Pain Don't Hurt (5 page)

I chose Mo Smith. After flipping through phone books and calling various people, I finally got ahold of him. I will never forget the first time I got him on the phone. I explained that I was really looking forward to getting some better training. How I was wanting to pursue kickboxing more and more, and how I would love to work with him. This is the cool, casual fighter way of saying, “
Please train me.
” Mo was smooth and calm as he invited me to come out, train, and see how it went. I knew then that I was coming for what was essentially an audition; no one said that, but that's what it was. A few months later I packed my bags and flew to Seattle to begin training with him. On the plane I listened to Everlast, an L.A.-based rapper who had just had open-heart surgery to correct a defective valve, so I felt somehow connected to him. I tried to convince myself that I was going to be fine. In truth, I had not been this nervous for as long as I could remember. I had never known what it felt like to yearn for approval from another fighter. I was walking into an established pack, and I was going to have to prove myself. There was no way for me to be a big fish in the pond I was leaping into. Hell, I wasn't even going to be a medium-size fish. I was a fucking minnow compared to the barracuda that swam there. But I would be in my element; sink or swim, this was it. Risk nothing, and gain nothing. I was risking it all. I leaned back and tried to sleep, feeling every cord that had tethered me to the ground in Pittsburgh fall away as I pointed myself toward the setting sun.

chapter five

It is hard to get up to do road work when you are sleeping on silk sheets.

—
MARVELOUS MARVIN HAGLER

T
raining sessions in Seattle went as follows: Up at eight
A.M.
for
breakfast; first strength and conditioning training from roughly nine thirty
A.M
. to eleven
A.M
. Quick snack and a change of clothes before driving over to the Bellevue Aquatic Center. Swimming training from just after noon until two
P.M
. (Maurice was big on swimming. I am certain to this day that it is a huge component of why he is one of the only combat athletes I know who never required a knee surgery, shoulder surgery, nothing.) Drive back, shower, meal, and rest. Then at four thirty, small snack, change into training gear, and kickboxing training at Maurice's gym from five thirty until whenever he saw fit. This could mean finishing up at seven
P.M
., or it could mean nine
P.M
. If we had a good training session and were finished at seven, sometimes we would shower, change, and go out for a meal together, or maybe to a movie. If it was a rough night and we got finished closer to nine, we would usually end up going home, showering, and passing out, oftentimes on the couch, or even in the shower itself. Nights like that, the only motivation to actually get yourself in and out of the shower quickly was the promise of food before sleep. The desires and creature comforts of a professional fighter are simple when locked in a solid training schedule. No booze, no excess, just training, food, and sleep. You find joy in whatever particular meal you are going to get to savor. You look forward to little things like silly TV shows or downtime to read. You glorify cheat meals. Brief forays into the “normal world” feel odd. You start sympathizing with dogs on leashes. Everything out there seems so tantalizing and amazing, but it isn't within your reach, it isn't anything you can even taste, not without sacrificing the goal. My existence was fueled by green tea, steel-cut oats, baked chicken, sweet potatoes, broccoli, spinach, whitefish, brown rice, a multitude of testing strips to keep my glucose levels balanced, gallons of water, and the occasional doughnut or bag of popcorn for when I decided to fall off the routine. I saw more of Maurice and my training partners than I did any significant other I had ever had, including my then-wife. The greatest excitement I experienced was hearing Maurice say, “Not bad,” in regard to a technique we were practicing, which came very, very rarely, and making fun of whatever new brightly colored, obnoxious Speedo he had chosen to wear to swimming training that day.

“You're already black, Mo, do your really have to wear that?” I said to him one day. “That little piece of cloth is just fighting to keep everything in place. I mean, it is
fighting
.”

The other fighters laughed; a few patted me on the back, saying things like “Now, that is the truth!” Mo stood on the side of the pool, sporting some multicolored slingshot of a bathing suit. He was totally disinterested in our giggles; instead, he put on that “So what?” face of his and spoke so calmly you almost couldn't hear him over the sound of the water slapping against the tile.

“First of all, Mark, I'm not black, I am brown. If we were to go to the paint store, you would not find a color that matched my skin that was called black. Black would be the color of the street, or licorice, or some shoe leather. My color would be brown. It would be called milk chocolate, or rich mahogany, or something like that. Not black. And second of all, I wear this suit because it reduces drag in the water, unlike those floppy ridiculous shorts so many of you are wearing. Have you ever seen an Olympic swimmer wear board shorts in the pool? No you have not. And last, I am sorry that not all of you are as gifted as I am, in or out of the water. I know I'm pretty, but don't hate me because I'm beautiful.”

With that, we all died laughing. Mo won. He always won. Sometimes over meals he would take an opposing position to an opinion being clearly presented at the table by someone. He didn't do it to be a dick; he did it because he genuinely liked to hear the defense of the person speaking so strongly. Mo was impressed with conviction, and he wanted to coax it out of people. He didn't like milquetoast people and he didn't like to hear people waffling on subjects. He wanted to get you to claim one side or another on an issue and then he wanted you to stick by it so hard that he wouldn't be able to shake you off. Simply put, Mo liked competition, and that didn't mean he loved winning; he almost loved finding an opposition that refused to bend. He respected that. The few times he would get under another fighter's skin so much that they would criticize him for being argumentative, Mo would lean back and say simply, “I don't argue. I debate.” It should really be his patented catchphrase, as anyone who has ever worked with him for any length of time has heard him say it at least once . . . or ten times.

Mo drove a black Porsche. He was always dressed well, was well groomed, and walked with a marked swagger. I wanted to learn everything from him. My father had always sported high-end accessories and driven nice cars, but my father was led around by an air of violent braggadocio. He didn't draw people to him, he drove them away. Mo held a crowd wherever he went. His charisma and intellect allowed him to attract others to him while cleverly filtering out who he wanted to actually get to know and who he would keep at a safe and respectable but friendly distance. Not unlike Mel Blount and some of the other football players I had so admired in my youth, Mo walked with a strength that said he knew himself. And we got along. Amazingly well. A few months into my training with Mo, he sat me down to “have a talk.” Mo was very big on discussions of all types, and he would frequently pass by me during training to say, “Oh, hey, I want to speak to you later about things.” It always scared the shit out of me, as I had been so conditioned to hear these words as a warning that meant “You're about to get your ass kicked.” But with Mo the subject matter could be anything from his asking me if I had heard about a new training technique and wondering what I thought of it to whatever was on the news that week. This particular time it bore the aura of being more serious than previous talks, so I felt decidedly more ill at ease than usual when sitting down with him.

Mo was still fighting, which meant he was actively pursuing fights, which can make for not being the best coach. While Mo had to invest a large percentage of his time in himself in getting ready for different fights, I can honestly and without embellishment say that even when he was still focused on himself, he was the best coach I have ever had. His time spent focusing on himself didn't seem to detract from the quality of attention that he afforded us when he was available in the slightest. He had also begun pursuing something called “no holds barred” fighting, or “MMA,” which stands for “mixed martial arts.” There was an organization that had been around for a few years called UFC, short for Ultimate Fighting Championship, and Mo was going to be fighting for them. The style was different in that not only would he have to stay polished in his kickboxing, but the rules also included wrestling and potential stoppages from submissions and “taps” to submissions (a move where an opponent gets caught in a submission, meaning a joint lock or choke, and opts to tap on the body of the aggressing fighter, indicating they have had enough, rather than have their joint broken or be choked unconscious) as well as knockouts. Since MMA was beginning to get a little more attention stateside, while kickboxing seemed to be restricted to mostly overseas, Mo wanted to know if I wanted to stay with kickboxing or venture into MMA. I told him that for now I wanted to stay with kickboxing. Then he offered to try to get me fights in the organization known as K-1. My heart unfurled and fluttered.

K-1 at that time was
the
organization for kickboxing. All the greats were there. Names that would make their mark on the kickboxing world so deeply they would become synonymous with kickboxing itself. Andy Hug, Peter Aerts, Ernesto Hoost—I mean
all
the greats. And Mo had been fighting in it for a few years. He began reaching out to them.

The offer came through not long after that for me to fight Masaaki Miyamoto in Japan. I agreed, but my size became an issue for them. I was walking around at two hundred fifteen pounds, and at six feet four, I was not a thick heavyweight. But Miyamoto was smaller, and the Japanese balked at the size difference. Also, I was 10–0 as a pro going into this fight, which made me a risk. The Japanese liked to try to build records for their fighters by pitting them against Americans, assuming that we were the worst of the worst in kickboxing, and while they didn't stand much of a chance against the Europeans, they felt we were their stepping-stones to beef up their records. I was the wrong fucking American for them, because at that time, seven of my ten wins were by knockout. My right hand has always been a cannon. The fight was pulled off the table real quick once they did their research. The next offer came through. It was to fight Tommy “the Rhino” Glanville in Las Vegas. Tommy was another American. He was a decent fighter, with a decent record, and Tommy was
huge
: six feet two and around two hundred fifty pounds plus. A cock diesel hulk of a man with a bleached-blond flattop and a jaw so square he looked like a cartoon. I accepted.

I prepared for the fight split between Seattle and Pittsburgh as Mo was getting ready for his own fights and therefore wasn't always around. When it came time for the fight, I flew out to Las Vegas and arrived at the Bellagio. I was brought in on a Tuesday; the fight wasn't until Saturday. Leading up to the fight I had several press conferences to attend, photo shoots to do, and weigh-ins the day before. K-1 treated me like a fucking king. I had never been treated so well by an organization. Upon my arrival I was given a series of VIP passes for my meals, which was entirely generous. We were also invited to charge whatever we might need to the room. I holed up, watched TV or worked out in the hotel gym, and tried to lie low for the most part. When I wasn't needed, I kept to myself. This was my first taste of K-1 hospitality, and I didn't want to blow it. I passed Tommy a few times in the hotel. I was polite, as was he, albeit somewhat dismissive, which I expected.

When the actual day came, I felt like a lightning rod. The grueling weeks of training all faded into a pleasant wallpaper when “game day” came around. This was the shit I longed for. I walked out and stood in the center of that wide ring in the Bellagio hotel in front of a nearly packed house, Tommy's imposing form across from me, sneering. I knew this look, and much to my chagrin a phrase my father used to say came to mind: “Too much fooling comes to crying.” Meaning, while you're busy over there mean-mugging, I'm busy over here thinking about how I'm going to smash you. And so, it begins. . . .

First bell. I'm out of the corner and I rush him. I throw a series of short, compact punches and crowd him, trying to grab ahold of his head. I want to knee him, smash his nose up, crush into his liver, start breaking him down. Tommy is very good at interrupting me, I learn. He turns my body and shakes me off. I continue to crowd him, but my size is ineffective compared to his. He keeps interrupting me, keeps wrecking my game plan with blocking. I start feeling the anger boiling up. Mo always said to me, “You can't fight with emotion; emotional fighters are weak and vulnerable,” but I would be lying if I said I never fought emotional. I always took a piece of that unfinished rage in there with me. With my punches finding no purchase, that rage began crawling out of my pores and enveloping me like a cloak. End of round one. I walked back to my corner furious.

“What the fuck is he even doing? He's fucking jamming me up.” I'm standing in the corner, ignoring the stool, and my corner is trying to tell me that Tommy, the fucking Rhino, has won the first round. I do not want to hear this shit. “He's hitting you, Mark, he's scoring on you. You gotta play off of him, counter what he throws.”
Where the fuck is Mo? I need Mo.

The bell sounded and I came out, grinding my mouth guard between my teeth angrily. More of the same. Suddenly, in a flash, I saw it. . . . Tommy was bullying
me
. Tommy was driving me back. The ghosts surrounding me dragged me forward on a wave of violence. Don't (jab) bully (cross) me (hook) you (cross) fuck (
cross
). My last right-hand snapped Tommy's head to the side, and he crumpled to the floor like a wilted daisy. The ref ran in for the count, and I returned to my corner hopeful. The calm exterior hid a cheering section inside of me that was screaming right now. . . .
Don't get up, don't get up, stay down
. . . . The ref was counting higher and higher. . . . Suddenly, at nine, Tommy was starting to rise. His legs were rubbery and as soon as the ref said, “Fight,” I rushed in. There was blood in the water; time for the frenzy. No sooner did I close the distance than the second bell sounded. Tommy, still dazed, toddled into his corner, and I returned to mine, crestfallen.

“
I had him. I had him.
He was fucking down.” I was angry. My corner was desperately trying to bring me back to the now so I could finish the fight, but I was bound up in thirty seconds ago, reflecting on how close he came to not getting up.

Third round, bell sounded. I came into the center of the ring. We both started throwing. This round was a barn burner. Tommy had been hurt last round but had time to gather himself and recover. So now he was dangerous and pissed off. I was just pissed off. We threw an unrestrained arpeggio of strikes. My shoulders were aching, and there was fire inside my lungs. Final bell, and we went to the corners. I was so stuck in the second round that I barely heard the announcer say that I had lost a unanimous decision. My first loss as a professional fighter. My first dent. I was so furious with myself.