“Of course I fucking am.”
“But you were taken out of ‘the system’ by Johnny Marino, yes? At the age of sixteen?”
I nod. “That’s right.”
“He adopted you legally as his son.”
“Correct.”
“He trained you, became your manager.”
“Yes.”
“To be a fighter.”
“Yes.”
“When did your training start?”
“Informally, from when I was about eight years old. Formally, when I was sixteen.”
“You mean Johnny Marino trained you to fight as a teenager?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You were sparring regularly as a teenager against adults?”
“Yes.”
Peterson sits back, eyes-wide. “That could be construed as child-abuse, especially if he forced you to.”
“Nobody put a fucking gun to my head,” I growl. “I chose it. But if you want to write that about Johnny fucking Marino, go right ahead. See what that gets you. Gagged and tied to a cement block at the bottom of the lake is one possibility.”
“I don’t think I’ll put that in,” Peterson says, offering a weak smile.
“I didn’t think you were that stupid.”
“You’re quite well-spoken, if I may say so.”
“Is there a question hiding in there?”
“Just an observation.”
“And why is it a relevant one? Did you expect me to be some fucking moron because I’m a fighter? Or is it because I’m an athlete?”
“N-no—”
“Maybe it’s my tattoos? Come on, Dan. What did you really want to ask me?”
“It’s just unexpected.”
“To who?”
“Everybody!”
“Then everybody can go to fucking hell.”
He tacks in the wind.
“Um, there are rumors that you were trained out of the country? Is that true?”
“No comment.”
“What about your love life? Any girlfriends?”
“You write for TMZ now?”
“Your fans want to know.”
“I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about your fans?”
“You want to quote me, go ahead and fucking quote me. I don’t give a shit, I don’t owe them anything.”
“Arguably, you owe them your career,” Peterson says. “After all, they come to these fight nights and put money into it, some of which reaches you. Are you trying to say you don’t care about the hand that feeds you?”
I consider Peterson. Maybe there’s more to him than meets the eye. He’s got a soft body but possibly a sharp mind. Have I been lulled to sleep?
If so, I have more respect for this man than before.
“I don’t control what other people do or think,” I tell him, spacing my words. “I fight, I win. That’s what I do, and that’s all I worry about.”
“What about the ethics? We all know underground fighting is illegal.”
“Funny that you should report on it, make your advertising dollars or whatever the fuck off it. Off the backs of us fighters.”
“I’m press, it’s my duty to.”
“You basically run a blog, one that champions the underground scene at that.”
“The most popular blog,” he says. “The readers belong to me. The fans.” He tilts his head to the side, a challenge in his eyes. “Your fans.”
“Dare to quote yourself?”
Peterson’s eyes twinkle. “You know,” he says, his voice now instantly more confident than it was before. “I can make you out to be anyone I want.”
“Go on then,” I say. “But you have an obligation to the truth. Compromise your own integrity for all I give a shit. I can’t help you, and what you write about me will never matter to me.”
“So what does matter to you?”
“Fighting and family.”
“You mean Johnny Marino, your adoptive father?”
I hesitate. “Sure.”
“Do you look up to him? Since he used to be quite a well-known boxer?”
“Well-known how?” I ask Peterson. “Why don’t you tell me what you know of him?”
“He was considered talented, ahead of his time. Fast and strong, a physical specimen.”
“And what else?”
Peterson frowns. “He was often injured, picked up the nickname ‘Glass’.”
I nod. At least he knows his fighting history, and I suppose he deserves credit for that.
“My career has already surpassed his. ‘Look up to’ is the wrong way to put it.”
It couldn’t be more wrong. I despise the man.
Just a few more fights!
“Do you not care that he helped to make you who you are?”