I arrive at the Sky Ute Casino well before fight time, as I usually do. Grabbing my duffel bag and slamming the door shut, I see Artie waiting for me at the opening of the big top circus tent. The red, white and yellow stripes of the tent are silhouetted by the prairie of the Southern Ute Indian Reservation. The greenish-grey sage brush, white yucca blooms, and crimson prickly pear buttons sit brilliantly aside junipers. The patient nature of the low growing trees sets my nerves at ease. Much like they did in the evenings of my youth; eagerly roaming the desolate southwestern countryside. The warm wind ruffles the tent, making it wave like a mirage down a lonely dirt road. The man made fabric does the scenery no justice, but it is a cheap alternative to the solid white variety.

“There he is!,” Artie shouts. “Here’s your fighter pass. Put it on and they won’t hassle you at the front door. How do you feel? Did you eat your oatmeal this morning like I told you? That’s what they feed the thoroughbreds on race day. Sticks with ya.”

“Yeah , Artie, and I even thought of you when ate it.”

“Don’t get too cocky there Sonny, I may look old but...”

I walk into a sea of bloodthirsty spectators and anxious fighters warming up on the periphery. Sections of cowboys and vaqueros, long- and short-haired Indians, union and scab laborers, and rival gangs. The tension is high, but they will not be fighting tonight. Most, either know or have become familiar with one fighter or another. All have developed their favorites.

“Hey Sonny. How you doin’? Go get ’em kid.”

I take a seat at the back of the tent, as I always do. Artie sits backwards in the chair in front of me. I extend my hands to him and he begins to tape. When the hands are being taped, it really hits you that you are going into battle. Even more so, when the gloves are laced. I try to concentrate on the fight over the sound of early nineties dance music. There is a two man war going on in my head. I have mentally fought my opponent over and over again, for weeks. I already have him beat, but his blows sting. I wince as I walk down the street, bobbing and weaving through the branches that hang over the sidewalk. I lunge over the potholes when I put in roadwork at five in the morning. I retreat to the gym at night. A cathedral, whose bells chime as prompts at the starts and breaks of three minute rounds. I cannot crack. This farmer cannot let his controlled burn stray past the edges of water-soaked prairie grass. It is a fire that will only be extinguished when I climb through the ropes, the bell is rung, and I feel leather compressing against knuckles.

Over Artie’s shoulder, I see Caroline in the fifth row. She is sitting with a group of friends. What catches my attention is that she is turned around, scanning the crowd. Her eyes lock on mine as they make their way to the last row. She smiles and I grin back. This moment is interrupted by the introduction of the Southern Ute elder, whom will be leading the crowd in a prayer. The music stops and the crowd hushes. An ancient tongue permeates the tent, as the burning of sage is fanned by the wing of an eagle. I have never understood what was being said, but I accept the sage smoke into my body, much like communion as a boy. The only words that I understand are “Jesus Christ”. Just as I don’t understand the elder’s language, I have never understood why Jesus’ name comes from his mouth. Caroline tried to explain it to me, but her words went silent as I was lost in her eyes.

Caroline first invited me to a Sunday sweat lodge ceremony, on the Mountain Ute Reservation, a couple of months ago. She is an Apache gal going to the local college on a treaty scholarship. The rides to the reservation were pleasant. Neither one of us are big talkers, but the silences were far from awkward.

“You don’t feel a little weird bringing an Italian guy to the sweat lodge,” I once asked her. “Don’t you kind of feel like you’re bringing Christopher Columbus to a powwow?”

“How does an Italian guy find his way into Indian country anyway?”

“How does an Apache gal find her way this far north?”

After a couple quiet seconds, I thought it would be best to say something before she kicked me out on top of Mancos Pass.

“My great grandfather came to Trinidad, in the southeastern corner of the state, to work in the steel mill. All the men in that town work in the mill. When I turned eighteen, I really didn’t want to live the lifestyle of slaving away in that dirty mill every day. I saw what it did to my grandfather and father. My counselor, in high school, helped me find some scholarship and grant money to come to school here, so I did.”

“ What about the boxing thing?”

“The ‘boxing thing’ is something else that we all do in Trinidad. All of us Massino’s are fighters. That is one thing I couldn’t leave back home. How about you?”

“I moved up here to go to school. It’s free for us to come to school here. I met some kids from the Mountain Ute Res on campus and started sweating with them a couple of months ago. I’m glad that you have an open mind and accepted my invitation.”

“Thanks for stepping out on a limb and inviting me, I really appreciate it. I think this will help my boxing a ton.”

“It will help a lot more than your boxing, Sonny. And, it is not stepping too far out on a limb to ask a non-Indian to sweat. Terry, the shaman, will be happy to have you. I am also very happy to have you,” she said, as she looked over at me and cracked a smile.

As the first fight of the evening begins, I stretch and jump some rope. When I start shadowboxing, my mind slowly fades to the sweat lodge. A land of angels and demons. I pray to the only god I’ve ever known. A god with whom I have a love-hate relationship. Each punch slices the darkness like the slash of a razor blade; cutting down the demons of self-doubt. Jab. Straight right hand. Hook to the body, hook to the head. Sweat rolls off my chin. Like holy water, washing the sins of my father and his father clean with each drop. Sinking deep within their souls and intensifying their emotions, which were exponentially hardened with each hour of hard labor. Ma sits on my right shoulder, caressing the back of my head and whispering into my ear. I stand alone. I have no choice, but to pray aloud, as the shaman pours herb-filled water over the hot rocks of my soul. My heart beats in perfect time with the drum and chanting of foreign spirituals. Caroline’s song of praise becomes clearer and clearer with every breath. She is singing for me. No matter how hard I push family away, alienate myself in a foreign land, surround myself by strangers; she sings for me! The flap of the sweat lodge opens with the announcing of my name, over the intercom.

“Sonny Massino, report to the ring.”

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