"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.
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| 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.
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| 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:
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| 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:
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| 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:”
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| 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.
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.
