone go anywhere until he counted every last nickel.

  “G’head then, check it,” Weasel offered. “G’head.”

  “Damn right I will,” my dad said.

  “Priests always pay, Demon. Everyone knows that. Priests always pay.”

  My father licked his thumb and began working his way through the chunky green stack of paper. “Just shut the hell up a second, Weeze. I’m doin’ mathematics.”

  Weasel, shrugging off my dad, turned to me and smiled. “Whadda fight, kid. Tremendous fight. No time at all, you’ll be drawing big-digit paydays. I can see it now, pay-per-view.”