When I was nineteen, I had a legitimate shot at being an athlete. Instead of playing football (like I should have) I wound up going into the ring. In my fourth fight, I knocked my opponent down and was heading back to my corner. Before I could get there, he had gotten up, gone airborne, and thrust the blade of his foot into the rear of my left knee, shattering it instantly.
This was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, and I think most of San Francisco heard me scream. I screamed so loud that I couldn’t even hear the ref counting me out.
Through the pain, I was mad as hell. There was no way this guy was gonna take a cheap shot and claim the purse. I should probably say these fights weren’t exactly sanctioned…
My trainer (a very good friend I maintain sporadic contact with today) is ready to call the fight, I have other ideas. He bandages my leg, which is unable to support any weight, and although I’m still willing to continue, I’m all but unable to come out of the corner.
So the cheap-shot-taking mofo blitzes me and keeps me on the ropes, first doing everything he can to tag my leg, and then resorting to whatever it takes. I’m able to knock him away, and as he falls back, I leap from the ropes, flip backwards towards him, and bring the instep of my right foot crashing down onto his shoulder. He’s out cold, but I go down too. I’m able to get back up.
I spent about three years completely rehabilitating myself, but the injury torpedoed any pro career I might’ve wanted.
So fast forward about half a decade. By chance, I wind up in Newark, New Jersey. When I say by chance, I really mean I fell asleep on the bus and missed my stop. If you haven’t been to Newark, rent a Charles Bronson film and save yourself the trip.
I wind up falling in (as usual) with the crowd that knows where everything is, and a fight is set up with this nineteen-year-old kid who has never lost.
The kid is a Bruce Lee-wannabe; lightning fast; all speed, and the battle cry was perfect, but not a lick of power. And cocky; damn, the kid could run off at the mouth. He made me look humble and I wanted to hit him just to shut him up.
He could take a beating, too. It didn’t matter how hard I hit him, he just kept getting up. I eventually became bored and hit him so hard that I nearly lost my balance. He may have tagged me a million times but his lack of power means he’s more annoying than anything else.
I start hitting this kid with everything I have in sequences and he just keeps getting up. The act is getting old.
I just want the money. To hell with everything else.
I knock him away with a side kick, knowing that he was going to get up. As he recovers, I leap into the air and thrust the blade of my right foot on the outside of his knee as he begins to get up. I felt the bone break beneath the impact.
He screamed. He cried. He pounded the ground. He cried for his mother. He clutched his knee. He would’ve torn it off to make the pain stop. I know this.
I watch this, and I can’t help but remember when someone inflicted a similar injury on me. I remember being told that I would never walk straight again and how long it took to prove them wrong. I keep telling myself that it wasn’t a cheap shot. I wonder why that isn’t making me feel any better.
Everyone was quiet, and looking to me as though I was some kind of monster. I was.
I told the kid I wasn’t going to hurt him. I don’t know if he heard me, but I know what the look in his eyes meant when he turned to me.
I picked him up—he didn’t weigh much—and I asked for directions to the nearest hospital. It was too far to walk, so I hailed a cab. Back then, they didn’t ask questions.
Once he was in proper care, I left.
I always expected that kid to come back for me someday. So far, he hasn’t.
Posted by mmdev 
Posted by mmdev 
Posted by mmdev 
