I’m ready to leave, Josh. If I end the night on this peak, I can tell myself the drive to Cleveland was worth it. But I won’t get to see how the fans react to the Westbrook fight, which is why you’re paying me the Big Money. So I’ll stay, and keep writing as long as Mr. Hero keeps glowing.
“He knocked out Bart Gunn, you know,” someone says, startling me. I thought I was relatively alone up here, but a voice, coming from my right, is definitely talking to me. I bury my head in my pile of napkin-notes and try to ignore it.
Butterbean is walking out now, and it’s official that he’s not fighting the radio guy, Dieter, like quite a few of these people expected. I didn’t even know until I went to the bathroom a while ago that the Bean wasn’t fighting Dan Severn (KOTC didn’t bother telling anyone Severn was out), but my unmoved acceptance of that is sharply contrasted by the people now chanting “Dieter” with a riotous conviction in their tones.
The agitation rises as a terribly lame fight ensues between Butterbean and the late replacement. If I had a small child with me, Josh, and that child hadn’t already been stomped on during that brawl in section 116 a while ago, now would be the time to rush him or her out of the arena. If not for safety purposes, then for psychological reasons. Butterbean has become the whipping boy of Cleveland, and the chants I’m hearing are too foul and cruel to repeat.
The voice beside me, now talking to me again between shouts, is the most malicious. “Why is he so sedentary? You, in the green jacket, answer me. Why is that [strong expletive] so [strong expletive] sedentary?”
I keep looking forward, while saying, “Err, well … I don’t know.” I sit quietly while Butterbean takes a far worse beating from the audience than from his opponent. The match is ruled a draw, but most everyone believes strongly Butterbean lost. He’s interviewed after the decision and mentions that he’d like a rematch, causing the voice beside me to yell, “Noooooooo!”
Amy Hayes enters the cage to fuel the fire. “Who’d like to see these two fight again?” she asks and is then pelted with curses and directions to go do something vulgar to herself.
The voice beside me is still focused on Butterbean. His words are disturbing, Josh, a tirade that’s crossed the line of good-natured heckling and is venturing into personal attacks on Butterbean’s physique. It goes on and on and, thinking of the stomped children who may still be able to hear, I finally turn to confront the voice.
I’ve turned back now, not believing what I saw. The voice berating Butterbean’s build … was coming from a man sitting three seats to my right who looks exactly like Butterbean. The irony has struck me dumb.
“What?” the man snaps at me. “I heard he was supposed to be good.”
“You shouldn’t believe the hype,” I say, and those words echo in my head. The hype. What am I doing here in Cleveland? I’ve been writing on napkins, in the dark, for the last four hours. Wait a minute. Did that guy just say he heard Butterbean was good?
Never mind that guy, Josh. The hype. Those bastards at King of the Cage practically dragged me up here on the promise I’d witness history. Look at me now—the buffoon. Wolf Blitzer’s not here. Dave Anderson has never heard of King of the Cage. Frank Deford didn’t request a press pass; he won’t even order the pay-per-view. Of course not. A couple Washington papers will run a one-sentence blurb tomorrow morning mocking the Westbrook fight and that’ll be it.
I look around and see big sections of the audience leaving. Maybe they were here to see the radio guy fight Butterbean. Or maybe they came to feed on the spectacle of “cage fighting,” and now they’re full. They certainly didn’t come to see two football players fight. And I didn’t either. I curse you, Josh, and Jeff Sherwood too, for not letting me leave after the Gurgel match.
I thank Mr. Hero for his guidance and watch Joey Villasenor end his fight quickly while I walk down the steps. Even more of us are heading out now. I note that the arena is less than half full for fight number 14—the Westbrook match destined for the history books.
The last thing I see as I exit is a woman cursing the jumbo screen because Westbrook’s pre-fight highlight has extended the evening two hours past irritation. The last thing I hear is a man say, “Well, that Jorge Gurgel fight was the best one, but that brawl in the stands was pretty good too. Let’s go get drunk.”