Everybody’s Cocky Until They Get Out There

The galleries are full of critics. They play no ball, they fight no fights. They make no mistakes because they attempt nothing. Down in the arena are the doers. They make mistakes because they try many things. The man who makes no mistakes lacks bold.

I was speaking with a guy, who we’ll call Roy, a couple years older than I am in the weight room the other day.  He asked me if I was “scared” to be fighting at 155; the implication being that because I am tall and wirey, I will be dominated by shorter, stronger guys.  By the way, Roy’s about 5′7”, 155 pounds.

On one hand, it’s a good question.  I have trouble with Mike on the ground because of his strength advantage, but my striking benefits greatly from the increased reach.  I’m not sure which I’d prefer; strength or height.  Sean Sherk or Kenny Florian.  Urijah Faber or Corey Hill.

However, the real reason he probably asked, with his eyes kind of squinted and his voice almost mocking, had nothing to do with  the strategic merit of reach versus strength.  He said, “Dude, I’m like 155 pounds.”  The implication was obviously that I obviously wouldn’t be able to beat him, let alone someone like him that actually trained mixed martial arts.

Even what seems to be the most petite ego will grow into a giant pretentious monster once fighting becomes the issue. 

For example:

“You’ve never played basketball, I played for a couple years on my high school team.  This means that I would probably beat you in basketball,” is a very logical statement that would probably be met with indifference.

“You’ve never trained fighting, I’ve been training for a couple years now for a mixed martial arts event.  This means that I would probably beat you in a fight,” is met with, “Fuck you dude, you wanna go right now!?”

It’s the reason people say things like this:

“The fighting is pretty good,” observed Breece, 35, who has been watching UFC for about 12 years. “The crap they do on TV to add drama the shows about who’s saying what thats too much. But this is pretty real here. This is fun.”

Breece, a confessed street-fighter, was mulling participation as he analyzed the action.

“To me, its a common sense knowing the human body and what joints to lock, what its going to take,” he said. “I’m out of shape, but if I could keep up with these guys, I could definitely keep up with any knowledge thats in this ring tonight.

If MMA is going to become respected as a mainstream sport, this crap needs to be corrected.  It has been nearly 15 years since 185 pound Royce Gracie became, for a moment, the best fighter in the world, yet the majority of people still believe that bar fights and big muscles are the most important indicators of a fighter’s skill.  The problem here is ego; until the average untrained male can be convinced that he is almost certainly not a badass fighter, MMA will struggle to gain acceptance.

Yeah, it’s going to be a while.

By the way, I asked Roy if he ever considered stepping into the cage.

“No way man, I don’t like getting hit.”

 Neither do I.

24 Days Until the Cage

Don’t Pussy Out on Me

To do anything in this world worth doing, we must not stand back shivering and thinking of the cold and danger, but jump in and scramble through as well as we can.

I went back to the public health center to get my bloodwork done; they got the job done, but not without a problem.

After receiving a 15 minute lecture on the dangers of HIV (which, again, I do not have), they agreed to draw a bit of blood from me.  I’m not afraid of needles.  I have absolutely no problem with blood, doctors, or even pain.

I have no idea why I passed out.

But I did.  I remember matter-of-factly telling my nurse that I was getting “uh, really dizzy”, and her responding, “Damnit, this is the second time today.”

She called in another nurse, an older man that would have been absolutely hilarious had I been a bit more conscious.  Some gems include, “Don’t pussy out on me,” “We really should start using different needles for each person,” and “You, me, and her (the other nurse) are going to have a threesome, but I get to go first.  I hate going second.”

Goddamned public health center.

But in a week I should for certain that I don’t have HIV or Hepatitis B or C, which is good.

After leaving the health center, I made the logical decision that any person who had just passed out would make: I lifted weights.  I took some Power Drive and got to work.  Surprisingly, I got a pretty good workout in.  Beforehand, I weighed myself at 161 with shoes on.  I’m going to start tightening up my diet a bit more, as I want to walk around at 157 at the most so I’m not cutting a lot of weight, since I have to weigh in the day of the fight.

Unfortunately, some freak waterline malfunction means that there needs to be some work in the wrestling room that Mike and I roll in, so I wasn’t able to work my biggest weakness.  Hopefully it will be corrected today, since I’m on spring break and planned on making the most of my free time.

I still haven’t received the call from the event manager telling me who I’m going to be fighting.  I’d imagine it will be coming pretty soon.

The countdown continues.

25 Days Until the Cage

Goddamned Public Health Center

Today, Mike and I went to the public health center to prove to the state of Michigan that neither of us has HIV or Hepatitis B or C. 

You see, you’re only allowed to be tested of you have a legitmate reason to believe you might test positive.  They don’t like doing work for people who just want to be cleared for a mixed martial arts fight.

Luckily, I was aware of this fact and told the doctor (at least, I think that’s what she was) that I had engaged in unprotected sex with strangers.  She nodded, and I was home free.

Except, not.

“When was the last time you had unprotected sex?”

Now my answer here is crucial; unfortunately, I didn’t realize this fact until after I told her, “I dunno, a couple weeks ago.”

Wrong answer.

“The purpose of mandatory blood testing is to ensure that all fighters are clear of these diseases. The testing won’t show if you contracted the disease in the last 30 days. My recommendation is that you avoid having any unprotected sex for two weeks, then come back here to get tested.”

I tried everything:

“Now that I think about, it was actually about 5 weeks ago.” 

“It was her first time, though.” 

“I don’t have motherfucking AIDS, just give me my piece of paper so I can prove it you stupid cunt.”

But to no avail.  When I met back up with Mike, he had just gotten his blood tested.  I asked him what he said to his doctor.

“I told him I had unprotected sex last week.”

Goddamned public health center.

Of Guitars and Cage Fighting

“Success comes to those who are neither afraid to fail nor discouraged by failures”

My girlfriend gave me an acoustic guitar for Christmas.

I’d never played guitar in my life, had never even particularly wanted to learn the intrument, but it’s what I told her to get me.

It spends most of it’s time sitting upright in the corner of my bedroom.  I’ve had the thing since Christmas, and all I can do is tune it and play the theme to Halloween (albeit poorly). I admit, I haven’t put a lot of effort into learning, but it has got to be one of the most frustrating damn things I’ve ever worked with.  My fingers slip clumsily from chord to chord, my palm presses against the bottom strings if I stop paying attention for an instant, and I look about as awkward as George Bush picking up a baby when I’m holding the thing.  It’s disconcerting to remember that there are some dumbass people that can play the guitar proficiently, and I just can’t make any progress.

I could have receieved an iPod instead, but consciously said, “I think I’d like to have a guitar.”

The reason I said that has a lot in common with the reasn I’m going to be stepping into the cage on March 29th.  You see, I’m pretty naturally talented; I was a three sport athlete in high school, can learn absolutely anything academic quicker than anybody I’ve ever met, earn great grades, and generally don’t ever fail at things that I put effort into.  Throughout my life, I’ve pretty much been the best whenever I’ve chosen to be.

Enter the guitar.  I thought it would fix this problem, but unfortunately, it hasn’t quite gotten the job done.  Yes, it’s humbling, but it just doesn’t bother me as much as I expected.  With the guitar, it’s too easy to say, “Fuck it, I’m going to go [read a book, lift weights, jack off, whatever].”  It lets me escape from my failure to focus on my strengths.

With the cage, I don’t have that luxury.  When the doors shut in the cage, they stay shut until somebody taps or goes unconscious.  Despite my training, I’m fairly confident that I won’t transform myself into Georges St. Pierre within the next month. Because of my comeptitive nature, that bothers the shit out of me.  It eats at me knowing that I might be the underdog here, that someone might be better prepared and able to beat me at something that I’ve dedicated myself to.  Like my fingers mashing against the strings, there is a chance that my strikes will completely miss my opponent, that he will drive his fist straight into my jaw and I’ll wake up 30 seconds later wondering where the hell I am.

And that, folks, is the goal.  Stay hungry.  Stay humble.  Overcome. 

I’m not fighting because I want to lose; I’m fighting because a victory would mean something.

35 Days Until the Cage

Business As Usual

I haven’t been updating as regularly as I’d like, but rest assured, I’m still at it.

My ground game has improved my leaps and bounds over the last couple months.  Two months ago, my gameplan if the fight got to the ground consisted of ”stand the fuck up.”  Now, I’d be comfortable against the average amatuer fighter if I was stuck to the canvas.  You won’t mistake me for Royce Gracie, but at least you won’t confuse me with Tank Abbott.  I pulled an omoplata on Mike the other day. 

A fucking omoplata; two months ago, I couldn’t even keep him in my guard!

My conditioning still has a ways to go, as I’ve been pretty inconsistant with it.  Winter weather always makes it so easy to skip conditioning in the garage, but I’ve got to stop being such a damn pansy about it.  Also, the chain that holds my heavy bag has been removed in favor of my dad pulling cars out of Michigan ditches, so I need to find another way to keep the bag supported.

Also, I’ve still got to get my blood work done…how long does it take to get results back from that, anyways? 

I hope less than a month.

Other than that, it’s business as usual.  Hopefully something noteworthy will actually occur soon so I have something worth saying here.

39 Days Until the Cage

I Should Have Wrestled in High School

I believe what’s important to all those situations is that when it does happen the really good football teams learn from it.”

Yesterday was going great; I was grappling with Mike, catching him with submissions, defending myself against his, and even being able to regain guard after he passed it.  I was pretty excited about my progress.

Enter Joe.

Joe graduated high school with me, and now he’s coaching youth and middle school wrestlers.  He only weighs 145 pounds, and has the scrawny-yet-athletic body that could only belong to a wrestler or marathon runner.

Mike was too tired to keep going (he had been working out longer than me), so he suggested I roll around with Joe.  I thought, “It should be great to roll with somebody with very limited ju-jitsu experience and no strength advantage on me.”

I was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

Now I would beat Joe in an MMA fight, no question.  But with no striking involved, the kid worked me.  I mean, destroyed me.  He’d wait for me to make a move (takedowns are definitely not my strongest point), then grab me, throw me off balance, and send me to the mat.  I wish I could explain what was happening, but I was just lost. All I can tell you is that there was always some type of pressure on the top of my head, his forehead or chin would be driving into my face, and suddenly he was behind me.

If my life was a movie, this is where you’d insert the montage of my face being repeatedly smashed into the mat.  The worst part was that, for a while, I couldn’t even get him in my guard.  He was so fresh and energetic that he was spinning around and driving his body all over the place and my fatigued mind couldn’t even figure out what the hell was happening.  Joe caught me in some of the most humiliating submissions imaginable; at one point, he had me cradled and was cranking my neck as he choked me - with his chin.  I’m just glad that there were no witnesses to verify how much I was embarassed.

I did eventually catch on to him a bit, and I finally started submitting him after about 15 minutes of being tossed around like a rag doll.  Still, all the arm bars and head triangles in the world couldn’t erase the humiliation.  My arms and face are covered in mat burn, and my neck feels like I was hit by a car last night.

Fuck basketball.  I should have wrestled in high school.

46 Days Until the Cage

Nerves

“I get nervous when I don’t get nervous. If I’m nervous I know I’m going to have a good show.”

Is it strange that I’m not nervous for the fight yet?  I mean, in less than 2 months, I will be standing shirtless in a large cage in front of a thousand people, fighting a stranger.  I should be nervous, or scared, or something.  I’ve always operated best when I’m anxious about what’s to come, and it kind of bothers me that I don’t have much emotion about my upcoming fight.  

But maybe it’s a good thing.  Fedor never seems to be worried about this bouts, and look how this works for him.  Nervousness can also cause mistakes, and if I can walk into the cage without many jitters, perhaps I’ll fight more effectively and mistake-free.

But none of this probably matters.  A week out, I’m sure I’ll be nervous as hell whether I want to be or not.

52 DAYS UNTIL THE CAGE

The Cat’s Out

“There were lots of doubters, lots of people saying it was too risky. I had to sell some people on it. … In my opinion it was a no-risk situation.”

I guess it was inevitable.  Mike told somebody, who told somebody else, who told somebody else, who told my brother than I was going to be fighting in an MMA event.

The reactions were pretty much how I expected: my 16-year-old brother said he was going to go so he can “see [me] get [my] ass beat,” my mom looked me in the eyes and swore to me that I would not do it, and my dad was too wasted to give a shit.

This is a personal persuit, and I really planned on keeping it from my family.  This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.

Guess I’m going to have to win now.

56 DAYS UNTIL THE CAGE