A Fighter's Heart: One Man's Journey Through the World of Fighting (12 page)

It tortured me, watching everyone else train and knowing I couldn’t. I could feel myself slipping out of tip-top shape (which I was never really in), wondering if I was too old and slow and weak.

Pat tried to take me in hand those last days, working fundamentals such as footwork, but we were both frustrated by my injury. It’s a fact of life, and these guys fought hurt all the time. When you train this hard, there will always be something.

Tony and I went to the sauna, trying to cut a little water weight. I weighed in at 194 (having just downed a lot of water) and Tony kept referring to me as being “a little portly.” We put Vicks VapoRub on our chests and poured water laced with eucalyptus oil on the hot rocks.

Just eight days until the fight, and I woke up at three forty-five and couldn’t fall back asleep. My mind was twisted up like a pretzel. All I could think about was dashing elbows in my opponent’s face, scoring hits, putting together combinations, knockouts.

Another day, Brandon came down to hit mitts with me. In a kind of boxing workout, Brandon held focus mitts and I chased him around punching them, a strict hands-only workout but about all my ribs would allow.

With four days left I decided to fight, despite the rib. I was depressed and yelling at inaminate objects in my apartment again. But I fell back on those immortal words at the base of all good decision making:
Fuck it.

I ate just one real meal a day. I had been running and my cardio was pretty good (I actually ran the Hill ten times), but I hadn’t been able to roll with anyone for weeks. I was going to have to stay off the ground above all things. I sat on the edge of my bed and thought for a long time while I watched the cars across the river shimmering like droplets in an IV tube.

I couldn’t have walked away anymore—I would never have felt right about it, partly because I’d worked too hard. I was going to learn what it’s like to fight hurt. That’s something everyone should know.

All I had left was to make weight.

On my last workout day, I went in and hit mitts with Pat, something invaluable, as his close personal attention was extremely helpful. Pat’s style was the short, strong man’s game—slip and hard shots on the inside. He had about fifteen fighters he was training and a gym he was starting up, so he was busy as hell. (And he was going to Hawaii to corner for Tony. Matt Lindland had beat Pat when Pat tried to move up in weight; there was history there.)

I even “sparred” that night, worked on my offense with Rory Markham while he worked on his defense. He didn’t throw anything at me; I chased him around for three rounds. I felt pretty good, able to find angles, which is what Pat had me working on.

I had thrown some kicks the day before, and when I woke, my rib was twitching but felt okay, and I’d done nearly everything I could do. I’d run the Hill, trained hard, I had taken my licks—
So I’m going to go out there and do my best,
I thought.
If he’s good, or he takes me down, I lose. If he’s just decent, I have a chance.

I weighed myself that morning and I came in at 186, which was wonderful, and I could relax. My legs were still a little sore, and I just wanted them to be fresh, so coming in at 186 with two days left was a godsend.

I did some hand fighting that night and I felt good, not great. My sprawl wasn’t instantaneous like it should have been, because of my ribs, but it was as good as possible.

Tony and I went to the sauna and cranked it up to ten and made our medicinal steam. It descended on my shoulders, scorching my ears, burning my nostrils if I breathed through my nose.

That Thursday, at five a.m., the day before the fight, I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went over to the gym as it opened and checked my weight. I was starving. I carefully pulled off my clothes and weighed in at 188.
Fuck.

The weigh-in was going to be the same night as the fight, so I would need to be walking around at close to the right weight. Professional fighters have the weigh-in the day before, so they can dehydrate and “cut” the six or seven pounds of water that all athletes carry, weigh in, and still have twenty-four hours or more to put the fluids back in. I didn’t have that option, I was weighing in just a few hours before the fight.

I got my “sauna suit,” a cheap, disposable track suit made of trash bag–type material, and put my sweatshirt on over it and went back to the gym. I rode the bike for about ten minutes, sweating heavily, and then I went into the fight room and blasted my music and shadowboxed for three rounds, feeling a little bit like Rocky. Then I skipped rope for three rounds. I didn’t really want to be working like that the day before a fight, but I had to know if I could make weight.

I showered and went and weighed in at 184 and laughed with relief. I had a dream in which my opponent kicked me in the nuts and broke my cup. I dreamt of tearing my ribs to shreds and still trying to fight, with my left arm pasted low to my body, shielding them.

The next day, I drove the five hours down to Cincinnati with Ben Lowy, a freelance photographer
Men’s Journal
had hired, and watched him eat Subway sandwiches. I was never a high school wrestler, and I’d never had to “make weight” before, so I wasn’t that experienced with my own body. I didn’t know for sure how much I would have to sweat off before I weighed in. That night, at the hotel, I shadowboxed for another three rounds in the sauna suit and felt pretty crisp, although my legs were hot again.

Basically, I made a trade-off. I gave away being totally rested and fresh for what I hoped would be a decisive advantage in reach. I’m six foot three, so anybody I fight at 185 will almost certainly be shorter than me. I was going to jab, stay outside, and throw punches in bunches. I had no ground game, so I was counting on my stand-up to carry me.

I planned on weighing in at five p.m. and then eating (PowerBars and stuff like that) and rehydrating until the fights started, at around eight. At that point I felt like maybe it was a mistake to fight at 185, but I had told Monte Cox, the promoter, that that was what I wanted to fight at, so I was going to show up weighing 185. I wasn’t going to “cheat” and come in over and just say, “Whoops, sorry, you still gotta fight me.”

The day of the fight, Friday, I sat around the hotel all day, after a light breakfast of cereal and some fruit, and I didn’t drink any water at all. I watched TV, husbanding my resources. Around three-thirty, I got in the sauna suit and went down and rode the hotel exercise bike for ten minutes, then sat in my bathroom with the hot shower on for fifteen minutes, and then showered and went to weigh in. If I was over, I’d be pretty close, and I could make it by skipping rope for fifteen minutes at the weigh-in, I figured. I still hadn’t had anything to drink all that day. I felt a little funny but more or less rested.

Ben and I drove through Springdale and found Tori’s Station and went to weigh in. Come back at six, they told me. It was a big pink venue that sometimes had concerts and sometimes had weddings, seats for maybe two hundred people. Nothing fancy, but there was a big white mesh cage, which was exciting just to see.

We came back at six, and Monte told me that the weigh-in doesn’t matter. “If you’re anywhere from 185 to 190, you should be okay,” he said.
Thanks a lot for telling me now, Monte,
I thought, and weighed in with clothes on at 185 pounds. So I was probably down around 183.

My corners, Brandon and Ryan, were driving down that day from Iowa and were still on the road; they got there as we were helping Josh, also from our gym, get ready to fight. Josh, a muscular, broad guy who was maybe five foot nine, was blond and blue-eyed and originally from Zimbabwe. He was fighting a black guy. “Probably Monte’s idea of a joke,” Josh said lightly, “to have the white African fight the African American.” Josh was also fighting at 185, and I had rolled with him quite a bit. He was really strong on the ground. He was strong, period, but his stand-up wasn’t great. Josh had been very, very nervous, although he had gotten better since a few days ago. Now that his fight was here (his first), he was remarkably calm.

Josh was taken down in the first round, but he maintained his poise and never took much punishment. In the second round, he mounted and was raining down punches, and they stopped the fight. He came out with a big smile and said, “That’s a different kind of rush.” It felt inevitable, Miletich guys are winners.

Brandon taped me up, and I Vaselined my eyebrows, nose, and inside my nose, all to help avoid cuts. Mouth guard, cup, fight shorts, wrapped hands, and the fingerless MMA gloves. I was ready to go.

I started warming up and felt good, loose and crisp, my punches felt sharp, and then I threw the left hook and it barely twinged my rib at all. I was going to be fine. My legs still were a little hot, and I knew they weren’t fresh like they should be, but that would be okay. I was going to tower over this guy anyway. Josh had fought at the same weight, and the guy he fought was about five-six.

I shadowboxed hard, hit pads a tiny bit, and then, as we were close, just paced, shaking my arms slightly. I felt good. I was mentally ready to beat the shit out of someone. Brandon did an excellent job as a corner; he realized that my mental state was strong and left me alone.

Then we were nearly there. I saw my opponent backstage, and I thought,
Man, he looks big for 185.
I wasn’t going to have any real reach on him—he was probably six-one or six-two. Oh, well. Nothing to be done now but go out there and see what happens.

I paced around, just kept moving, and again took stock. I wasn’t 100 percent fresh, as I had been dehydrated all day, but I was good. I’d been drinking water since six and was finally pissing again. The “Why am I doing this?” thoughts had come and gone. This is what we do.

Over the P.A. system they announce the next fight: “Weighing in at two hundred and five pounds…” and I don’t hear the rest. Wait a minute, this can’t be my fight—someone must have given me the wrong fight order. But then I hear the end of the announcement, “…his opponent from Amherst, Massachusetts, Sam Sheridan, one hundred and eighty-five pounds.” I could scarcely believe my ears. Two hundred and five!

Are you shitting me?

I first think of all those lovely meals I’d skipped the last two weeks, all those nights going to bed on a protein shake with my stomach rumbling.
Man, I could have eaten like a king these last two weeks and been fine.
I am giving up twenty pounds.

My mind flashes back to Thailand, and I think,
They’ve done it to me again. The promoters have fucked me again.
I can see Brandon’s angry face, and he is arguing with the promoter, but I’ll fight anybody right now.

Then I am up in the cage and aware of my opponent. He is a little bit shorter than me and not bulging with muscles, which is something. He isn’t overly nervous, though; he’s calm and ready to go, watching me back without animosity.

The ref, Rich Franklin, a fighter I recognize from the UFC, checks me out, asks me if I have a cup on, and then it’s time to go. I come out and offer my opponent an outstretched glove and he blinks, and we touch gloves (to show respect) and it’s on.

The first exchange is clear; we trade hard jabs and I think I hit him a little harder than he hits me. And then it’s into the swirling maelstrom.

I pursue him around and take plenty of hard shots to the head for my troubles, but they don’t hurt at all. Here’s the secret: It’s fun. You don’t feel any pain, adrenaline takes care of that—you’re just getting into it. I am having a blast, but I am also eating punches.

I hit him, he catches me. We go into a clinch a couple of times and I land a few knees and so does he, but I barely feel his knees. When my knees go into his soft stomach, I think,
Go down, go down!
—like the guy I fought in Thailand had gone down.

This guy is tough, though. I rock him with a hook and blast a kick into his side and he actually goes down, and I step forward to try to finish but he’s back up, and I realize two things: He’s tougher than I want him to be, and I am running out of gas already, in the first round. In just three minutes.

As the round ends, I know I am bleeding from the nose. I walk over to the corner and Brandon is talking to me, but it doesn’t really matter; I am breathing too hard, I am already “gassed.” He offers me some water, but I can’t take it. I bend down to listen to him and he tells me to punch my way in, and I’m not crisp enough, my legs are gone and I’m already in survival mode—and the only way I know to survive is to attack.

The round starts back up, and I go after him again. He catches me with a few good shots, and I am staggered this time. I go backward and manage to get him in a clinch, but I lose my mouth guard. He’s rocking me, though I never feel like I’m in danger of getting knocked out.

I am trying still to get through to him. I can hear my own grunts as I throw knees in the clinch, and they sound as if they are coming from someone else.

Then the ref stops the fight to look at me, and the EMT comes out, and I can hear them conversing right in front of me like I’m not there. I feel nothing. If they let the fight go, I’ll keep fighting. If they stop it, I’ll stop. I know I’m bleeding a lot, there is blood on my chest.

“His pupils are different sizes,” says the EMT, and that makes the decision for the ref. He waves the fight over. I can hear them announcing my name and that I am a journalist as I leave the cage, and it’s embarrassing: He’s not really a fighter, but look, he tried.

I was dully furious about the weight difference, though not about the fight. The fight was fun. The other guy deserved to win. I had fought stupidly and not dodged or slipped a single punch as I had been training to. Instead, I’d come straight at him, whether from anger or frustration I don’t know. I think I have a fatal flaw; when I get hit, I just want to hit back, without rhyme or reason.