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.