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, âYou canât fight with emotion; emotional fighters are weak and vulnerable,â 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.
âWhat the fuck is he even doing? Heâs fucking jamming me up.â Iâm 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. âHeâs hitting you, Mark, heâs scoring on you. You gotta play off of him, counter what he throws.â 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. Donât (jab) bully (cross) me (hook) you (cross) fuck ( cross ). My last right-hand snapped Tommyâs 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. . . . Donât get up, donât 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, âFight,â 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.
â I had him. I had him. He was fucking down.â 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.
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 Iâm good, you would probably think Iâm boasting. If I tell you Iâm no good, you know Iâm lying.
â 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
âWhat the fuck is he even doing? Heâs fucking jamming me up.â Iâm 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. âHeâs hitting you, Mark, heâs scoring on you. You gotta play off of him, counter what he throws.â 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. Donât (jab) bully (cross) me (hook) you (cross) fuck ( cross ). My last right-hand snapped Tommyâs 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. . . . Donât get up, donât 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, âFight,â 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.
â I had him. I had him. He was fucking down.â 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.
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 Iâm good, you would probably think Iâm boasting. If I tell you Iâm no good, you know Iâm lying.
â 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
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