It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
Whenever I mention to somebody that I’m going to be stepping into the cage, I can pretty accurately predict their response. First, they’ll squint one of their eyes and raise the opposite eyebrow. This is followed by a short moment of blank confusion before they tilt their head to look back at me and, finally, give the inevitable response.
“Why?”
And it’s a good question. Why would anybody force themself to step into a cage that they can’t escape without either being unconscious or beating somebody else unconscious? I mean, nobody walks into the cage without getting smacked at least once. People see the pain, they see the blood, and they see the viciousness - but they’re missing the good part.
The fact is, we as a society do everything we can to avoid pain and risk. Aversion to risk is the reason resturaunts feel the need to have your coffee cup remind you that it is hot. It’s the reason protest groups fire up any time a profanity is aired on television. It’s the reason that you can’t punch these guys in the face without being sued for everything you own. We are taught not to risk failure, so millions of Americans are sitting in cubicles at this very moment, filing TPS reports and fearing for their bottom-tier jobs.
Can I get “Fuck That”?
But there is an escape. Ryan Holiday talked about it here. He called it a Fight Club moment. Sometimes, the best thing that can happen to a person is to lose everything and start over. It’s our fear of the unknown that puts us on cruise control down the path of least resistance.
So this is my attempt to escape that. Getting punched in the face sucks. Being choked unconscious in front of 3,000 people sucks. Nobody wants to do it. When people say they enjoy getting hit, they’re being misleading. Nobody likes the way a right cross to the jaw feels. But there’s something spiritual there. Every time a blow crashes down onto your face, it’s like you’re pointing a middle finger toward the world. Some fighters learn to deal with the pain, but the crazy ones, the ones that can smile as an opponent’s shin cracks them in the mouth, they know the truth. They’re standing in a cage, turning themselves into animals and beating the living shit out of each other. It’s an escape from our societal conditioning; while most people spend their lives running from violence, only a fighter will step into a punch and return the blow.
I have no idea what will happen when I finally step in the cage. I’m pretty sure that every fiber in my being will be telling me that I’m doing something stupid. And if I’m not telling myself that, then I’m sure my girlfriend will say it for me. People will tell me that I can’t do it, that it’s pointless, that I could spend my time doing something productive, like work or school assignments or mowing the lawn or whatever else people are supposed to do with their lives.
But when the bell rings and the fight starts, I want feel the adreneline of an inevitable conflict. I want to hear a thousand people screaming as my fist collides with another man. I’m hoping for some truth.
Some enlightenment.
Some pain.
And, even if I can’t explain exactly why I’m fighting, I’ll know when the fight is done. And I’m pretty sure this will be a lesson worth learning.
