Leonardo Serrano makes his entrance like a storm that doesn't belong in this ring. The house lights sharpen on him as music blasts, and he struts down the aisle with every ounce of swagger he can summon.
His arms spread wide, chest puffed, throwing in clumsy little dance steps that parody a showman. At one point he even twists into an awkward shuffle, thrusting his hips, a move that looks less like ringwalk bravado and more like an ugly imitation of a nightclub dancer.
It draws no cheers. Only a smattering of whistles from a few scattered fans, drowned out by a chorus of boos.
"Go back home!"
"Gaijin clown!"
"Arrogant bastard!"
The voices spit from the stands, contempt sharper than the music. But Serrano's swagger doesn't waver. If anything, the jeers seem to fuel him.
The commentators ride over the noise, voices steady for the broadcast.
"There he is, Leonardo Serrano, the rookie sensation, if you can call him that."
