Chapter 3 #2
“Do you currently have employment?” Blessing asked. Thankfully, I was prepared for that question.
“I guess I'm an independent contractor,” I said, shamefully with no conviction.
“So, you're a tax preparer? Or do you work in house cleaning?” she asked for clarification.
“I'm a fighter.”
“Fighter?” she asked, confused.
“I fight professionally,” this time with more confidence.
“Does that pay anything?” She questioned, right fully so.
“Not so much in the beginning. But I'm getting more fights because I've been winning more—”
“Sierra, do you have a real job? Something where you get taxes taken out of your check. A place you clock in and out of?”
“No,” I admitted, nervously biting my lip.
“Well, if custody of your daughter is your main goal, you'll have to find one. And be able to maintain employment. Do that, and we can help you gain housing. There are a handful of options to help with food and utilities for up to twelve months if there’s a paper trail that you’re trying.”
“Okay. I can do that,” reluctantly agreeing to it.
I had had a job in Philly. Nothing fancy.
Call center receptionist at the community center that had woke me up to all these beginner classes for self-defense at a discount.
I’d never been good at anything before, and when I learned you could make a living off this kind of thing, my first goal had been to practice full time.
But that was hard without a trainer. Looks like that dream was getting further and further.
“Sierra, dear. I can help you with state health insurance and provide a travel voucher for your job search. We work with a few job preparation companies in the area to help you with resumes and employment coaching, but you have to earn it by doing your part, too.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
As I took her advice, later sitting at one of those employment centers frustrated, mainly because my job history was crap and I couldn’t even list three to five references that could vouch for me.
Since Google was my friend, I took the liberty of searching whether there were any family-owned mom and pop spots, that I might get lucky enough to walk by and see a help wanted sign in.
To my luck, the second diner I walked by had been simply that, and after an inquiry later, I was starting on a trial basis. Waitressing wasn't the best for becoming self-made overnight but it was a job. It's just the pay was shit.
By my second day on the job, I learned no amount of good service guaranteed a good tip, even with an obnoxious party of six that left a nice little intrusive, inappropriate note on the tip line.
If it got my daughter back, I couldn’t complain.
It’s just now, my training schedule was getting thrown off and I wasn’t home long enough to experience lunch and dinner at the shelter.
After busting a table where half the food hadn’t even been eaten, having so little stability growing up in foster care, it wasn’t beneath me to not waste food.
When you worked less than eight hours, you only got one ten-minute break, so with my only chance to eat all day, I devoured the parts of former customer’s plates that hadn’t been touch, relieved to calm my rumbling stomach.
This was only until I could get more consistent fights.
My phone went off right before I had to go back with a text that read:
Sal: Interested in a match, 70/30 split. 300 at least.
I knew him; went by Sal, but I think his full name was Salvatore Castle.
He was a manager I almost went with, but after a day or two, it was obvious he wanted to fuck me more than get me actual fights.
His roster wasn’t impressive, but he did get his fighters work. His representation just wasn’t for me.
Me: Can’t this Saturday. I’ve already got one. But I could use a cornerman.
He wouldn’t have been my first option, but I didn’t know many people in my short time in Newark.
Sal: If I’m your cornerman, I get ten percent of what you take. Unless, something else could be arranged…
Me: The pay’s shit, so consider yourself the proud owner of twenty-five dollars.
Trying to keep it professional and quick.
Sal: You’ll owe me
Me: Yes, your TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS…
Sal: Fine. Shot me the address. I’ll see you Saturday.
Whether I won or lost, I was already out twenty-five dollars. But opening up the photo album on my phone to the album titled Mónica, I had to remember who I was doing this for. I wasn’t just fighting for me. I was fighting for her.
***
Waiting outside of Blessing's office, she silently signaled me in, finishing a phone call. “What did you need, Miss Medina?”
Having a seat, I tried not to get comfortable, but also tried to convey with stronger conviction, that fighting wasn’t just a hobby for me. It was something I did legit. “Saturday. I have a late time commitment, and I need permission to come in after curfew.”
“You're certainly not a prisoner, Sierra, but repeat offenses might result in you losing your bed,” she offered an explanation.
“It's for work. I have a fight scheduled, and I could use every penny while you’re helping me find a place—”
“I thought I was clear about holding a real job,” she interrupted.
“I’m doing both,” as I pulled out my fight card this time, trying to insist this wasn’t some hobby. “Waitressing in the afternoon, fights when I can get them. You never said I had to stop fighting, you just said I had to maintain traditional employment.”
Whether or not that got through to her, she held the fight card close to her sight of vision, studying until the words made sense. “And you're getting paid for this?”
“I can give you payment documentation the night after. It's structured into show money—what I get for showing up. And win money—what I potentially earn if I win. I swear it's all legit.”
She regarded it one last time before reaching for her computer and printing out a document. “I'll approve it today, but in order for it to stick, you will need payment documentation first thing.”
“Thank you! I appreciate you so much,” as I took the paper and decided it was time to get in some training.
***
Shaking it off, I feel like I had done everything I could possibly do to prepare for this fight.
I was still 4-3, but back in Philly, I had never lost a spar I couldn't beat. Being around such diverse talent was the challenge, but I had to put in whatever I had from my last three fights into this one. If I could figure that out, that two hundred and fifty dollars—minus Sal’s fee for being my corner man—would be mine.
I was struggling, but I just couldn’t lose my streak. Not when I had come this far. My only problem was of how shitty of a cornerman Sal actually was. Struggling my first round, I was picking up in the second, but Sal gave very little guidance that might help turn this around.
“Come on, Sal, I'm getting demolished out there. Got any advice?”
“You're doing fine,” dismissing my concerns, as he wiped off the blood coming from the bruise above my eye. It felt like I was doing anything but fine, but while Sal had the skills to manage, he wasn’t the best at guiding me throughout a match I was losing.
Holding back tears, I was just about to call it, positive I’d throw up from embarrassment when I could hear the echo of a familiar voice screaming from outside the cage.
“What are you fucking blind? You gonna help her win the damned fight, or are you going to spend the entire time staring down her tits?” The familiar voice challenged Sal through the vertical cage.
My vision was blurred by blood and sweat, so when Sal barked back a, “Who the fuck are you?” I fought the jump in my tummy at the sight of a familiar face squaring Sal down in a swearing match. It couldn’t be…
My breath hitched when the referee stormed over, demanding confirmation to whether he was my manager, coach or trainer, as a roar of recognition came from the small crowd when the legendary El Jaguar hopped into the cage at my corner.
Why was he here? How did he find me? What was he about to do, now that we shared this cage?
Josue shooed away the medical professional tending to the cut to help it stop bleeding, repeating to me, “You’re okay,” as he put pressure over my brow like he had done this a dozen times.
“Why are you here?” I wondered out loud.
“Why am I here?” he questioned back to himself.
“Jesus Christ, I’m here because I’m a fucking idiot, that’s why.
And what the hell are you doing out there?
You could have had her in the first round, now you've got her arrogant,” his angular face a mix of anger and distress, like he’d been truly studying my fight.
“Every time I get her cornered, she finds a way out—”
“Look, I'm gonna need to stop trying to win pretty and start breaking her down. Make smart adjustments. Judges often reward control and damage, so you can easily have round three. You do better on the floor, so get her there if you can.”
“What if I can't—”
“I don't want to hear the word can't. What you need to do is stop with the swings.
She's more composed than you, so every time you leave yourself open, it backfires.
She's getting comfortable because you're making her. If you don’t want to change the levels, draw her out, fake or bait.
You can counter with a power shot or come up with an overhand.
Shoot for a takedown, even if it's just to score and control.
Damage accumulates faster than you think when it's focused.”
“Okay,” I nodded, grateful someone still thought I could win this fight.
“Keep her guessing, because she's got your style down to a T. You just need to shake her up.” He held my face between his fingers to inspect my obvious damage.
“You're fine now. But listen to what I told you.” As I silently agreed, watching as everyone disappeared from the cage, but me and my opponent.
I had to force her into familiar territory, hoping the judges noticed that shift.