I couldn’t put my finger on why he trained so hard. Whenever I asked him, he would shrug off my question and say, “I have to look out for my family.”

BY DANIEL JOSE SANDOVAL GARCIA

IMAGE BY JASMINE COWAN

I was mesmerized the first time I witnessed my students’ hands on fire. The cacophony of muscle and bone slamming against heavy bags shook the room. The sweaty mist of therapeutic hard work saturated the air, clouding our vision in a dense fog. When you entered the room, you could taste the determination and smell the fear of an opponent who knew he’d been beat. 

The Mayan calendar didn’t mean anything to me, but I had endured my own world-ending disaster that January. What kept me going was those kids. I had to show them that resilience was just as important outside the cage as it was inside. I started bringing my wife, Sarai, to the gym again six months after the accident. “There is no use in staring at our empty crib,” she would assure me. We were desperate to show everyone that we had adjusted to the changes.  

I’d been training young fighters for twelve years, and it had been almost a year since the accident. I reassured my team that I was fine—no excuse for getting distracted from training. I could still feel the glares every now and then. No matter. I cared more about those who were dedicated enough to continue to hone their craft, come tempest or tsunami. 

There was one guy on my roster I paid extra attention to: Alfredo Alverez, twenty-one years old—a dedicated young man with his heart set ablaze. He had only been training with me for two years. We generally ran our gym with classes that lasted a couple of hours each in the morning, afternoon, and evening. The weight room and showers were always open for members to use between classes as much as they wanted. Alfredo took advantage of this. There would be days I’d see him sitting outside the entrance of the gym, with headphones and a sweater on, waiting for me to get out of my car and unlock the doors. He’d partake in the morning condition class, shower, eat breakfast in our breakroom, and then partake in the afternoon class. He would step out for a few hours, return to join in on our evening class, and lift weights. I would sometimes have to pull him off the mats because he would listen to some Spotify hip-hop playlist on his headphones and drill technique when I needed to lock up. He was in before anyone else and was the last to leave almost every day. If there were days he wouldn’t take the day off to rest, I would tell him to go home. 

I couldn’t put my finger on why he trained so hard. Whenever I asked him, he would shrug off my question and say, “I have to look out for my family.” I respected that. He had been more reserved around Sarai and me since the catastrophe. We figured the uneasiness people felt around us would pass someday. 

Alfredo also trained with the other coaches. There was Micah, the grappling instructor, a first-degree black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and a national champion in wrestling. He was a tall man and used that to his advantage when grappling. Then there was Matthew, the Muay Thai instructor, who was shorter and stockier than Micah but had been cornering upcoming kickboxers and Muay Thai fighters for almost as long as I had been training. He was an expert Muay Thai fighter who spent half his life training in Thailand. Finally, there was me, head boxing instructor and co-owner with my wife of Francisco’s Basecamp MMA Gym. We were preparing extensively for Alfredo’s third amateur MMA fight, and we knew he had a bright future ahead of him. 

“Hands up! The next time you drop your lead hand, I will jump in the cage and kick your ass myself. You hear me?” I said. 

Alfredo grunted an acknowledgement. 

“Break the clinch and work on the combo we practiced!” Matthew roared. 

Jamal, Alfredo’s opponent, had locked both his hands behind Alfredo’s head like a hook—a position called a double collar tie—pulling down on his head and harassing him with knees to the body. Alfredo pummeled one arm to separate Jamal’s hands and grabbed the back of Jamal’s head, establishing a collar tie of his own. Settling in a fifty-fifty position, Alfredo kneed his opponent in return, grabbing the arm that Jamal still had hooked around his head. Then, Alfredo aggressively shoved his shoulder into that same arm, stepping back and holding on to Jamal’s arm with two underhooks, a move called a Russian tie or two-on-one. Alfredo made sure the top of his head was securely placed on his opponent’s ear and stepped back, hoping to put Jamal off balance. 

To compensate for this movement, Jamal stepped back. Alfredo launched a devastating round kick to Jamal’s stomach and hugged his waist before completing a gentle suplex, tossing Jamal over his body and onto his back. Jamal conceded without starting the ground game that Alfredo was eager to play. Jamal was another experienced member of the gym who was helping Alfredo train, but no amount of experience would ever prepare you to shake off that kind of hit. 

“All right, everyone, let’s take a break. Ice those limbs, and in ten minutes, we’re running suicides,” I said with a wicked smile. 

The room filled with protest; the other gym members knew that when suicide drills were called, everyone had to join in. A fighter had no excuse for having poor stamina. 

I began to reminisce on the times my coach drilled that rule into my mind when I was competing. I was about Alfredo’s age when I started training, and when I came late to one of the training sessions, my coach yelled at me and made me run suicides for the rest of the session. One of his fighters had been knocked out at the beginning of the second round a few days prior because he didn’t have the energy to keep his hands up or throw punches. The fighter had been breathing heavily since the first round, and Coach Miguel was embarrassed. There was something about watching an old Hispanic man throwing his hat to the ground and cursing that was both funny and intimidating.  

“Always train like the fight will last another five minutes,” Coach Miguel would say to me. “Never assume it will end quickly. You don’t know the future and, let me make this clear, you’re not special. You’re not going to win in the first minute of the fight. If it lasts another day, you keep going. But nothing lasts forever. You must be resilient, Jose. A fighter has no excuse for having poor stamina.” I had never forgotten his advice. I was grateful for how he trained me. 

Alfredo and the coaching team were now a few weeks away from his big fight. Sarai and I had finished a few interviews with different promoting agencies, scouting new fighters to get a foot in the door; on the other side of that door were UFC, Bellator MMA, and ONE Championship opportunities. In our own way, these students were like our kids, and we wanted the absolute best for them. So, for every promoter offering anything less than that, we would tell them to kick rocks and find someone else to scam. My wife was left to navigate the world with paraplegia, and we had to bury a baby that would never be born due to a car accident. Still, she would faithfully come to cheer our fighters at every event. She was very excited for Alfredo to compete. 

*

A couple of months before the fight, I had noticed that Alfredo was coming in with odd bruises. He seemed dazed before going into training and took longer to shower and go home afterward. I would sit down to have pleasant talks with him from time to time, especially during closing time as he waited to be picked up. I would offer him little taquitos, pupusas, and tamales that Sarai made for him, staple meals a Latino doesn’t grow up without. 

We’d talk about different things, like school, girls, and other stories from our past. Alfredo had once told me of the time he tried to impress a girl he liked by trying to do a backflip at a party; he landed flat on his back and knocked over a beer pong table while getting up. I’d told him how I used to sneak out of the house at night to hang out with my friends at the park. One night, I was caught by my madre; she told me that since I liked to go out so much, I should go out and make some money. So, I spent the rest of that summer working in my neighbours’ yards for some cash. We’d also talk about soccer and, yes, MMA. But nothing sparked more passion in our conversations than when we talked about travelling and other cultures. 

“I didn’t always want to be a fighter. I wanted to travel the world and see how other people live and study. Just thinking about the complexities of integrating cultural differences that are inclusive of each social group—but also knowing that not every aspect of their culture can be catered to—is just fascinating. If we were to truly understand how to blend these different groups together in an equitable way, we could make better societies! I have a few countries in mind I’d want to study…” 

I had just listened with loving wonder as we both leaned against the central boxing ring near the entrance. 

“But there’s no money in that. At least, not enough to make it right away. I have bills to pay, and this is how I have to pay them.” 

I hadn’t been sure how to respond when he told me that. I’d just placed my hand on his shoulder and squeezed it gently. We’d sat in silence then, enjoying the peacefulness of an empty gym and the slight humming of the gym’s HVAC. I could see a smile on Alfredo’s face, but it would slowly leave every time his ride would park in the driveway. 

*

“Remember what we talked about, okay? Use your jab to measure distance. Use feints sparingly; we want to see how he reacts, but we don’t want to become predictable. Play the long game, your cardio is better than half the guys back at base.” 

“Half of them are smokers.” 

“That’s beside the point. Never stand still. Footwork is key; if you lose that key, head movement is your spare—” 

He cut me off. “But above all, keep your hands up.” 

“That’s right. I want none of the Ali bull—” 

“Is your fighter ready? He’s on in ten minutes,” stated one of the officials as he stormed into our green room. 

I waved at him dismissively. I crouched down again beside Alfredo. The discoloured patch along his back ribs caught my eye. I chose to ignore it and gazed into his eyes, expecting to see that fire, but what I saw was fear. 

“Per aspera ad astra,” I declared and patiently waited for a response. 

“Through hardships to the stars.” He tried to hide that childish smirk on his face. In his eyes, I saw a flicker. 

I looked down to finish wrapping his knuckles. I stood there puzzled, thinking about what I saw along his body while Matthew walked him through warm-ups for the remaining time. 

The first round was terrible. It began with Alfredo caught off guard from a blast double, and he spent the rest of the round on the defence. The dangerous thing about a blast double is that you don’t see it coming. Trained or not, having someone tackle you with their head in your chest and their arms around your legs would knock the wind out of you and force you down on your back. Alfredo, trying to get to his feet, was barely surviving submission attempt after submission attempt as his opponent kept looking for joint locks or chokes. He was being softened up with body blows and hammer fists to the head down against the cage. It was a complete disaster and the longest five minutes of my life. Micah was definitely going to finish two packs of cigarettes after this match. I was intrigued by how many veins I could see on his neck as he gave a seminar on wrestling takedown defences to Alfredo. 

“I see you’ve been practicing the escapes I taught you, but you have to sprawl for these takedowns. Utilize the snap downs—heck, Hail Mary a guillotine, but don’t let him force you down on your back.” 

Alfredo did not seem interested in what Micah was saying. He kept glancing to his left. I looked over and saw a man a little younger than me who was similar in appearance to Alfredo but with stubble. This muscular stranger did not have the same innocent charm Alfredo had, however; he had his arms crossed and was watching Alfredo with utter disgust. 

“Okay, I get it, I get it. I’ll even go for my own takedowns. I’ve got two more rounds to make up for it, okay?” Alfredo said dismissively. 

Sometimes, people just don’t grasp how to adapt to changes. Alfredo’s opponent, Abdel Amir-Faruk, attempted three takedowns but failed each time. Alfredo would sprawl and try to take his back repeatedly. It seemed like both sides had tunnel vision. 

“It’s obvious: he’s more of a grappler than a striker, so capitalize on this,” I advised as I sprayed water into Alfredo’s mouth and replaced his vampire mouthguard during our last intermission. 

The third round began, and it was 19–19 on the scorecards. Again, Alfredo was using his jabs and push kicks to control the pace and distance of the fight, frustrating Abdel. My ears rang from the earth-shattering cry from right behind me. 

“Use the combo!” Matthew roared. 

Alfredo used a failed arm drag to gain a Russian tie control of his opponent’s right arm to set up that deadly round kick. He followed up with a lead hook to the body, then two jabs to the head, a cross to the sternum, a lead uppercut, and a finish with a rear elbow to the face. Abdel fell to the ground in a bloody mess. Alfredo jumped onto his back in desperation, but the official pushed him off and called the fight. 

Our team jumped into the cage and rushed to Alfredo. I picked him up over my shoulders, and we all yelled in celebration—all except Alfredo. 

While Alfredo was back in the green room getting checked out by a nurse, I strolled to my car to grab an envelope I had been saving for him for a week. Sarai and I had found the right promoter, and the contract said they weren’t willing to pay anything below five digits. I couldn’t wait to see the look on Alfredo’s face. 

When I returned to the green room, I was told Alfredo had gone to hit the showers. I headed in his direction, following the signs to the end of a short yellow hallway. I could hear thumping as I approached. I chalked it up to Alfredo blowing off some steam. Something was obviously bothering him, but I knew this would cheer him up. 

As I got about halfway down the hallway, I could hear someone else in the shower room with him. 

“Do you understand how much money you cost me?! I put six grand on you getting a rear naked choke. You had one job this whole fight, and it was to take his back and choke him. Dad would be disappointed in you! How are we gonna get him out of prison now? How are we gonna pay for the lawyers?” 

“It’s not my fault Dad decided to drink that day and hit that poor lady. I wish I could say sorry to her, and I’m too ashamed to even look Coach in the eyes sometimes, but I’m doing my bes—” 

I heard a loud thumping sound again. It was a familiar sound. 

“Ah, shut it! You do what I tell you to do, you have to look out for your family.” 

My blood began to sear. 

I stormed in. Without thinking, I punched the bearded stranger square on the chin. I watched as he fell onto his back, stunned. He looked drained and dirty, like he hadn’t rested in days. There was a box of cigarettes in his inside jacket pocket beside what looked like a foldable knife, both sticking out. I turned toward Alfredo and saw half his face swollen and red, especially along his cheeks. I wanted answers, but it would have to wait. 

“Hey, champ, how would you like to come home with me?” 

Daniel Jose Sandoval Garcia is a creative writer, visual artist, musician, and martial artist from Toronto, Ontario, and a graduate of the Justice Studies program at the University of Guelph-Humber. With a passion for youth and community work, he plans to pursue a career in Law Enforcement and explore further creative writing projects, including poems and short stories.

Image: Hope (Jasmine Cowan, 2022)

Edited for publication by River Rideout, as part of the Creative Book Publishing program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.