Pain Don't Hurt (6 page)

I got back to the locker room and I was bombarded by journalists talking about how the fight was one of the best of the evening, how we really went at it. . . . All I kept thinking about was that second round. And how I wished Mo was there.

That night I lay down convinced that I had to fight Tommy again. I had to avenge this. But first, I wanted to cross the ocean. If I was to fight without Mo in my corner, then I might as well fight far away. I wanted to fight someplace where fights were a part of the people, a part of the culture. I wanted to fight on a soil that knew blood. I wanted to go to the roots of the sport I had been training in.

chapter six

If I tell you I'm good, you would probably think I'm boasting. If I tell you I'm no good, you know I'm lying.

—
BRUCE LEE

I
t was the year 2000. Ihe rain was just beginning to fall on the ring in
Thailand. The first round ended and I crossed to my corner to take my one-minute break. One minute between rounds. One minute to reflect before it was back into the fray. One minute of an uninterrupted barrage of thoughts. The crowd was so loud it blocked out the sound of thunder from above, and the large outdoor stadium of Pattaya, Thailand, reeked of late-evening bloodlust and sweat. The alcohol-soaked attendees were out of their seats, screaming and begging for carnage. I couldn't believe I was fighting in fucking Thailand. The minute I was offered the fight there, I had jumped at the chance. I knew how corrupt the system was, how rigged the fights could be, but I had to take it. Just before the bell had sounded, ending the round, I had landed a right-hand that would have, with a butcher's precision, taken the jaw clean off of any other man. The shot had spun my opponent into the ropes, and the crowd had leapt up screaming for a finish. Before I could close the distance and shut the lights off on him, the steely Samoan had straightened, adjusted his neck, and started to come forward again. Ding ding, round was over. No time for love; back to the corner you go.

The wooden stool went down in front of my cornerman, but I didn't sit. I never sit. Some of my coaches have reprimanded me for that in the past, but I rest when the fight is over. I could feel my right hand through my glove. “Fucking guy, I hit him with everything and he didn't even fall down! Unbelievable!” I laughed to my cornerman as he mopped sweat from my face. Across from me on his stool sat Jason “Psycho” Suttie, a six-feet-even kickboxer who grew up hard in Samoa and fought out of New Zealand. Jason's cornermen were Thai, which put the fight in his favor to begin with, not that it mattered. Jason wasn't much for taking fights to the end; he liked to finish people, and so did I. Jason was covered from his waist down in traditional Samoan warrior tattoos, and from the waist up he was covered in scars from gang fights, from being hit with chains, bottles, knives. Jason was not concerned with my 11–1 record going into this fight. His record was 42–5–1. To be honest my record could have been 400–0 and I don't think Jason would have given a good goddamn. The first round had been ugly. Jason was the kind of fighter other fighters tried to avoid. While his record was not without blemish, he was incredibly technical, fast, and like other Samoan-bred New Zealand kickboxers, violently aggressive. Jason took fights into dark places; he liked to force opponents into the corner and rain punches down, heavy and sharp as ax strokes. His hands were like atlas stones and his speed was uncompromising. He had no give in him. You had to weather the storm against Jason in order to win. It was the only way, if you could handle it, for he would not break and his storm would keep coming.

“I did it! I fucking hit him so hard. What the fuck is he made of?” I was still giggling.

“Use your length, Mark, use your hands. Stay out of the corners, don't let him get you into the corners.” My corner offered quiet suggestions while doing the regular squirt, spit, pat-pat with the ice, rub down the arms, neck. . . . I kept staring at Jason, who was staring directly at me. I had hit him with the right hand and I hadn't even knocked him down. This wasn't disappointment running through my mind. I was marveling. Was it the weight the Thais had forced me to cut before the fight, even though it was a heavyweight fight and I shouldn't have needed to cut any weight? Was it the running in the sweat suit the day before, trying to get off the pounds they had demanded, getting pelted by the hot rain while Thai drivers passed by me yelling, “Hey,
farang,
bus stop is over there. . . . Stop running, take the bus. . . .”? Was it the humidity? . . .
God, why didn't he even fall?
Nobody had ever taken my right full force and stayed standing, not before, and no one has since. Seconds ticked by; I snorted. “Un-fucking-believable.” Jason's wide face and dark eyes, one swelled slightly by glove rub, stared back. I've always been a big-game hunter. Give me some new-kid tomato-can fighter who bleeds when you yell at him, and I'll refuse the fight. I want to know I'm not safe in there. It's the only way that the relief, that joy of surviving, feels real at the end. It's why I love kickboxing, especially at heavyweight. I want to know there is a threat in front of me, and with heavyweights, every punch thrown is a potential lightning bolt to the breaker. Every single one could shut the lights off in the city, if you know what I mean. Staring at Jason was like staring at a grizzly bear while I stood in the corner with a bowie knife. One of us was coming away from this with a big hurt on them. Fuck. Yes. Bring it. I came to fight.

Time ticked, seconds flew, the stool disappeared. “You hear me, Mark?
Use your length!
” my corner shouted as he climbed out. Time in a fight is something you cannot understand unless you've been in one. Minutes spent in a ring are simultaneously the longest and shortest minutes of your life. This fight, more than any other fight I have ever been in since, was that way. It was as though some bastard kid had ahold of the remote control to my life clock and was hitting the slow-mo button and fast-forward intermittently. Tick, tick, out of the corner to the center. Take the center quickly, do not let your opponent cut the ring off and close the distance, forcing you into a corner. Tick, tick, as a counter fighter I don't tend to strike first; wait for the shot, then counter it. Take the morale away from your opponent, make him feel unsure and wary of you as he is punished for every move he makes. Tick, a jab and a cross; I countered, but Jason kept punishing me back. Every shot he landed sent a lightning bolt of adrenaline and elation through me, for I was glad to know I was still standing. Every shot I delivered triggered a roar of applause inside of me. The deep smack of leather colliding with a wide panel of stomach, guts shivering. The thud of shin meeting shin as bone clacks together. Three minutes of solid back-and-forth with no letup. Jason circled to my left, avoiding my power hand, so I knew that while it hadn't brought him down, he had not liked the way that shot felt. It's one thing to get bitten by a venomous snake and live to tell about it; that doesn't mean you're heading for the black market in the morning to buy one for a pet.

The entire second round was akin to running naked through a hailstorm. I like to think that Jason would say the same. The back-and-forth was unrelenting and brutal. From the stands, “Oooaaayyyy,” over and over, as punch after punch was delivered. Sweat and oxygen were sacrificed; the ring was wet with it. My shins were purple; Jason had small bruises dotting his head. Ding ding. Back to the corner.

“Mark, he's getting tired”—squirt water, slosh spit—“he's tired now.” (
No he isn't, dude, look at him, he's over there thinking about dinner later.
) “Mark, you need to capitalize on that, he's wearing down.” Ice bag on the back of the neck, pat pat. “He can't keep up, he's wearing down.” (
He isn't wearing down, this is going the distance, and who the fuck would've thought
that
would happen in this fight?
) “Use that length, and stay out of the corners,
stay out of the corners
.”(
You don't got to tell me twice, man, no part of me wants to be backed into a corner with this big unkillable fucker on top of me. No. Thank. You.
) “Mark, think of your son, fight like he's behind you, fight like he's standing right behind you.” (
That's the violence button right there. Thanks for that.
)

Third round I came out fast. Last round is do-or-die time. You'd be amazed at how much you can do in three minutes if you know that after those three minutes, it
will
end. Dig into your reserves, keep your chin down, and don't . . . back . . . down. I felt like I was out of my body. Nothing hurt; it was just survival. Jason and I collided fast and hard. He grazed his gloves over the top of my head, an attempt at a clinch to pull my head down and slam into my face with knees. I shook him off and shot back. Two minutes. He kept circling, trying to walk me down, but I held my center. Give and take, body shots and leg kicks; tomorrow was going to be one of those “stay in bed” type of days. One minute. Sixty seconds left. That big bear stared at me over his gloves; sweat and hot lights stung my eyes. I started to throw, just throw. Jason met me and threw back. Thirty seconds. Just keep throwing, and don't forget to protect home base. My left hand returned to block my jaw after every single jab I threw, my left shoulder taking shot after shot; he wanted me to fall so bad. Ten seconds. This is it. Swing from the fences. The last seconds are the hardest, for you can see the shore is close, you're almost out. My left shoulder ached from throwing, from blocking. Let your hands fly and what happens happens, just fight. Ding, fucking ding. It was all over.

Fights are always kind of a blur. Like the morning following a drunken evening, you find yourself asking others, “What did I do?” after the fact. During the fight it's all skill and instinct. After, it's adrenaline dump, exhaustion, and back to reality.

I crossed the ring to Jason, clasped his glove between mine, and thanked him. He nodded and said through his thick New Zealand accent, “Ya hit me hard there!” We walked to the center of the ring to hear what the judges would say. I prayed. Closed my eyes and just silently asked whatever, whomever,
Please, please give it to me. Give me the win.
The decision came through. It was unanimous. I had lost.

I can't speak on what a knockout loss feels like, as I've never suffered one. Decision losses are hard enough. The first thing that goes through my head is,
Why the fuck did I just go through that? Why did I go through that entire thing just to lose? What was the point?
Regret, anger, disappointment, self-deprecation. I'd be willing to bet that every fighter directly following a loss has that brief line of questioning go through his or her head that asks,
Why do I do this?

Jason stood with his hands raised. After waving to the crowd, which was now so drunk and loud I wonder if they even remembered who was who (though we look nothing alike), Jason walked over to me, pausing to tear some of the tape from his hands, and said, “Eh, fuck all this, all right, let's go get a beer, yeah?” Yeah.

Back at the hotel we sat in our tracksuits crowding up a large section of the bar. First we just hashed out the fight itself. He complimented me, said I was strong. More than that, he said my will seemed “uncompromising.”

“Man, I hit you with what I had, you know? I never let up on you; most guys don't have the heart for that kind of a fight. You just wouldn't fall down!” Jason shook his head, peppered in bruises, and sipped a lukewarm Thai beer.

“Yeah, well, fuck. I've never had anyone, not anyone that I've hit with my right that stayed upright.” I clinked my bottle feebly against his.

Drunk locals filtered in and out of the bar. Women leaned up against us for a while, then left when we didn't afford them the attention they wanted. There have been plenty of fights where I crowded myself with booze and girls, but oftentimes it's the company of other fighters at that time that means the most, as they understand what it feels like to survive those compressed minutes inside a ring or a cage.

Jason talked about growing up on the streets, defending himself against street gangs who came at him with weapons. He pointed out his scars, explained where they came from. From his birth, the world had whittled him into a fighter, carved into his flesh what he was to be. I didn't share my stories. Stories about your dad being the enemy, taking the harshest beatings in your life starting from when you are young, but always from the same guy, just don't have the same veneer as fending off tons of Samoan street thugs.

At the end of the night, which was more like early morning, I lay on my bed in my hotel room, every bruise, cut, and welt now firmly standing out. As bad as losing is—and it is a
bad
feeling—I got to thinking about the one feeling, win or lose, that followed every fight. The feeling that brought me back to fighting every time. The minute my opponent would fall or the final bell would sound, a feeling of immeasurable relief, as though the clenched fist my heart often felt like had opened up, if only for a moment. It was a feeling that let me know I had come through it and was still standing.

I started to drift off, thinking of a boat. When I was a kid, the town of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, flooded. Johnstown was about thirty miles from where I grew up. I used to play baseball on a field there. The flood was captured all over TV, images of people pushing cars through mud and water that was quickly rising, while houses stood nearby on fire and befuddled firemen watched from dry patches, helpless as the homes burned. I remember seeing two workers in a boat with giant boxes covered with the Red Cross insignia on the sides, paddling toward what looked like a hospital. I asked my father what was in the boxes, and he told me, “It's blood. For people who need more of it.” I remember thinking about what a relief it would be to those people in that drowning hospital to finally get that blood, and how comforting it was to know that even in the middle of a storm, there was someone with a boat coming if you could just grit your teeth through the sticking point and hang on a little bit longer. . . .