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"He sounds like a dick."
It is an hour before the fight. I take a moment to eat something, silently processing the day. Nick is sitting across from me. He takes a bite of his burger, wipes his mouth on his hand.
"You'd think so, but…" I shake my head. I am too emotionally invested in this, even as I should be applauding myself. I got the story, the exclusive. My producer is ready to throw me a party. I can relax.
Instead, I am all wound up.
"Doesn't it make you wonder what happened between them?" I ask Nick. He shrugs.
"It's none of our business."
"Yeah, but…" I search for a way to express what I feel. "Paddy Conlon's face this morning, the way Brendan's wife looked, the fact that their brothers and haven't said a word to each other all weekend," I tick the list off on my fingers.
"A lot of people can't stand their brothers. Sounds like a family with problems." Nick starts scarfing fries.
"It's sad." I pick at my own food.
"World's a sad place. But at least you got the story. And you won 200 bucks. It's a good weekend."
I laugh. Nick fails to notice that my smile does not reach my eyes.
"Stop caring so much." My producer tells me later over the phone. I am stationed in the hallway leading out to the cage. There are ten minutes to go until fight time. You can practically feel the excitement pulsing in the air. "You get yourself in trouble with this. Remember?"
"I know." He does not have to remind me of all the times I have gotten myself in too deep with my stories. It is the reason I went into sports. Hard news used to send me home crying most days of the week. A trip to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina had been my undoing. I resigned within moments of returning to the station and a month later, I was interning for ESPN. Sports are safe. Objective. Unemotional.
Or at least, they were.
"You should have seen this guy." I tell him.
"I did. I saw him in the footage you sent. I heard his story. It's brilliant. Great stuff."
"These are people," I impart to him. "Not a soap opera."
"Honey," my producer's tone is condescending, "they put their problems out there. We film it, inform the public. It's our job. And you do it well." When I do not respond, he continues, "film the fight, get the last interview and get back down here." He hangs up.
I wander back out, unable to shake my feelings of unrest. Nick waves happily at me from his place by the cage. He is excited to be filming the fight. I should be excited too. I got the scoop.
The sounds of Beethoven fill the air and the crowd erupts. Brendan Conlon is walking to the cage, head high, arm in arm with his trainer. He blows a kiss to his wife, climbs in. He is focused.
An entire section of Marines in uniform begins to sing, heralding the arrival of Tommy Riordan. His father is not with him. He walks alone up the aisle, pausing only to salute his brothers from the Corps. He does not spare his real brother a second glance.
What happens next is brutal. I am plugged in wirelessly to Nick's camera, so I can hear every grunt, every sickening smack of flesh on flesh. I can hear the pop of Tommy's shoulder, I can hear Brendan's desperate attempts to make his brother stop fighting.
I hear them cursing, sobbing and finally, the sound of Brendan telling his brother that he is sorry. That he loves him.
I have no idea what he could be sorry about, but I find myself struggling not to cry all the same. I lean down to compose myself and miss Tommy tapping out. Nick swoops in for the shot of the winner, but Brendan pushes him back. His arms are around his younger brother, his attention entirely focused on him. The fight has taken a total of less than 15 minutes, and somehow, the Conlon brothers have reached some understanding.
Brendan all but carries Tommy out of the ring, his trainer in tow. I see Paddy Conlon, a bittersweet look etched on his face. I see Brendan's wife rushing after them. Acting on instinct, I follow them. Not for the story, but for myself. I have to know. I sneak down the hall, encountering little resistance. The brothers are literally and figuratively wrapped around one another. Only Brendan's trainer casts me a warning glance.
"No cameras," I hold up my palms. "I just wanted to make sure they're ok."
Brendan's wife looks back at me. "Let her in."
The trainer looks surprised. He opens his mouth to protest but she cuts him off.
"Frank, Tommy's going to need all the sympathy he can get," she glances at a few Marines waiting to take Tommy into custody.
"Tess is right," a gruff voice imparts. "We're going to need help."
Paddy Conley sizes me up. Four other pairs of eyes join his.
"Well," Brendan looks up at me, still holding his bleeding brother. "Can you help?"
"Yes." I hear myself agreeing. "I can help."
