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fight. My coach was pacing the room. I was almost up. Every second started passing by like murals on the walls of a subway. . . . I was excited. I was overjoyed. I slid my red headgear on and started chomping onto my mouth guard. My taped hands were inspected by the overseeing commission and then were slid into the brand-new soft leather gloves that my coach had been stepping on and attempting to crush for the last forty minutes to soften them up. The laces were tied and taped down. If I had to pee before the fight I’d need a friend to help me. I was literally locked in, and the only way out was through.
    This fight was an exhibition match, which meant that there would be no winner and no loser. But I’d know if I had gotten the best of him. I’d know, and that was what mattered.
    My coach brought me up to warm up. I began hitting mitts, starting to break a small sweat. We went through combinations; he reminded me what strikes followed certain attacks the best. My foundation as a counter fighter was already laid. I was ready.
    You see, this fight, the first fight, would be the telling one. Plenty of people come into combat sports with big ideas of how they are going to be the next Rocky Balboa, the next Jean-Claude Van Damme. I’d guess that more than half of the people who ever set foot in a ring or a cage do it once, and never again.
    You see, no one is ever really prepared to get smashed in the face proper by a trained fighter while an audience is watching. Nothing will ever truly prepare you for that. Not street fights, not beatings at home, not even sparring sessions. Nothing compares to the first time you feel completely that the person in front of you truly wants to physically dominate you and has been training specifically to do just that, and that there is a screaming audience just wanting to see you hurt, see you damaged. The opponents who stand in front of you in a ring are driven by an intoxicating mix of fear, competitive desire, and adrenaline. Nothing can prepare you for the first time you get hit in the gut and hear your own breath escape loudly, knowing the other guy heard it. Nothing will prepare you for the first time you end up clinched against another fighter, and you can feel them shaking, their nerves a cacophonous roar, just like yours, demanding reprieve from the damage. The first time a person gets hit in the mouth, they do one of two things. Some recoil in fear and defensiveness, clearly wanting to run the other way. This is completely natural. As human beings we should want to protect ourselves. We should seek safety and move away from danger, not run toward it. Yet some people, some people stand their ground and know when to move forward and when to walk away. These are the folks who have the potential to be glorious fighters. Chris Leben once said, “Strippers and fighters, no one ever does those jobs because they are one hundred percent sane.” In a way he was right. At least about the fighter bit. No normal person wakes up thinking that they can’t wait to get smashed in the face. We are all working something out in there. Every one of us.
    I was not afraid of this fight. I was not afraid of the outcome. I knew what I had come here to do and I had no room inside of me to allow anything other than just that to happen.
    My name was called and I walked. As I pulled the ropes down and stepped into the ring, I looked directly into my opponent’s eyes. A sinewy, wan kid about my age was standing in front of me. His pupils were so fear-dilated that his eyes looked like two wet river stones jammed into his head. He was screwing his face up into a series of grimaces and squints, simultaneously wincing against the light and trying to make me think he was truly something to fear. He was transmitting all kinds of hostility to try to look intimidating, and really he just looked like a plucked, underfed chicken being made to dance for company. Fighters, like dogs, can