Page 12 of Southie
He stopped wrapping my hands, eyebrows raised, and pursed his lips. “So, what are you going to do?”
I heard the concern in his voice. I hadn’t decided what I would do yet.
“Southie, you’re the best fighter on the circuit, but you either do as Chaney wants, or he’ll force you out.”
I heaved a sigh. He started wrapping my hands again, dropping the subject, which I was thankful for. The silence gave me time to decide what I wanted to do.
As of right now, Chaney was my only source of income, and Gerald was right. That was what Chaney would do. He didn’t care about the people who came to these fights or the money they dished out to see me. For Chaney, it was about the control he had over the fighters. We fought becausehewanted us to. Our matches were against whohewanted us to fight, andhedecided what our take of the purse was. He cared even less about how good the fighter was. He loved being in charge more than anything else.
None of us were under any legal contract. We had verbal agreements with him, and we expected him to uphold his end as we upheld ours. He allowed us to make a little cash doing what we loved, and we gave him a cut of the earnings. He supplied the venue, set up the brackets, and supplied the audience.
I had a plan. The same plan since I started fighting for Chaney. The underground fighting circuit was my ticket out of Southie, out of Boston, for good.
Fighting was the one thing I excelled at. I needed this place, but I also had my pride. My grandmother always said that one day my pride might be my downfall. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be the case tonight.
Pride aside, I was the best damn fighter on the Massachusetts circuit. Why tarnish my reputation for Chaney’s sake? I didn’t have it in me to dick around, especially not with Jones. Going easy on him might cause me to lose my fight, lose my undefeated record, or even worse.
Dylan Jones was a Grade A piece of shit. I don’t remember where the bastard is from, but he was as dirty as they came and not fit to lick the bottom of my boots. He was one of those fighters I would love to meet outside the cage and beat the shit out of him just because he was an asshole.
Over the years, we’d never met in a match. Chaney kept the hype up around us meeting in the ring by spreading rumors of a potential match, which kept people coming back every weekend hoping the fight would happen.
Ranked number one and number two, the crowds had pushed for a match between us for years, but Chaney never set it up. It was no surprise he’d save this fight for when these important people attended. Whoever they were, they must have been some big spenders for him to set this match up. I wondered how much my cut of the purse would be.
Once, I saw Jones fight. That was all it took.
He and I stood around the same height. My reach was a little longer than his, but I’d have to be mindful of his tendency to hit below the belt. Like me, he was a freestyle fighter and had a great standup game. But unlike me, he had no ground skills, which was why I had every intention of submitting him or knocking his ass out before we got deep into the rounds. The longer the fight took, it was possible I’d lose by decision if it went to the judges. I’d make sure that didn’t happen, though.
Jones was a dirty fighter, but he wouldn’t catch me off guard. Holding back, with anybody, wasn’t in me. No matter where I went, I would always be a fighter from Southie, so I wouldn’t be anyone’s punching bag because Chaney Moreno wanted to line his pockets withmymoney. The money I earned with my blood, sweat, and tears.
The roar of the crowd chanting “Southie” echoed throughout the building, signaling it was my time to shine.
Gerald checked my wraps one more time and slid my gloves on. “Whateva you do, I’m with you.”
I nodded. It felt good to have someone in my corner who supported this part of my life. I had no real family except my grandmother, and I’d told her nothing about me fighting.
In that instant, I decided keeping my reputation intact as the top fighter in Boston was more important than following Chaney’s orders. I was talented enough to go somewhere else in New England if Chaney decided not to let me fight any further in Boston.
“There will be no holding back. I’m a fighter, not Chaney’s bitch. If I’m out, I’m going out on top. Fuck Chaney Moreno.”
Gerald nodded, agreeing with my decision.
“This is it. Fighting is my haven and, in the octagon, it’s my world. Fuck everyone else.”
I repeated the same mantra before every fight to reaffirm why I was here. While I was in the octagon, the cage was my home. The cage was my world. Everyone else, I gave them the honor and privilege of stepping in it with me.
“You got this, Southie. He ain’t got shit on you. Give ‘em hell!” Gerald shouted, pounding my gloved fist and putting in my mouthpiece, painted green, white, and orange, the colors of the Irish flag.
I shook out my arms and bounced from foot to foot, throwing a few punches to warm up and shake loose the last of my nerves. I headed toward the ring with Gerald following me. Dropkick Murphys’I’m Shipping Up to Bostonblasted through the surround sound speakers, signaling it was my time to fight.
I raised my gloved fists in the air. The chanting of “Southie” continued to reverberate throughout the warehouse. Gerald handed me my Irish flag withSouthiestitched across the middle, and I stopped my walk to the octagon, wrapped it around my shoulders, and turned away from the crowd to give them a view of who I was. Nearly a thousand people went wild in the makeshift arena, chanting Southie even louder.
I turned on my heels, handed Gerald my flag, and approached the cage where Dylan Jones stood on the opposite side glaring at me. The closer I got to the cage, the anxiousness shifted to anticipation and confidence. Jones’ lips pulled back in a sneer, baring his teeth. I winked at him as envy and rage covered his face at the crowd’s reaction to me. He wasn’t ready for what I was about to dish out because of the cockiness reflected in his eyes.
Fighting was my life, and I lived for this shit. I wouldn’t let the outside world, Dylan Jones, or Chaney Moreno stop me from doing what I loved to do. Winners never quit, and quitters never win. So, tonight, Jones would get all of Liam “Southie” Daugherty. The streetfighter, Southie born and bred.
No holds barred.
* * *
