It’s not like he has anyone else come see him fight. It’s all yours.” He squeezed my hand before bouncing away. He was a real live wire.
His words gripped my heart like a vice. I was honored to be in Ford’s corner.
I sat for what seemed like hours. Music streamed in from the surrounding speakers. I wondered what was going on behind the scenes, but was also relieved to be out of chaos central.
Ring girls strutted around in revealing bikinis. There were a couple of small matches that took place before the room was even half-full. It was cool to be so close to the excitement, but I couldn’t concentrate while thinking about Ford. I had no idea until seeing the big screen that he was on the main card.
Finally, the lights faded, leaving a single spotlight in the center of the arena. A hush fell over the crowd and the music silenced, but only for a moment. “Last Resort” by Papa Roach blared. The spotlight panned across the room. Applause sounded as the announcer introduced the first fighter.
Kip Harding from Bossier City. He was a light heavyweight contender with a 7-4 record. He jogged down the ramp pumping his fists high in the air. He was a big man covered in tattoos. His head was shaved around the sides, allowing for a small ponytail off the top. He sneered and messed with the crowd on his way down. Once he was in the cage, he jumped around and hollered at the audience. I thought I heard a few boos, but overall I was impressed.
It was my first experience with MMA fighting, and I would never tell him, but I was concerned for Ford.
As I was observing the competition. The entire room fell dark. Everything silenced. Confused, my pulse quickened. The anticipation was agonizing. With the room still pitch black, the first few whispers of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” by Drowning Pool filled the arena. The spotlight landed on a breathtaking Ford. My heart stalled in my chest and I felt as if I had just been sucker punched in the gut.
“And now, introducing our current Light Heavyweight champion, here to defend his title, with a record of 11-0, Foooorrrd, the Pitbull, Herveauuuux.”
The crowd erupted and jumped to their feet. The tenacious audience was contagious and I did the same. I was so close to him. I saw him making his way down the ramp. As he drew closer, any worry I might have had after seeing Harding dissipated.
Ford’s chin was down. His steel blue eyes, glaring forward. His sculpted arms remained at his sides, but he clenched his fists. In fact, every inch of him was tight, his veins bulging. He sported a small pair of black shorts that looked to have sponsor logos on them.
The term pitbull seemed fitting. Gentle and kind at heart, but not someone you want to be on the business side of his wrath.
He passed by without a wavering glance in my direction. His gaze was hard as stone. His eyes wild, yet focused. He didn’t run or jog. He stalked his way to the cage. I had no idea how it was possible to be so disengaged from the crowd, yet still totally engaged. It was mesmerizing. Surreal and the audience was eating it up.
Ford stomped into the cage like a storm rolling in off the Gulf. Fierce, yet eerily calm. He didn’t yell or dance around. It gave me chills the way he locked eyes on the now obviously nervous Kip Harding, who was trying to show off for the crowd.
I would not want to be the one in the path of Hurricane Ford right now.
The announcer went on to cover what I guessed to be the usual details. “You can touch gloves now if you wish.” Harding put up his hands only to have Ford turn his back and prowl back to his side of the cage.
Before I knew it, both men charged at one another. Harding got in a good hook kick, but Ford recovered and retaliated with a tag to Harding’s left ear. They both worked jabs and combinations. Ford must have grown tired of the dancing around because as soon as there was an opening, he planted his foot right in the center of Harding’s chest, sending
His words gripped my heart like a vice. I was honored to be in Ford’s corner.
I sat for what seemed like hours. Music streamed in from the surrounding speakers. I wondered what was going on behind the scenes, but was also relieved to be out of chaos central.
Ring girls strutted around in revealing bikinis. There were a couple of small matches that took place before the room was even half-full. It was cool to be so close to the excitement, but I couldn’t concentrate while thinking about Ford. I had no idea until seeing the big screen that he was on the main card.
Finally, the lights faded, leaving a single spotlight in the center of the arena. A hush fell over the crowd and the music silenced, but only for a moment. “Last Resort” by Papa Roach blared. The spotlight panned across the room. Applause sounded as the announcer introduced the first fighter.
Kip Harding from Bossier City. He was a light heavyweight contender with a 7-4 record. He jogged down the ramp pumping his fists high in the air. He was a big man covered in tattoos. His head was shaved around the sides, allowing for a small ponytail off the top. He sneered and messed with the crowd on his way down. Once he was in the cage, he jumped around and hollered at the audience. I thought I heard a few boos, but overall I was impressed.
It was my first experience with MMA fighting, and I would never tell him, but I was concerned for Ford.
As I was observing the competition. The entire room fell dark. Everything silenced. Confused, my pulse quickened. The anticipation was agonizing. With the room still pitch black, the first few whispers of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” by Drowning Pool filled the arena. The spotlight landed on a breathtaking Ford. My heart stalled in my chest and I felt as if I had just been sucker punched in the gut.
“And now, introducing our current Light Heavyweight champion, here to defend his title, with a record of 11-0, Foooorrrd, the Pitbull, Herveauuuux.”
The crowd erupted and jumped to their feet. The tenacious audience was contagious and I did the same. I was so close to him. I saw him making his way down the ramp. As he drew closer, any worry I might have had after seeing Harding dissipated.
Ford’s chin was down. His steel blue eyes, glaring forward. His sculpted arms remained at his sides, but he clenched his fists. In fact, every inch of him was tight, his veins bulging. He sported a small pair of black shorts that looked to have sponsor logos on them.
The term pitbull seemed fitting. Gentle and kind at heart, but not someone you want to be on the business side of his wrath.
He passed by without a wavering glance in my direction. His gaze was hard as stone. His eyes wild, yet focused. He didn’t run or jog. He stalked his way to the cage. I had no idea how it was possible to be so disengaged from the crowd, yet still totally engaged. It was mesmerizing. Surreal and the audience was eating it up.
Ford stomped into the cage like a storm rolling in off the Gulf. Fierce, yet eerily calm. He didn’t yell or dance around. It gave me chills the way he locked eyes on the now obviously nervous Kip Harding, who was trying to show off for the crowd.
I would not want to be the one in the path of Hurricane Ford right now.
The announcer went on to cover what I guessed to be the usual details. “You can touch gloves now if you wish.” Harding put up his hands only to have Ford turn his back and prowl back to his side of the cage.
Before I knew it, both men charged at one another. Harding got in a good hook kick, but Ford recovered and retaliated with a tag to Harding’s left ear. They both worked jabs and combinations. Ford must have grown tired of the dancing around because as soon as there was an opening, he planted his foot right in the center of Harding’s chest, sending
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