Read Online Pain Don't Hurt by Mark Miller - Free Book Online Page A

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