It’s called Westside Fight Science. I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine. The steady tick tick tick of cooling metal’s like a tinny ring timer, counting down the seconds ’til I’m forced to decide whether or not to go inside. A soccer mom carrying puffy pink boxing gloves walks past, and for a moment I see me through her eyes—some glassy-eyed weirdo white-knuckling his steering wheel. Probably thinks I’m the guy who volunteers to get his nuts kicked in during Women’s Self Defense. I smile and wave so she knows I’m not a nutcase, then let her get inside before I step out of the car. It’s the polite thing to do.

I double-check the contents of my duffel bag. Clean shirt and shorts, hand wraps, two pairs of gloves — big ones for boxing, small ones for MMA — shin pads, mouth guard, “athletic supporter.” Fresh boxers. All present and accounted for. I go over the drill in my head one more time before opening the door. Hands up. Head down. Breathe. 

The door’s barely open an inch when the acrid mélange of spent man-sweat pummels my nose. Years’ worth accreted in the pitted brick of the gym walls. That scent doesn’t leave you. It transcends time and space and culture; walk into any fight gym in the world and you’ll be greeted the same way. Weirdly comforting when you’re used to it. Warm. Like coming home. 

My ears are assaulted next, this time by the peppy cardio-kickboxing instructor’s voice as he spouts generic enthusiata into a microphone. An entire room full of puffy pink boxing gloves slapping and poking and prodding at heavy bags, all in time to an upbeat techno remix of a biker rock anthem from yesteryear. They collectively woo! as the end of double-time is announced. 

This was a mistake.

I approach the front counter. That they have a front counter is encouraging. Not all fight gyms do. It’s a sort of promise—someone will always be around.

There’s a young woman behind the counter, playing on her phone. No group cheers or double-time or puffy pink anything for her. She’s the real deal. You don’t develop traps like that without holding your fists up by your face for hours on end, learning to slip and weave and fire back. Her tattoo tells me she’s been to Thailand at least once. She’s not at work; she’s in her living room. 

She looks up and pins me in place with her predator’s eyes. “Yeah?” 

“Hi, I’ve got an appointment. With . . . Mike? Mike.” 

Now she remembers she’s being paid to be friendly. A smile. It looks a lot like the one I flashed at Miss Soccer Mom, probably. I pretend to look at the branded merch as she stalks away. Really, I’m clutching that black tee like a life preserver, knowing that as long as I’ve got unpurchased gear in hand, I won’t bolt for the door. It’s sweaty-wet by the time she returns.

I’m introduced to Mike. Big Mike. His card reads “Head Coach,” but he’s wearing his business hat this afternoon, doing his best to put me at ease. We talk about the importance of goal-setting and the things that are holding me back from being the person I want to be. My job. My wife. My hobbies. We look at the class schedule together.

“There’s a special on private sessions,” he says, “for new members looking to jumpstart their progress. Twenty percent off during your first month, if you’re interested.”

I tell him I’m not big on private sessions.

“Ever been to a gym like this before?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I trained for about a year or so. MMA, Muay Thai.” 

“Is that right?” Big Mike searches for outward signs of my athletic aptitude.

“I’ve taken some time off.”

“Where were you at before? Any place I’d know?” 

My tongue stumbles as I answer. 

“Whoo, damn! Some real killers over there. Now I’m not so sure I want to put you in with my guys. I gotta protect my people, know what I’m sayin’?” He laughs and punches my shoulder to let me know it’s a joke, that he accepts me as-is. “For real, though, I got a lotta respect for Coach Marcos; he runs a real tight ship over there . . .”

The name. It hits me from out of nowhere. One misstep, and I’m left reeling. Stars skitter and dance like fireflies across my vision. Big Mike and the puffy pink gloves and the squeaky instructor with his soulless faux rock all have their volume reduced to zero as that spackled sweat smell sends me on a rank rocket ride to the past, a home sullied by torn fabric and friction burns and wrist control, hand fighting, an arm around my neck, rear naked choke. Waking up alone. Sore. Ashamed. Bloody boxers tossed from a moving car window because it’s easier than trying to explain them to my wife. I never was any good at lying. Call it a hole in my game. 

Hands up. Head down. Breathe.

“Yeah,” I say. “I learned a lot from Coach Marcos.” 

Big Mike puts a big hand on my shoulder. I manage not to flinch. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do on the mat. Unless, uh, Cardio Blast is more your thing.” His expression tells me what he thinks of that idea. 

There is a third option — thank him for his time, pick up my bag, walk out the door, and never subject myself to that musky, worked-in stench again.

“No. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“My man!” He smiles. It’s real, genuine. “Class starts in ten. You ready?”

I nod as I speak the best lie I can muster. “I’m ready.”

*