“Let’s just say we had pizza and watched TV in my apartment, which will be the truth because we’re eating pizza now and we’ll turn on the television when we get to my apartment.”

For a second he looks confused, then lights up again.

Back at my apartment, he watches a cartoon while I change clothes. He likes my shiny yellow jacket with “Tadeo Zapate” emblazoned across the back, and it takes me a while to explain that I work the corner. Each fighter has a corner team to help him between rounds, and, well, I’m in charge of water and anything else that Tadeo might need. No, I’m not really that necessary, but it sure is a lot of fun.

Partner picks us up in the black van and we ride to the city auditorium. For the next two hours, Partner will do the babysitting, a new role for him. Driver, bodyguard, errand boy, investigator, confidant, strategist, and now this. He doesn’t mind. I pull some strings and get them two seats on the floor, six rows back from the cage. Once they are situated with popcorn and sodas, I tell Starcher that I have to go check on my fighter. He’s excited, wide-eyed, chattering away to Partner, who’s already his best friend. Though I know the kid is safe, I’m still worried. Worried that his mother will find out and sue me again for neglect, corruption of a minor, and anything else she can possibly throw at me. Worried also that with this crowd anything can happen. I watch a lot of fights and have often thought that it’s safer inside the ring than out in the crowd. The fans are drinking and rowdy and they want blood.

A city councilwoman in some place like Wichita tried to pass an ordinance that would prohibit anyone under the age of eighteen from being admitted to a cage fight. It failed, but there is some wisdom behind it. Since there’s no such law in our city, young Starcher Whitly has a ringside seat.

Zapate versus Crush is the main event, which is fantastic, of course, right where we want to be, but it requires a long wait through the undercard. Tonight there are five warm-ups, so the evening will move painfully slowly.

I check in with Team Zapate and everyone is in good spirits. Subdued, as always, but quite confident. Tadeo is still in street clothes, lying on a table with his headphones on. His brother Miguel says he’s ready. Oscar whispers that it will be a first-round knockout. I hang around for a few minutes but can’t stand the tension. I leave and walk through a tunnel to a lower level where my little gang of criminals is waiting in a supply room. Slide, the convicted murderer, has been losing lately and has cut back on his wagers. Nino, the meth dealer, has, as always, a pocketful of cash and is splashing it around. Denardo, the Mafia wannabe, doesn’t like any of the fights. Johnny is absent. Frankie, the old guy and our scorekeeper, is nursing a double scotch, probably not his first. We work through the undercard and place our bets. As usual, no one will bet against my man. I chide them, taunt them, curse them, but they don’t budge. I offer $10,000 for a first-round knockout but get no takers. Frustrated, I leave with only $5,000 on the table, a grand for each bout on the undercard.

I pay eight bucks for a watered-down beer and climb to the nosebleed section, which is packed. A sellout, standing room only. Tadeo is becoming a big draw in his hometown, and I hammered the promoter for a guaranteed purse. Eight thousand dollars—win, lose, or draw. I lean on a steel beam above the top row and watch the first fight. I can barely see my kid in the crowd, way down there.

I lose my bets on the first four fights, win the fifth, then hustle to the dressing room. Team Zapate crowds around its hero, who also wears bright yellow. We look like a sack of organic lemons. We walk him through the tunnel and into the lights, and the crowd goes wild. I wave at Starcher and he waves back with a huge smile on his face.

Round 1. Three minutes of boredom as Crush, to our surprise, does not charge across the ring like a mad dog. Instead, he plays defense and escapes serious damage. Using a left jab that at times is hard to see, Tadeo opens a cut over Crush’s right eye. Late in the round, Crush returns the favor with a nasty gash across Tadeo’s forehead. Oscar manages to close it between rounds. Cuts are not that critical in cage fighting because the fights are so short. In boxing, a first-round cut is terrifying because it becomes a target for the next half hour.

Round 2. They hit the deck and grapple for the first half of the round. Crush has a strong upper body and Tadeo is unable to pin him. Boos can be heard. Back on their feet, they spar and kick with neither scoring much. Just before the bell, Tadeo lands a hard right to the jaw that would have flattened any of the last dozen or so men he’s faced, but Crush stays on his feet. As Tadeo goes in for the kill, Crush manages to grab his waist and hang on until the bell. Suddenly I don’t like this fight. Tadeo is clearly ahead on points, but I don’t trust judges.

Perhaps it’s the nature of my profession.

I like knockouts, not decisions.

Round 3. Having paced himself, Crush figures he’s got some gas in the tank. He charges across the ring and surprises everyone with a wild flurry that ignites the crowd. It’s certainly exciting, but not damaging. Tadeo covers well, then lands a couple of hard jabs that draw more blood. Crush charges again, and again. Tadeo, the boxer, picks his openings and shoots jabs that land beautifully. I’m screaming, the crowd is screaming, the floor seems to be shaking. Meanwhile, the clock is ticking and Crush is still out there, charging and charging, his face a bloody mess. He lands a wild right and Tadeo goes down, but only for a second. Crush leaps on top of him and they kick and claw and finally manage to untangle. Tadeo has not gone this late in a fight in a long time, and he begins to press. Crush charges again, and for the final minute they go toe-to-toe in the center of the ring, just two mad dogs beating the crap out of each other.

My heart is pounding, my stomach is rolling, and I’m just the water boy. We assure Tadeo he’s won again as we wait and wait. Finally, the referee walks the fighters to the center of the ring. The announcer proclaims a split decision, with Crush winning by a point. A thunderous wave of booing and screaming rocks the auditorium. Tadeo is stunned, shocked, his mouth wide open, his swollen eyes filled with hate. The fans are throwing things at the cage and we’re on the verge of a riot.

The next fifteen seconds will change Tadeo’s life forever.

He suddenly whirls and throws a hard right into the left side of Crush’s face. It’s a sucker punch, a vicious one that Crush never saw coming. He crumples to the mat, out cold. Instantly, Tadeo attacks the referee, who’s also black, and pummels him with a flurry. The ref stumbles and lands against the cage, half sitting up, and Tadeo pounces on him with a furious barrage of punches. For a few seconds, everyone is too stunned to react. They are, after all, in a cage, and it takes time to mount a rescue. By the time Norberto tackles Tadeo, the poor ref is unconscious.

The auditorium erupts as fights break out everywhere. Tadeo’s fans, most of them Hispanic, and Crush’s fans, most of whom are black and heavily outnumbered, attack each other like gangs in the street. Cups of beer and cartons of popcorn rain down like confetti. A security guard nearby gets hit over the head with a folding chair. It’s total chaos and no one is safe. I forget about the carnage inside the cage and sprint for my son. He’s not in his seat, but through the melee I see the hulking figure of Partner as they make their escape. I go after them, and within seconds we are safe. As we duck out of the auditorium, we pass panicked police running toward the action. In the van, I clutch Starcher in the front seat as Partner takes the side streets. I say, “Are you okay, bud?”