Every time I talk to Tadeo I’m thankful I’m not forced to face him in the ring. He has fierce black pupils that scream angrily, “Show me the mayhem. Show me the blood.” He grew up on the streets, fighting anyone who got too close. An older brother died in a knife fight, and Tadeo is afraid he’ll die too. When he steps into the ring, he’s convinced someone is about to be killed, and it won’t be him. His three losses were on points; nobody’s kicked his ass yet. He trains four hours a day and he’s close to mastering jujitsu.

His voice is low, his words slow, the usual prefight jitters where fear clouds all thoughts and your stomach churns. I know. I’ve been there. A long time ago, I had five Golden Gloves boxing matches. I was 1–4 until my mother found out about my secret career and mercifully brought it to an end. But I did it. I had the guts to step into the ring and get the shit knocked out of me.

However, I cannot imagine the guts it takes to crawl into the cage with another fighter who’s superbly conditioned, highly skilled, well trained, hungry, nasty, and terrified and whose only thoughts are how to rip your shoulder out of its socket, mangle your knees, open a gash, or land a knockout punch on the jaw. That’s why I love this sport. It takes more courage, more in-your-face raw guts, than any sport since the gladiators battled to the death. Sure, many others are dangerous—downhill skiing, football, hockey, boxing, car racing. More people die on horses each year than in any other sport. But in those you don’t willingly enter the game knowing you will get hurt. When you walk into the cage, you will get hurt, and it could be ugly, painful, even deadly. The next round could well be your last.

That’s why the countdown is so brutal. The minutes drag by as the fighter fights his nerves, his bowels, his fears. The waiting is the worst part. I leave after a few minutes so Tadeo can go back into his zone. He told me once that he’s able to visualize the fight and he sees his opponent on the mat, bleeding and screaming for mercy.

I weave through the maze of corridors in the depths of the arena, and I can hear the crowd roaring in echoes, thirsting for blood. I find the right door and step inside. It’s a small administrative office that’s been hijacked by my own little street gang. We meet before the fights and place our wagers. There are six of us, and membership is closed because we don’t want any leaks. Some use their real names, others do not. Slide dresses like a street pimp and has served time for murder. Nino is a mid-level meth importer who served time for trafficking. Johnny has no criminal record (yet) and owns half of the fighter Tadeo will face tonight. Denardo drops hints of Mafia ties, but I doubt his criminal activity is that well organized. He aspires to promote MMA events and longs to live in Vegas. Frankie is the old guy, a local fixture in the fight scene for decades. He admits he’s been seduced by the violence of cage fighting and now is bored with old-fashioned boxing.

So these are my boys. I wouldn’t trust any of these clowns in a legitimate business deal, but then we’re not doing anything legitimate. We go down the card and start the betting. I know Tadeo is going to kill Johnny’s fighter, and evidently Johnny is worried. I offer $5,000 on Tadeo, and no one will take it. Three thousand, and no takers. I chide them, cuss them, ridicule them, but they know Tadeo is on a roll. Johnny has to wager something, and I finally haggle him into a $4,000 bet that his fighter won’t make it to the third round. Denardo decides he wants some of this, for another $4,000. We cover the card with all manner of wagers, and Frankie, the scribe, records it all. I leave the room with $12,000 in play, on four different fights. We’ll meet in the same room later when the fights are over and settle up, all in cash.

The fights begin and I roam around the arena, killing time. The tension in the locker room is insufferable and I can’t stand to be in there as the clock ticks along. I know that by now Tadeo is laid out on a table, motionless, covered by a thick quilt, saying his prayers to the Virgin Mary and listening to filthy Latin rap. There is nothing I can do to help, so I find a spot on an upper level, high above the ring, and take in the show. It is indeed a sellout, and the fans are as loud and crazed as ever. Cage fighting appeals to the savage instinct in some people, including me, and we’re all here for the same reason—to see one fighter annihilate another. We want to see bleeding eyes, gashes across the forehead, choke holds, bone-ripping submissions, and brutal knockout punches that send the corners scrambling for the doctor. Mix in a flood of cheap beer, and you have five thousand maniacs begging for blood.

I eventually work my way back to the locker room, where things are coming to life. The first two fights ended with early knockouts, so the evening is moving quickly. Norberto, Oscar, and Miguel put on their glowing yellow jackets, same as mine, and Team Zapate is ready for the long walk to the cage. I’ll be in the corner, along with Norberto and Oscar, though my role is not as important. I make sure Tadeo has water while Norberto yells instructions in the fastest Spanish you’ll ever hear. Oscar tends to the facial wounds, if any. From the moment we hit the floor, everything becomes a blur. Along the tunnel, drunk fans reach for Tadeo and scream his name. Cops shove people out of our way. The roar is earsplitting, and it’s not all for Tadeo. They want more, another fight, preferably one to the death.

Outside the cage, an official checks Tadeo’s gloves, applies oil to his face, and gives him the green light. An announcer yells his name over the PA, and our man bounces into the cage in his bright yellow trunks and robe. His opponent tonight goes by “the Jackal,” real name unknown and unimportant. He’s a submission specialist, a tall white guy without much bulk, but looks are deceiving. I’ve seen him fight three times and he’s guileful and crafty. He plays defense well and looks for a takedown. He wrapped his last opponent into a pretzel and made him scream for mercy. Right now I loathe the Jackal, but deep down I admire the hell out of him. Any man who can climb into the cage has far more spine than the average guy.

The bell rings for round 1, three minutes of fury. Tadeo the boxer bores in straight ahead and immediately has the Jackal backing up. Both jab and spar for the first minute, then tie up but there’s no damage. Like the other five thousand fans, I’m yelling my head off, though I have no idea why. Any advice is useless and Tadeo isn’t listening anyway. They go down, land hard, and the Jackal has him in a scissors hold. For a long minute, the action dies as Tadeo squirms and wiggles and we hold our breath. He finally breaks free and manages a sharp left jab to the Jackal’s nose. Finally, there’s blood. There’s no question my man is the better fighter, but it just takes one mistake and you’ve got an arm twisted to the breaking point. Between rounds, Norberto unloads a torrent of instructions, but Tadeo isn’t listening. He knows much more about fighting than any of us, and he’s got the guy figured out. When the bell rings for round 2, I grab him by the arm and yell into his ear, “Take him in this round and there’s an extra two thousand bucks.” This, Tadeo hears.

The Jackal lost the first round, so, like many fighters, he starts pressing in the second round. He wants to get inside, to get his wiry arms fixed into some manner of vile death grip, but Tadeo reads him perfectly. Thirty seconds in, Tadeo does a classic left-right-left combo and knocks his opponent squarely onto his butt. Tadeo then makes a common mistake as he attempts to launch himself like an idiot onto the Jackal, much like a manic dive-bomber lunging for the kill. The Jackal manages to kick with his right foot, a brutal blow that hits Tadeo just above the crotch. He stays on his feet as the Jackal scrambles to his, and for a second or two neither man pushes the action. They finally shake it off and begin circling. Tadeo finds his boxer’s rhythm and begins peppering the Jackal with unanswered jabs. He opens a cut above his right eye and widens it with a relentless barrage. The Jackal has the bad habit of throwing a wild fake left hook just before he ducks and comes in low at the knees, and he tries this one time too often. Tadeo reads it, times it perfectly, and executes his finest trick, a blind elbow spin, a move that takes balls because for a split second his back is turned to his opponent. But the Jackal is too slow and Tadeo’s right elbow crushes into the right jaw. Lights out. The Jackal is out before he lands on the mat. The rules allow Tadeo to pounce on him for a few shots to the face, to properly finish him off, but why bother? Tadeo just stands in the center of the ring, hands raised, staring down, admiring his work as the Jackal lies as still as a corpse. The referee is quick to stop it all.