The Song of David

So I was running solo, sitting on the very front row with a few Tag Team members who weren’t working Tag’s corner, when Tag strutted into the arena to a Waylon Jennings song about cowboys being hard to love and harder to hold. The crowd cheered and joined in on the chorus, and Tag egged them on. It made me laugh. I was so nervous for him I was practically seeing double, and he was acting like a big gorilla, monkeying it up to the packed house, his smile wide, his muscles bulging. He didn’t seem nervous at all, and when he caught my eye he smirked and pounded his chest.

Bruno Santos, on the other hand, entered the arena cloaked in a shimmery white robe with a hood so deep the only thing visible was the tip of his chin. His song of choice was something so bass heavy I couldn’t make out the lyrics, though I caught the words “destruction” and “annihilation.” He was hopping on the balls of his feet, shrugging his shoulders and tossing his neck, and I suddenly wished I’d stayed home with Georgia. Caring about people was a pain in my ass. Watching Tag fight was a bigger pain in my ass. My stomach turned over, and I glared at my friend, willing him to put me out of my misery as soon as possible.

Of course he didn’t. But he battled. He battled hard and ugly, taking as many blows as he dished out, and as usual, he seemed to fight better after he’d taken a couple swipes to the face. Like the song said, he was hard to hold onto. But he definitely wasn’t hard to love. The crowd was solidly on his side, and when he came back from a close call in the fourth round, escaping a near arm-bar that had made my stomach shake and my eyes water, the crowd was in a frenzy.

And then, when it looked like it would end in a decision, a decision that wouldn’t favor the challenger—they so rarely did—Tag caught Santos in the temple with a booming roundhouse that wowed the crowd and rocked his opponent. Santos stumbled, and Tag was all over him, his fists flying, Santos covering his head, not returning the blows. And then it was over. TKO for Taggert. I was out of my seat, screaming and jumping with the rest of the team, delirious with relief and overjoyed with the upset.

Funny, it never even occurred to me that Millie wasn’t there, but I’d definitely noticed that Tag didn’t stick around when it was all over. He was all business at the end, interviews and congratulations, hand-grabbing and palm-greasing. But he left when I left—I walked him to his truck—and the party went on without us. I went home to my wife, and clearly, he went home to Millie.





IT TOOK ME about two hours after the fight ended to keep my promise. I had an interview, a shower, a deep muscle rub-down, and another series of interviews before I could separate myself from the celebratory atmosphere and head for Millie’s. I was sore, and I’d popped a couple ibuprofens, but the adrenaline was still pumping, and I wanted to see my girl.

They must have been watching for me, because Henry shot out the front door and was buzzing around me before I was all the way out of my truck. Millie had her stick and was on the porch, waiting for me, just like she’d promised.

“Tag!” Henry was clicking his fingers again, obviously thrilled to see me. “Forty percent of Light Heavyweight fights end in TKO’s or KO’s,” he recited. It was nice to see he had the lingo down. I put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him back toward the house.

“Amelie cried the whole fight. Then I told her your nose was bleeding, and she covered her ears.”

“Henry,” Amelie sighed, rebuking him. But she reached out her hand for me, and I took it, releasing Henry and pulling her toward me, tucking her against my body, under my right arm as we all entered the foyer and shut the door behind us.

“The referee stopped the fight! Did he stop the fight because you were going to kill Santos? Did it make you mad when he made your nose bleed?” Henry shadow boxed around the foyer.

“Nah, it just made me fight harder.” I laughed at Henry’s wild-eyed recap.

“Everyone was yelling Tag Team! I started yelling it too! The whole crowd had on Tag Team shirts!” Henry was so animated he was practically levitating. I remembered the shirt that was still clutched in my right hand.

“That reminds me! Here, I got you one.” I tossed it to Henry, and he caught it and pulled it on, right over the Kobe Bryant jersey he was wearing. The shirt silenced him momentarily, and he admired himself in the ornate mirror hanging to the right of the staircase.

“I brought you one too, Millie,” I murmured, “But I left it in my truck. It’s your favorite color.”

“Does it say, ‘My boyfriend fought Santos, and all I got was this lousy T-shirt?’” she said drily, a smile playing around her lips.

“Oh man, that’s cold!” I drawled, but I leaned in and touched my mouth to hers, wrapping both of my arms around her. She returned my embrace and held on tight, her face buried in my chest.

“I forgive you,” she whispered. “But I’m never staying home again. That was the single most agonizing experience of my life.”

“I told you I would win. And then I’d come here. And here I am,” I said, nuzzling her hair.

“Will you marry us, Tag?” Henry asked intently, inserting himself back in the conversation.

“What?” I wasn’t sure I had heard him right.