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

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.
    â€œMark, 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