Page 20 of Back in Black

Mr. Darwich grinned. “I admit I’m a fan, both of Mr. Black and the SBC.”

After that, they quieted to listen to Drew. He had a presence about him that demanded attention. He spoke with experienced authority, in a way that kept the young men listening.

About twenty minutes into his explanation of how the SBC worked, and about the rules that applied, one of the boys spoke out.

He asked, “How much do fighters make?”

“As with most things in life, that depends on how hard they work and how good they are. But that sort of goes hand in hand in most cases—the harder you work, the better you get.”

“That ain’t no answer.”

Drew shrugged. “I can give you a range.” He named two figures that were worlds apart, setting more boys to grumbling. “A new guy barely makes anything, especially if he’s fighting in a nontelevised bout. If he has to cover his own expenses and doesn’t have any sponsors . . . yeah, it’d be tough to make ends meet. The stars, the guys who have earned the right to title shots—”

“Like Havoc, or Sublime.”

Drew nodded. “Yeah, like them. Those guys make top dollar. On top of that, sponsors are paying them more than most people make in a year, just to have a photo of them wearing their boxers or using their razor.”

That launched a few jokes, and Drew grinned with the boys.

“Yeah, it’s freaking nuts, isn’t it? But that’s what dedication can get you. And let me tell you, fighters like Havoc, Sublime, and Handleman, they’re smart and they’re not afraid of staying up late, getting up early, working harder than the other guys work to get what they want. Usually within a few training sessions, I can see who has the heart and talent it takes, and who doesn’t.”

A wiry young man stood. “Dude, I could be a fighter right now.” He flexed a scrawny arm, very impressed with himself. “Why don’t you give me a shot?”

Unfazed, Drew smiled. “For one thing, you’re not eighteen yet.”

“So?”

“So you can train, but you can’t yet compete in the SBC. If you really have what it takes, you could get involved with a gym, get some experience. I know fighters who’ve been training since they could walk. But as to how good you are right now, let me tell you, dude, no way in hell am I takingyourword for it.”

The group laughed, making risqué jokes at their friend, heckling him good-naturedly.

They quieted when Drew again spoke. “You don’t know how many guys think they can cut it, but then they get into training and a coach works them over for hours. Most are ready to quit. This shit is not easy. I know the really good guys might make it look like it is. That’s why they’re the really good guys.”

The boy copped an attitude. “Man, I’ve been busting heads on the streets since I was ten. I tell ya, I can fight. Ask anyone.”

Drew shook his head. “You think street fighting impresses me? It’s stupid. Beyond stupid.”

The kid subsided, but Drew didn’t cut him any slack.

“You guys are young, and you think you’re invincible or you just don’t care. I don’t know which it is. But unsupervised mixed martial arts means that someone could get seriously hurt. You—or a friend of yours.”

His impact astounded Gillian. The boys all looked enrapt as Drew continued.

“You know how many serious injuries or deaths we’ve had in the SBC?” He put his index finger and thumb together to make a zero and held it up. “None. I want to keep it that way. That’s why the fighters are well trained, why we have rules, and why we have special equipment.”

“Wasn’t always that way.”

“Hell no, it wasn’t. When I took over, the sport had been banned in damn near every state. Getting a pay-per-view was impossible. But I turned it around, and now we’re the fastest-growing sport there is. I took it from a failing business venture to a multimillion-dollar organization. You know how I did that?”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

“By being smart. Anyone can be tough and dumb, and that pays jack-shit. But be tough and smart, and it’s worth big bucks. So don’t confuse what we do with barroom fighting. Our sport is not spontaneous and it’s not dirty. You have to be trained, in shape, smart, and fast and you have to have heart.” He searched the crowd. “You guys know what heart is?”

When they mumbled in uncertainty, Drew left the mic and walked to the edge of the stage. “Heart is getting back in there when you’ve just puked your guts up or taken a fist to the face or, worse, to the gut. It’s twelve-hour days of cardio, boxing, wrestling, jujitsu.” He scanned the crowd of faces. “It’s not drinking, not smoking, no Big Macs or ice cream.”

A few guys protested that. Obviously they liked their fast food.

“There’s little time for girls, or family.”

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