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Have you ever had a moment where time seems to slow down? Be it a car accident or the first punch you ever received, maybe even a sexual encounter? That’s how it felt for me while walking into the famous Barbarity Ring.
Earbuds in with my pre-fight hype song, ‘We’re In This Together’ by Nine Inch Nails playing loudly, I walk into the arena. I see but don’t hear the men and women cheering as I pass them by. Slamming my gloved fists together I keep my eyes on the cage even as people reach out and touch my shoulders.
This is me.
This is my fight.
This is my time.
Tonight, I’ll walk away as King of Barbarity.
All of these people are part of the criminal underworld and all of them are either betting against me or for me. None of them know me now, but soon they will.
I feel sorry for the schmucks who bet on my opponent.
I touch the sides of the cage as I step through its threshold, showing respect for the ring. I’m the first one in here so I take advantage of the space to keep my muscles warm. I side jump along the fence throwing jabs to keep my arms loose. To keep my focus, I leave my eyes lowered, running through combinations in my head. The roar of the crowd fuels me, their rumbling vibrations pump me up further.
I keep the music blasting through the earbuds but I feel Gabe tap me on the shoulder, letting me know my opponent is making his way to the ring.
Joseph Tanner is one tough son of a bitch, as are most Irish fighters. They’re bred for this, fighting is in their DNA.
Aye, but I’m a Romano, I was born for this shit.
I’ve seen some of the videos leaked on the dark web and Tanner is a powerful fighter. He’s ruthless as it is but I’ve been told countless times that he gets wild as hell when he sees his challenger’s blood. There are some fighters who go into a frenzy at the sight of blood and I happen to be one of those fighters. With the wound on my eyebrow, I’ll be a bleeder tonight so this should be an interesting fight.
I watch Joseph ‘Irishman’ Tanner as he steps into the ring with the most joyous smile on his bearded face. He walks over to me so I pull out my earbuds.
“Good luck tonight, ya’ bastard.”
I can’t help the laughter that spills from me. I’ve never in my life heard the accent of a true Irish. It’s so fucking fluid and different that his insult sounds more like something friends say to one another.
“Good luck to you,bastardo,” I tell him as we touch gloves.
He laughs loudly as he moves over to his side of the ring but we keep our eyes on each other even as his coach talks to him. Prepping him for the fight by directing him to my possible weaknesses.
He’ll find no weakness but I know he’s spotted my eyebrow. Maybe he thinks it’ll help him, give him an advantage but I’ve spotted his left shoulder which is slighting lower than his right. Looks like the Irishman has had his shoulder dislocated one too many times, it’s worn out and I can almost guarantee any arm hold will pop it out easily.
The ref calls us to the center. “You know the rule guys, no hits below the belt. Touch gloves and let’s fight.”
Once we separate to the fence we wait for the bell.
Life gives us choices and demands that must be met with the same ferocity they’re given with. Make life your bitch or you become its bitch.
There’s no easy recipe for success but our choices are usually simple so when the bell sounds and the Irishman rushes towards me, I smile. I’m always ready to fight and this right here is where I thrive, where my demons dance and sing.
I twist a little taking his powerful kick to my thigh. I’ll have a gnarly bruise there tomorrow. I block his fist and then throw a two punch combination; nailing his jaw and shoulder. I continue throwing combinations at random, similar to how I treat a punching bag.
His grunts are music to my ears but he’s not fighting back. Even when I forced his back to the fence, he continues to block his head from my hits.
Finally I reign in my demons and force my itch for blood to back off. I step back, even as the crowd boos, and watch Tanner eye me from between his raised fists. Again, he won’t find any tells on my face. He won’t see my plan written in my features. I even slow my breathing as much as possible, making him think I’ve exerted little on my attack.
As soon as he pushes off the fence I move; sidestepping and getting behind him. He’s fast too but not fast enough to counter my attack. I wrap my arms around the barrel of a man and roar as I lift him off his feet, bending my back before twisting to slam him down onto the cage floor. Being so close to the cage, his left shoulder hits the fence on the way down. I try to fully mount him but the position is just too off so by the time I get into the position, he throws a hook at me that hits me square in the ribs.
We spend the next minutes grappling and by the time the ref calls the end of the first round my brow is bleeding and the Irishman has a dislocated shoulder.
I walk over to my side of the cage and accept the water Gabe gives me.
Dammit.
