Suckerpunch: (2011) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the lungs some room.
     
    “In through your nose,” Gil said and sipped more coffee.
     
    I spit out my mouthguard and gulped air. “Call 911.”
     
    “You keep saying that. Look at Jairo. He’s fine.”
     
    I let my head fall to the right and opened my eyes. Jairo Arcoverde was next to me on the mats. He looked like he’d been hit by a planet. He’d done the whole circuit in his forest green jiu jitsu gi, and the thing was almost black with sweat. “Are you dead?” I asked him.
     
    “Yes.”
     
    I picked my head up and looked down the line. Jairo’s younger brother Javier was facedown and spread-eagle, and beyond him the youngest of the clan, Edson, twenty-two, was sitting against the wall sipping water. I vaguely remembered him dropping out and spending some time with his face in the trash can during the frog jumps.
     
    The Arcoverde brothers were from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Gil had earned his black belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu from their father, Antonio, and now the sons were getting ready to represent the family in MMA. It was a good deal all around; the boys helped me and the other guys at The Fight House work on our ground games, and they got to work on their stand-up with us. As a bonus, they also got to work on their conditioning.
     
    Jairo stood up and peeled off his gi top and dropped it on the mat. It sounded like a sack of mulch. He was thirty and bigger than me, six four and about two forty-five—almost as big as Burbank—and had been doing his best to take me down and submit me for the past three weeks when I wasn’t drilling the strategy for Porter. More often than not, Jairo got his way. We’d done some stand-up to make me feel better about myself, but the brothers were picking that up faster than I was avoiding tapouts.
     
    The brothers had olive complexions, dark eyes, and cauliflower ears. Jairo’s stood out more because of his shaved head, which he claimed helped him slide out of chokes, but I suspected his bust-worthy skull was the main factor. The thing gleamed like polished bronze when they all walked around in the Vegas heat and pretended to shiver and thought it was funny every time. Jairo had a heavy-lidded way of looking bored most of the time, even when he was working to sink an armbar or triangle choke. It was unnerving, like a brain surgeon yawning with his hands inside someone’s skull.
     
    We were lucky to have Jairo around for the Burbank fight. He could come close to simulating the size and brute strength I’d be dealing with, but Burbank was much more aggressive. Maybe Gil could poke Jairo with a stick while we sparred. Porter had a similar fighting style, but relying on my prep for him before fighting Burbank would be like eating a crouton each day leading up to a pancake eating contest.
     
    There wasn’t enough time to bring anyone else in before Saturday. Gil had a Rolodex of judo guys, Division 1-A champion wrestlers, and a former Olympic Greco-Roman wrestler from Montana who almost threw me into the ceiling the last time he came through, but they were all either overseas or getting ready for their own fights. Gil and I agreed none of those guys could really simulate what it would be like to fight Burbank, either. They were too little, too slow, too stiff, or too nice.
     
    I’d just about returned to subpanic heart and respiratory rates when Gil said, “Get in the cage.”
     
    Jairo and I dragged ourselves over and got our mouthguards back in and wrapped our hands in the training gloves, the same size and weight as the official version but with Velcro straps instead of laces. I pretended to have trouble getting the straps just right so I could take a few more deep breaths, but Gil caught on right away and threatened me with his coffee mug. I followed Jairo into the cage.
     
    The canvas was still the original light gray color in a few spots. They looked like bleach stains on the mottled surface. No one wanted to bleed in training, but it happened. The scar