Light and Shadows

I watched a documentary last night called "Chasing Tyson." It followed the swirling rivalry between Tyson and the man who defeated him, Evander Holyfield; the documentary followed the two boxers as they orbited one another and then examined the collision when it finally happened. I watched the events that were almost as old as me with a fairly clean perspective. I'll admit: I had never seen Tyson box. All I knew was that he has a cameo in Wedding Crashers.  Oh, and that he had bitten off someone's ear. I had a vague memory of my father calling him a nutjob while listened to some radio personality giving their take on the whole thing. What struck me most of all, though, was that I had never, not once, heard the name Evander Holyfield.

Footage of a fight that happened almost twenty years ago had me chewing my nails to the bed, like the ending wasn't written already. I couldn't help but wonder: who was this Holyfield guy? When he spoke in his interviews, he was reserved and polite. A cordial sort of tame. Tyson couldn't decide whether to grin or snarl; he snapped his answers at reporters. He waxed philosophical about light and shadows, saying that Holyfield didn't have his darkness and should be grateful for that.  Holyfield said things like, "I am the champion. I have the belt," like he was trying to make himself believe it. Athleticism and achievement shrunk before celebrity and personality. In terms of what was remembered, the things it had taken to be the only man ever to regain the Heavyweight title four times didn't equal whatever demons drove Tyson to sink his teeth into both ears. If you need proof, just say the two names to anybody on the street and see which they recognize: Holyfield, or Tyson.

I guess it kind of reminded me of the Rousey-Holm fight. Sure, Evander was the better fighter. He proved everyone wrong. But was that enough? Even as a combat sports enthusiast, I'd never even heard of him. This was a guy who'd made the right choices, struggled and fought and beaten the odds. But all that's besides the point. It's Tyson whose name I know, who I see in movies, whose name is connected to the word "boxer" in my brain. Tyson bought Park Place in terms of mental real estate, and Holyfield never even carried the right currency.

 It made me wonder: what do we, collectively, value? What is really important: the fighter, or the entertainer? It also makes me question: what am I actually doing this for: is it fighting that I love, or an invisible whisper, a glorious thread that sews the best stories together. It was newspapers then, and now I see it stitching up the blogs as they feast equally on the achievement of a dream and the descent into failure. As a fighter, it seems like you have a choice: are you a meteor or a kerosene lamp, are you searing white hot for a second or are you stable, dependable, do you operate on an even keel? Do you go off the rails every time fight camp ends, or do your feet stay planted on the ground?

Which is the better choice? I can't make that call. All I know is which name I remember even as the years drag. All I know is what hasn't been erased.

Hot Wings, Vaseline and Fireball Whiskey: A Recap of Kick-Down 121

“I’ve cut weight in much shittier places than this.” I thought to myself as I stared out at the view of the highlands while sitting in the third floor hot-tub Jeff Suskin had been kind enough to let me use to shed the last four pounds off my already svelte, ‘skinny-betch’ frame. It was an easy cut that was made even easier with the company of Tyler ‘Real G’s listen to E-40’ Toner and Eddie ‘God Hates Us All’ Maestas. Tyler kept our minds off the lobster broil we are subjected to by telling us stories from the Ring of Fire days when Tyler was starching everyone and their mothers along with the OG crew from just a few years ago. Both Eddie and I are were on weight within an hour and ready to house some Pedialyte.

After making my way back inside, a voice hits me that I didn't immediately recognize.
"Hey Cabrone! Put that shit away I don't play like that!"

Uncle Jerry's new boxing coach, Machete Ro was voicing his discontent for my appearance in only a towel. I couldn't blame him.

Sean ‘Golden Lotus’ Madden was brave enough to guide us to the promised land that is the Hooters in Aurora for weigh ins. By all accounts, it was a magical evening. Sean’s snapchat game was fire. A troubled soul had given Sean all the ammunition he needed after the stranger decided to approach the scale wearing a shit-stained Everlast boxing robe, knee-high socks that were the same color as my grandpa’s prostate, New Balance tennis shoes and a Spider Man rash guard.  After arriving at exactly 7:15 and getting looks from the waitresses that you never want a woman to acknowledge you with, we were wrapped up and ready to eat by 8:05. Respect to the promotion for getting us out of there in such a timely fashion.

“They will lose because there is fear in their hearts.” Eddie proclaimed in a warrior tribesman sorta way in between mouthfuls of banana. I agreed with his assessment. We were ready for combat. After consuming a couple bowls of Ramen for dinner which induced John Candy levels of sodium inflammation in my ankles, I headed home to try and get some sleep before the big day out.

Because my brain is saddled with a wacky imbalance of dopamine, testosterone and a penchant for compulsive eating, I woke up at six AM on the dot and began pacing around the living room with a jar of peanut butter and a desire to kill. Luckily, my big sister and combat Valkyrie, Ashley Acord was able to come over and bring me back down to a more maintainable disposition.

I meet up with Coach/Maestro Tony ‘White Thunder’ Cummings and we start heading to the venue at 4:15 PM. By now I had settled into myself and the fire for war that I was engulfed by had been subdued, but not extinguished. As we drive past the industrial park of Commerce City, Tony voices his first musing of the evening: “Last week I was in Spain. Cornering some of the best fighters in the world. Oh how the mighty have fallen.”

“Yeah, but does Spain have Coors Light on tap? Didn’t think so.”

“The things I do for you guys...” Tony said with a defeated tone.

We arrive to the venue and make our way to the dressing rooms. Team Easton is represented well. Uncle Jerry, Peter ‘Beard Soldier’ Straub, Sonny ‘Strong Side’ Yohn, Tyler ‘Swag Life’ Toner, the list goes on. Roughly five minutes before we begin getting my hands wrapped Old Man Eisman makes his way through the door.

“Steve-O. Security here sucks. I just walked up here and told everyone I was a coach. Some guy asked me to corner him. What the hell does that even mean?”

Dad made sure his presence was further felt after approaching Sean:

Dad: “Are we in bum fuck Egypt? This place is so god damn far away.”

Sean: “...Hi. I’m Sean.”

Dad: “Yeah I know, dude. I thought we were past this.Do they have Fat Tire here?”

Tony finishes my wraps. My hands feel like they were built to do nothing but throw savage haymakers and pint-sized uppercuts. I am filled with a desire to use them.

The rules meeting finishes up and the show kicks off with the singing of the national anthem. I warm up on the pads with Tony and Sean. Everything I throw feels fluid and crisp.

"Tony, I need a cuff." I motion towards my short shorts. Tony looks at me with ambivalence.

"You want me to...cuff your shorts more?"

I stare at him knowing that he can't say no to anything five minutes before a fight. He obliges with a look of disgust drawn across his face.

"I'm fucking you up for this after we're done here."

I am now ready to be dropped into the warzone. Dad shouts at me from across the room: “Dude I got the best spot in the house. Seriously. Check it out. Seriously, come here”

“We’re walking out in thirty seconds, bro.”

“Yeah plenty of time. Come check out my spot.”

The cage door closes. My feet mesh with the canvas and I feel confident. The bell rings and the last thing I remember thinking is “don’t even let him leave his corner.”

I decided that the best way to open the fight is to huck a right head kick that missed by approximately four feet. Okay, not a great start. Let’s give this another shot. I replant my feet. Several low kicks later and the ref is giving my opponent an ‘8’ count. I look over at Sean and Tony in the corner.

Sean: “Steve! Right head kick! But set it up this time, idiot. Seriously, that shit was sorry.”

Luckily another series of low kicks was all it took to end the fight and I wouldn’t have to embarrass myself once again trying to decapitate anyone.

We make our way back upstairs. Eddie gives me a huge hug. “That is exactly what I needed to see before going out there. Fuck yes.” This night was going to be a success. I could feel it in my bones.

As we waited for Eddie to fight I ran into Amy (Tyler's Ride or Die 4 lyfe). After a couple of drinks (one) I started to feel pretty great about everything.
Amy: "Steve you're literally yelling. I'm right here."
Steve: "Did you know that Beaujo's has a 14 pound pizza and if you and a friend can eat it under two hours they give you a shirt. Are you game?"

By the time Eddie is walking out I’m drunk enough to not think twice about screaming at the top of my lungs for close to ten minutes straight. Eddie engages in a tactical and beautiful display of crisp striking, well timed scrambles and limitless heart to come away with a third round submission victory. He did it. Easton goes 2-0.  I completely lose my shit. My associate Lizard begins to rub her newly shaved head and starts jumping around like some sort of blood-gorked banshee. We are ecstatic. It's times like these where despite all the ups and downs the fight game can throw at a person, the support system that is Easton Training Center will always be there to keep your spirits high, your beer cold and the smiles abundant. Onto to the next one, fight family. OSU.

Please Don't Take Me At Face Value...

...Because My Face Value is Pretty Low

When you are sitting shotgun in your training partner's Prius, pressing gauze into a gaping hole in your face, the logical reaction is to question your life. But you are not logical. You, my friend, are a Bruise Brother, and your spurious internal debates take a different track than civilians' do.

Fights were on the horizon. Maestro Cummings assaulted us with fourteen-or-so mitt rounds and then politely requested that we engage in some furious clinching. Steve, Ashley and I worked in a round-robin style, grabbing for the plum position. Whoever lost dominant position, sat out until the next turn. This went on without incident until I squared up and I tried to throw young Steven through the gym wall in the style of John Cena.

As it turns out, Steve's melon is slightly harder than rocks. He steered hard and the flesh of my sweet, soft Lizard face smacked into his dome with a crack akin to a tree splitting in half.

"Are you okay?" Steven was concerned for my noggin.

"No hurt," I said, still reaching for the clinch. I looked at Tony. Tony looked at me. It was at this moment that blood began to spurt from my face like a small geyser. "Oh," I said. I was a volcanic example of just how clinching should not be done.

Tony ran for his secret stash of cut supplies, because this is a scenario that he is prepared to deal with. When he returned, he surveyed the damage. "Yeah," Tony said, staring into what I could only assume to be my actual brain. "You got insurance?"

The fates took pity on me for once, because my Ghostly training partner leads a double life as a nurse, or as I understand it, some sort of Florence Nightengalian Trauma Ninja. We determined that Ashley could not simply sew my head shut with dental floss, though I was certainly open to the idea, but she could take me to her workplace and have a licensed medical professional reattach my face to my head.

"Come along, Lizard," she said. I followed her out of the gym. "Hold this on your head."  She held out a length of gauze which I accepted gratefully. As we rolled through the mystical landscape of Lafayette, Colorado, I stared out the window and sighed.

 "Look at you," my conscience said. "Look at your choices. You look like you had a chance encounter with the Bath Salts guy."  

"No, I don't," I thought back. "This is my war wound." I prodded the flappy mess beneath the gauze. "I'm a warrior..."  I proceeded to text "war wound selfies" to any and all people who I thought might be vaguely interested and post Instagram photos with the hashtag "#warwoundselfie." What can I say. I am basically a selfie Ronin.

#SELFIERONIN

We arrived at the hospital and I was directed toward the front desk to fill out excessive amounts of paperwork. The woman seated at the computer looked concerned. 

"What happened to you?" She looked at my soft, squishy face. She looked at Ashley, who stood silently beside me. "Blink twice if you need help."  

We were eventually sent back to an examination room. Apparently, Tuesday nights are always poppin' off in Lafayette because the doctors were all swamped. I took this opportunity to call Tina and Brad, because at this moment in my life I lived in their office with all of my belongings in a pile around me and needed them to take care of me like the giant adult baby that I am.  

What happened next is probably best explained with the following series of images, which were taken gleefully by Tina:  

Ashley disapproves of my soft face.

An improvement on my appearance!

Tina tested the stitches with her elbow.

Not dead...yet

  In summation, dear readers, I advise you heartily to protect your faces. My hideous eyebrow has earned me the nickname "Quasimodo" in many circles. I had to give up my apartment and move inton a bell tower. Now, my only friends are gargoyles. The moral of the story: if you let someone cut your eyebrow, your only friends will be gargoyles.

From Tinder to Thai Boxing: How to Balance the Grind with the Shine

It goes without saying that the Lizard and I love training. We like getting right with Jesus by pummeling each other with punches to the bladder. We like doing weird neck exercises that Danny probably learned in prison. We like kicking each other so hard that Tony is forced to yell “Please stop trying to kill each other you’re all going to give me ulcers.”

Having said that, the Lizard and I also enjoy eating pizza, drinking beer, abusing our Snapchat privileges and referring to people who look at us funny as ‘beta males’. With that in mind, here is a (vaguely) comprehensive list of real world situations that Lizard and I commonly find ourselves in when navigating Boulder Colorado in skinny jeans rather than Thai shorts:

Hypothetical #1: Navigating a house party: 
We know like, three people. So when Lizard and I attend an event that a friend of ours invites us to, we tend to flounder. Let me paint a fairly common opening scene for you when arriving to a shindig:

*Lizard and Steve walk through door. Immediately starts searching for keg.*

*Random stranger approaches us. Makes genuine effort to get to know us.*

*Steve moves aggressively towards exit.*

Stranger: “Hey! You’re a woman, right?”

Lizard: “In many ways…”

*Steve notices sloveningly male’s advances on associate. Laughs at his lack of awareness*
*Lizard is cornered and too nice to rebuff the aforementioned stranger’s advances.*

*Lizard begins to feel panicky and hostile at not having any authority in this idiotic interaction.*

Stranger: “So do you like tapas?”

*Lizard’s fuse snaps. Responds in hysterical code red-esque mannerisms.”

Lizard: “NONONONONONONO.”
*Steve decides to step in. Gently informs stranger that his blonde, pixie-cut counterpart could easily kill him with little to no effort.**Stranger leaves with life intact and haunting sense of regret.*

Hypothetical #2: Going to the movies: Lizard and I think all of our ideas are genius. So we always agree. Going to the movies is a cakewalk for us. We swing by Tokyo Joe’s, stuff our jackets with sushi and go see something violent. The only doozy is when the movie ends, Lizard is unable to buffer her actions in the real world from the images she saw on the big shiny screen. The following footage is from us walking out of ‘Sicario’. Viewer discretion is strongly advised:



Hypothetical #3: Dining out in public: 
This area can be a real doozy. Because of how sophisticated our palates are, Liz and I only dine at the finest of establishments like Red Lobster and the Shell gas station off Alameda. We have been known to turn our time at the dinner table to enjoy both food and company into a hyper paranoid state where we only assume Tony has drones flying overhead monitoring every single morsel of nutrition that goes into our mouths. In the past I’ve been known to wrap my triple bacon omelette in leaves just to disguise it as a salad. 

Hypothetical #4: An Altercation With Your Boss: 
We know better than most that in order to succeed in this world, you must be willing to wear many hats. Liz’s approach to neutralizing a pompous superior is slightly different than mine, It is up to you to determine which route you want to take in order to insure success when forced into an interaction with the person that writes your checks.

Hypothetical #5: Dressing for work: 
The Bruise Brothers are models of efficiency. We believe work doesn’t exist without play. And vice versa. We are part time scribblers with a full time appetite for elbow burritos. When leaving the office, it is important to be ready for combat on a moment’s notice. An example of this can be seen below as Liz is rocking the Thai-style pleated bodice complemented by an empired-waisted draped sun top:

Scenario #1: Your boss is a super cool dude/dudette:
Boss: “Hey, Steve. Did you book privates with those three students like I asked you to do last week?
Steve: *Stares motionlessly at boss like a spooked animal* (it is imperative that you say absolutely nothing in this moment).
Boss: “...so no?”
Steve: “You look like you could use some coffee. Would you like me to go get you some coffee?”
Boss: “Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to be any more clear with you. Also, please wear underwear underneath your Thai shorts.” 

Scenario #2: Your boss is incompetent and exists to make your life insufferable
Boss: “Hey, Steve. I need to have a conversation with you about your work attire.”
Steve: “This is my battle armor. What is wrong with my battle armor?”
Boss: “In many ways, one could argue that it is not work appropriate. You are showing quite a bit of thigh…”
Steve: “In many ways, one could argue that my excessive thigh exposure allows me to be more mobile/nimble at a moment’s notice. This is an imperative skill that I hope to maintain/further develop during my employment with this company.”
Boss: “I’m gonna need you to go home and change.”

***

We hope that you, the reader, found this post as enlightening as we did. Join us next week when Lizard breaks down the easiest way to wear a Boudoir cap that both compliments and accentuates the various bruises that inhabits her legs on the daily. Until next time…

from Boulder with love,

the Bruise Brothers

I'm Just Trying to Get Right With Jesus, Brother

           "I'm Just Trying to Get Right With Jesus, Brother,"

          and Other Things that Kansas City Made Us Say

      Lizard, The Detective Sergeant, The Ghost, The Body Snatcher, Korean Krush, and The Closer: when the sun rose on the last Wednesday of September, these six were making their way to the heartland. I don’t know if Kansas City was what John Cougar Mellencamp had in mind when he sang about “the heartland,” but suffice it to say, I feel extremely sorry for the childhoods Jack and Diane must have endured growing up there. Herein lies the true account of the adventure that took Tony’s Army to the barbeque basket of America.

WEDNESDAY, dawn.

            I arose to find my faithful Kat and go forth to acquire coffee before heading to the airport. I sipped an Americano, relishing the taste of a liquid that is not distilled water. 

            Shortly after, I arrived at the Denver International Airport. I was just in time to rendezvous with the Detective Sergeant himself. We sat waiting for the Body Snatcher, Sean MF Madden, to arrive from parking his car. From the amount of time it took, we assumed he was somewhere in the vicinity of Aurora.

WEDNESDAY, later.

            This momentous trio took to the pedestrian bridge and headed for security. One TSA agent making small talk asked Sean, “Where are you all going? Someplace tropical?”

            “We are going to Kansas City,” he said. “She is fighting. Kickboxing.” He pointed at me.

            This would be the beginning of a very strange and personal morning with the friendly TSA agents of the Denver airport, as I proceeded to set off all the alarms in the screening area and had to be escorted to a secret back room where a rotund uniformed lady stuck both hands in my pants and checked the bottoms of my socks for assorted weaponry. I did not intimate that my feet and hands were, in fact, the weapons, because I already felt like I needed to call Detectives Olivia Benson and Elliot Stabler to repair what TSA had broken in me. An exceptionally fun twenty minutes passed, and I was eventually released back into the custody of Tony and Sean. I fed the event to the hangry monster inside my heart.

            At our gate, we encountered Alex “The Closer” Barse, who was bewildered at having sat there waiting for us for so long. Where had we been, she wanted to know? Little did she know.

            “Would you like my crackers, Liz?” Alex asked. LITTLE DID SHE KNOW.

WEDNESDAY, even later.

            A short flight was all that separated us and our superior blood vessels from Kansas City, sea level, and a casino that smelled like bananas and cigarettes.

He is lost to us, now...

 We arrived at the hotel and I promptly stepped in something that seemed like it could only be puke. Priscilla “The Korean Krush” Choi was waiting for us inside. She had only been in Kansas City for five hours and already it had changed her…

            Tony and Sean decided that, after checking into our rooms, we would go scour for something to eat. Priscilla and I, of course, could not really actually eat anything as we had to weigh in the next evening, so the natural choice was to go to Gates’ Barbecue where the menu was displayed on the wall like a Baseball park concession stand. Food was all served on trays from large vats, and an overly friendly hostess demanded, “You doin’ all right, baby?” at frequent intervals.

            I ate some salty chicken with crushing feelings of guilt and Priscilla stared at Tony’s sandwich and fries asking “How is the sauce, Tony? And the fries? Tell me about the fries, Tony.” When the baby-darling hostess noticed that Priscilla had no food, and asked why, Priscilla explained that we were weighing in the next day.

            “That’s messed up,” said the hostess.

WEDNESDAY, even more late.

            Sean held mitts for me in the hotel fitness area, which conveniently featured a 8-foot by 8-foot section of those interlocking floor mats like you give to toddlers to cushion their playing areas. I attempted to knock his hands off at the wrists for about forty-five minutes.

            “No more water after this,” Sean told me. I cried one Navajo tear. Sean wandered off to the casino to "Make Tony that breakfast money," Tony drank his sorrows away, and Alex and I wandered up to PCHOI’s room to see how her weight cut was going.

            We found her in the tub, covered in abolene, with tiny perspiration beads dotting her face.

            “Can I do the hot tub in five minute intervals,” she asked.

            “I don’t think it works that way,” I responded. Of course, I am not a coach and actually have no idea how to cut weight unless Tyler “Thunder Tubbs” Toner is directing my efforts via text message. But who really knows. Alex and I took turns forcibly keeping the Korean Krush in the water, and showing her videos on UFC Fight pass.

            “If Ronda can do it, then anybody can do it, Priscilla,” we would say. Then, “Just one more round of this fight, Priscilla!” Except we were lying.

            “Just wait until you have to do this,” she said.

            “I won’t have to,” I countered, wishing I had hair I could flip like a meaner version of Regina George. After she sweated off the two pounds that Tony had prescribed, we allowed Pchoi to no longer soak in scalding water like a Korean potato.

THURSDAY, dawn.

            I awoke shriveled and gaunt. Alex told me so, and I trust her opinion on the matter of how skeletal I look. In the mirror, I could see an ab;  that snap of giddiness shone through the cottony thirst that had erupted on my tongue.  Back in Colorado, the Ghost had just hopped into her car and set sail across the great Pancake that is middle America. She would arrive later that evening. I rolled out of bed, promptly weighed myself and texted my known associate, Steve Eisman.

Liz: 137 lbs.

Liz: Can I drink coffee?           

Steve: No, hold off until you weigh in.

Liz: FUCK YOU STEVE. 

            Alex and I rose to go to the fitness center. I began to walk on the treadmill while watching a gangly, teenaged Anne Hathaway pretend to be Julie Andrews’ granddaughter. NOBODY BELIEVES YOU, ANNE. I was growing ever more hostile to televisions and other casino-goers. I was still walking on the treadmill, shouting things about how Cristina Yang and the protagonist of the Disney Channel Original Movie Brink should never have stooped to be cast in such tripe. Alex completed her workout and we received an ominous text from Tony and Sean:

            Sean: Come to the car.

            Alex and I ran to the parking lot and the four of us crammed into our sedan.

            “Where are we going,” I asked.

            “A little place I like to call iHop,” Tony said. The next hour included Sean hitting on our waitress and said waitress thinking that Tony’s name was in fact “Old Uncle Ed”. Sean thought he was just posting an adorable snapchat when he uploaded the photo below, but in fact he was creating a state of emergency and angering a tribe of females that stretched from coast to coast. As Sean’s phone exploded, he began shying away from open windows for fear of being sniper-rifled to death. The three of us could only look on aghast. Goodbye, Sean. We hardly knew you.

It's in God's hands now, Sean. 

THUSRDAY, A.iH. (after iHop)

          After the pancake feast I could not take part in, we received some harrowing news. Yes, it appeared that  Priscilla’s opponent had spooked herself into the hospital. But no, seriously, she had gotten a kidney stone and needed medical help. We removed a shriveling PCHOI from the bath for a second time, but all was not lost. The promoter secured another opponent who was willing to accept a bout on 24 hours notice. Basically, she would get up from her desk at work and come to engage one of the most heinous savages I know in a title fight. Alas, PCHOI was disinterested in this.

 Tony was about to call the promoter and tell him never mind, but Alex would not stand for such a thing. The Closer stepped in.       

          “Let me handle this,” she said. “I’m in sales.”            

          And so, I took a nap. As I drifted off, I heard Alex saying something along the lines of, “This is the game, Priscilla. Are you gonna fight, or not?” The Closer pulls zero punches.

 When I awoke, Priscilla had agreed to The Closer’s terms and was going to fight. Meanwhile, the tables had turned as my weight had begun to stick at 136.5 lbs. Sean assured me that I’d make 136, and that I had a leeway-pound of allowance.            

“RONDA DOES NOT USE LEEWAY POUNDS,” I screamed, only at Alex because she was the only one in the room. Yes, Regina George would have to soak.             

          I rubbed abolene on my stomach, arms, and legs while Alex added one entire box of Epsom salts and near-boiling water into our tub, which was about the size of my actual bedroom at home. I submerged myself up to the neck and immediately felt bad for heckling PCHOI. My heart thumped. All around the air had turned hot. My brain cooked inside my skull. “SAVE ME, MOSES,” I cried. But then I realized: Moses could not handle this water. That is why he parted the sea—MOSES WAS A BITCH.          

          I thanked God I was not a pussy like Moses, and endured fifteen more minutes. I emerged from the slop a clean 134.5 lbs.

THURSDAY, later.            

          The weigh ins were being held in Overland Park, Kansas. We drove an hour and at 5:15 or so, finally arrived at a store filled with Dubs and smelling of Armor-all. The start time of 5:30 pm was, of course, only a joke and we spent the next forty minutes lounging in the corner being physically assaulted by an unattended preteen in a Spider-Man hoodie.            

          “Square up, pussy,” Sean whispered at the small miscreant. I had to spend most of my remaining vitality keeping myself appearing somewhat alive on the couch, and so the tiny Spider-Man lived to see another day.            

          After what seemed like seventeen Harry Potter films, other fight camps began to appear and we were summoned to fill out paperwork. PCHOI and I wrote down our nicknames and our fight songs.           

           “Which do you think,” Priscilla asked. “Le Choi, or The Korean Krush?”            

          “THE KOREAN KRUSH,” I screamed. Was there even a decision? “What will your song be?”           

          “Dust in the Wind,” she responded. “You know, because it's Kansas City. And she is going to be dust in my wind.” I nodded, thinking only of Priscilla farting on her opponent.

          What happened from there was a slosh of random weights and health concerns. One first-time fighter’s coach had made a clerical error and he was forced to cut from 195 on Monday to 170, an act recommended by most Physicians for those patients wishing to experience death. This sad sack of flesh relied on Sean to fill out his paperwork/prop up his lifeless body. "Get your own coach," I hissed at the Conor McGregor wannabe. Priscilla weighed in before me, as is her God-given co-main event right. She and her opponent weighed in at 149 and 166 respectively, in a size discrepancy that seemed to be the norm for this promotion. We were unfazed by seventeen measly pounds, though, because all 149 lbs of Priscilla is pure terrorism.

          Speaking of opponents, mine was still somewhere else in Kansas, and so when the promoter called “Liz Jerrerety” into the microphone, I stepped onto the scale alone. Because, you know, weigh-ins are sort of an optional event. I stood in my underpants looking like a feeble, six-pack-abbed labor camp escapee and made a face of near-death. 134 pounds, even. I was practically down to my birth weight!

          “Just hang around for a minute,” the promoter said. “We need to get a face-off picture.” 

          “And I need a pony,” I said, deciding whether or not I could bite him and still fight on the card. I opted to not bite, and our squad left that terrible place with only an Irish goodbye.

THURSDAY, night.

          When we returned from dinner, my ghostly warrior companion, Ashley “Please Don't Stare At Me With Those Dead Eyes” Acord had crossed the Kansan wasteland and awaited our arrival at the casino. She informed me that she had found Jesus on the trip, and showed me this photo:

AND THE LORD SAYETH UNTO HIM,  "WRITE MY NAME ON BILLBOARDS."

Also, because we love Ashley as much as we love most dogs, we let her make a sleeping nest on the floor of our room:

INSERT HEART-EYED EMOJI HERE

FRIDAY, evening.            

          At 5:30, it was time to check in, and so, of course, at 6:30 we were finally allowed inside, where we thought we would be examined by doctors. We were instead greeted by what appeared to be Enthusiast of Medicine students from the local community college.            

          “Um,” I said, “Where do I go?”            

          “Over here,” said one of the certificate-seeking eighteen year olds.

          After a battery of tests, I was handed a pregnancy test. I have come to accept that in the Amateur Fight Game, doping is unacceptable for men, and babies are unacceptable for women. Priscilla looked on as the frowny man handed me the pink package.    

          “Look out, Liz,” she said. “You could be due for a surprise.”

          “You never know," the man said. I don’t think he could tell by looking at me that I was not in fact due for a surprise, ever, unless I was destined for the second Immaculate Conception. “Some of these girls are pissed,” he said. “That one down there just yelled at me. ‘Do you really think this has ever seen a penis?!’ That’s what she said.”           

          “Um,” I said. “Okay.”            

          The next few hours were a hellacious blur, with Tony and Sean leaving to probably drink their dinner, and The Closer talent liasing with the sort of talent one can only be born with. Fighters started warming up and it became apparent that nobody had actually bothered to learn any striking before coming here. Coaches said the following things:

          "Just hit hard, you'll be fine.” 

          “Fuck his face up."

          “Jab, low kick! But don’t break my iPhone, it’s still in my pocket.” 

Tony sat like this for the entire night:

FRIDAY, rules meeting.            

          It was becoming more and more apparent that I was just as much in charge of this promotion as anybody else here was. I was glad Tony was seated because I think he died and came back to life at least 3 times during this meeting. The ref did not bother to disguise the fact that he was making his rules up as he went along, and in fact invited our input many times.            

          "We have one boxing fight on the card tonight,” the ref began, pointing at the boxers. Since this is governed by a kickboxing commission, we need you guys to throw at least one kick in your corner to start the fight."            

          “Help me, God,” Tony whispered.            

          “For the MMA guys, no open-handed strikes. I’m worried about eye pokes.”            

          “What!?” someone in the crowd shouted. “Why?”            

          “Oh,” the ref said, pausing. “Well...I guess you can do it.”

          Priscilla showed no sign of nerves, making comments such as “Lizard is going to eat this munchkin,” and posing like this when Alex requested that she “look like she was about to kill someone:”

If Priscilla looks at you like this, you should probably run.

FRIDAY, later.                 

          We defibrillated Tony, and had our hands wrapped. After a while, Sean began warming me up. My opponent stood about ten feet away. I could see her in her hoodie and sweats. “She is not ready for you, Lizard,” I thought. And so, I proceeded to crack the pads, and bark like a rabid dingo. Appearances, children. It’s all about appearances. The fighters came and went down the hall and into an industrial-looking hellevator, looking normal when they stepped through the double doors and invariably looking pretty fucked up when they exited.

          Down the hall, an official called my name. Someone’s lights had been put out. The time had come.

FRIDAY, even later.         

           The elevator doors parted, and in stepped the squad. Priscilla smacked my legs with her wraps and rubbed my shoulders. I was mumbling to myself: “Today is my day,” I said it in my head, and then aloud, and then I barked and smacked my gloves together, like a seal wearing mittens. I was announced first, because Blue Corner does not follow the accepted protocol of “red corner, champion, blue corner, challenger,” much like they do not believe in mandatory weigh ins or Boxers that do not kick. My brain whirred. She can only beat you if you let her, Lizard. Today is my day, today is my day.

          “All the way from Colorado, Liz “the Lizard” Gerrity!”

          My music began to kind-of play, but not really. They queued an instrumental version. I think it’s because “Don’t Like” by Kanye West and Chief Keef opens up with about seven “niggas,” a “bitch” and “shit” in the first two lines. Or perhaps Kansas City just hadn’t yet gotten its fill of fuckery. We will never know.

          I tried to enter the cage but was stopped by an official who could not understand why Tony wanted Vaseline on my headgear. Sean verbally browbeat him into submission, and after the ref checked me for any hidden shivs or shanks, I entered the cage.

          They announced my opponent’s name. I stood there in that spot, limbs loose, swaying with a song that I wasn’t quite hearing. It’s like standing on a cliff—rooted there in the cigarette stink dark with the crowd’s cheers for some other girl thick all around you. For a second I felt small, like I had never been here before. But then I heard Ashley’s voice just behind me. I can’t remember exactly what she said, it is lost now in the shouts and the god-awful song my opponent chose, but you know what? I have never felt more comforted in my entire life.

          When she stepped inside, the cheers picked up, but I didn’t care. “I’m about to ruin your night,” I whispered. Some serious shit was about to happen. Tony caught my attention from behind the cage.

          “I want you to go out there and fuck this lady up. Do you understand me?”

          I could think of no response more appropriate than “Yes sir.”

FRIDAY, go time.         

           The ref did not motion for us to touch gloves, instead just asking, “You ready?” before waving us on. It took me about ten seconds to somehow remove her headgear from her head. It took the ref a solid minute to replace it, and all the while I stood a foot away, foaming at the mouth, pawing the canvas with my feet.

          From there, a number of things happened, including the Postmaster posting, and Tony shouting “CHOP!” It was all very familiar, but also very not. I fought through the three rounds, relying heavily on my right hand and leg kicks. I was more cautious than I know myself to be, and I am not sure where that came from. I will not recount all three rounds, because there is a video for that, but rather I will say that in life you steamroll towards things, building them up and building them up, but in reality, it was six minutes. The scores were read: 30-27, 30-27, 29-28. I had won the fight on all three cards, but one judge thought that I lost a round. My heart sunk. Even as the referee raised my hand, I wondered when I would get to fight again.

FRIDAY, the wrath of pchoi     

          After we went to climb the outside stairwell back to our hallway outpost, I realized the degree of force with which I had chopped my opponent’s knee. I was seen by the “doctor”. Community college student? Who knows anymore.

          “Are you going to look at her shin,” Sean said. He did not ask, as it was not a question so much as it was a pointed demand.

          “Oh,” the maybe-doctor-maybe-not said. “No, it’s fine. It’s not broken.”

          “How about you look at the shin!” Sean suggested, a bit more viciously. We rolled down the napkin shinguard to discover a golf ball-sized lump of purple-red.

          “DEAR GOD,” I announced.

          “Um,” the person in the doctor costume said, “Ice it?” He departed, and I leapt up to follow the squad back down into the venue. It was time for Priscilla to make Korean Barbeque.

FRIDAY, later.         

          The bell sounded with The Closer and I tucked into front row seats, screaming wildly. Priscilla walked toward her opponent and uncorked.

          I began to wildly scream things such as “JAB CHOP JAB CHOP JAB CHOP,” and/or “KNEE! KNEE!! KNEE!!!!!” Alex sat beside me, manning the Periscope broadcast, also shouting.

          After three rounds of savagery, the pair stood in the center of the cage: 30-27, 30-27, 30-27. Priscilla had batted 100%.

AND SO.

          Dear readers, many things happened, and this post is getting very long. Are you even reading anymore? Suffice it to say, this is a team sport, and our team does not do it for fun. We are not hobbyists. For us, the fighting thing is business. 

     Kansas City bore witness. The rest of America had better Google us.