things are a lot different once you're in there.

as i said, my biggest fear was that technique would fall apart and i'd gas in a minute, and technique did go out the window to some degree. the timing and rhythm of everything felt so much different than they do sparring, and my first thought once the fight started was "hey this guy is actually trying to hurt me !" without an ounce of that ironic humour the young people nowadays like so much.

but i should start more at the start. or at the beginning of relevance at least.

it was lying on the table getting oiled up when the fear really set in.

"don't be scared homie don't be scared homie don't be scared homie" i tried mantraing at myself but even nick diaz wisdom wasn't cutting it.

i'd gotten my hands taped a half hour earlier, and sat with fede and chris distractedly watching as carlos handily dismantled his opponent. i'd felt keyed up and excited at that point.

but this fucking oil-down, christ. it burned my flesh wherever they put it, and they put it everywhere. it felt like wearing a suit made of bee stings. i had thought wolf was joking when he mentioned they gave him a little flick on the balls with it, but i remembered that wolf was no comedian just as i got the bad news. "who thought this was a good idea and why." i wondered aloud, and was greeted with a number of "WOT"s from around the table. even the studio audience understood the gravity of the situation, though, and let the fact of my fiery balls pass with only a brief outburst of laughter and hooting. gloves are tied onto my taped hands.

oh fuck, the taping. i have a half-inch thick wad of hard athletic tape on the end of each fist, locked on in a cast of gauze and more tape.

"shadowbox shadowbox," oron urged as i slid off the table. okay, i think, shadowboxing. which one is shadowboxing again. it eventually comes to me and i slide around on my oiled feet, trying to keep my balance as i throw jabs at nothing. my quads feel like they're cramping
to useless; i flex them and stretch them but they're just locked tight.

what the FUCK am i DOING alarms go off in my head. all the mental defenses i've set up in case of this eventuality:

-stay calm !
-you traveled across the world specifically for this.
-you just need to touch this guy to hurt him.
-once you get hit and are aware of the fight you'll be fine.
-YOU LOVE FIGHTING.

do nothing.

i panic a little and consider outright desertion. i've got money in my bag; there's taxis right outside. just bail man. just get out of here. no problem. walk out the door. anyone tries to stop you, BAM. right in the mouth. the contradiction of how i wouldn't think twice about popping someone in the chops for trying to stop me from running away from a fight is what saves me. i tell myself the dude i'm fighting is the only guy who's really trying to stop me from leaving tonight, so i just need to pop him one, right in the ol kisser, because this guy, i mean, what a dick, you know ?

the fight before mine is a couple of thais. dee comes to tell me it's time to go to the ring as their fight nears its time limit. as i walk down the stairs to the ring, it's not bad enough that my feet are coated in oil and my sandals don't really fit anyway. now my legs are in open revolt; my quads quiver and my calves tremble like i'm getting electrocuted. i try to hold the hand-railing, knowing full well that if i don't there's a solid chance that i'm going to go tumbling down these stairs. oh hi boxing glove, i greet the forgotten hand-encombrance, i see we're doing this the hard way.

i get to the bottom of the stairs without incident (beyond hilarious granny-driving-a-car lack of speed) somehow. i sit in a chair in my cape waiting to fight. i struggle to breathe; trying to do breathing exercises fails because i feel like i'm going to pass out every time i hold air in for even a second. i settle for just breathing as deeply and as slowly as possible.

people talk to me. it's all confusing; i don't understand what any of them say even though they're talking english. i smile and say "right." "sure." "oh yeah ?" at the times it feels appropriate to say those things. i'm encouraged that i'm able to do this right now because it means that all the years of practice have ingrained the ability and made it easy to perform while under mental strain. please fists, do the same, i say to them.

the fight ends. one thai has won a decision, the other has lost. i squishily walk to the ring, calves and quads laughing and demanding to know if this is some sort of joke. the burning of my flesh has subsided somewhat, but the skin is also curious to know if i'm kidding here.

i guess i'm not because i get into the ring.

well i mean, that's not fair.

i AM joking in a lot of ways. or at least i'm in on the joke.

this is fucking ridiculous and anyone who says otherwise is just fooling themself. i'm a man in a foreign country and i'm going to fight some guy for strange, probably comical reasons. i've never even met him for god's sake. of COURSE i'm joking.

i'm just serious as well.

i walk around the ring, stop at the corners, tell myself to fight smart but hard and to stay calm. the ref calls us to the middle, grabs both of our cups and shakes them in the traditional referee's greeting, and starts the contest.

"hey this guy is actually trying to hurt me !" i realize, as he stomps a front kick at me. the fight is fast both because of my mental state and the fact that this guy's goal is to leave me unconscious. it takes me a minute or two to get the timing and rhythm right at this speed; every time i attack him he dives into a clinch with me. after this happens a few times i'm able to time him coming in with a hook that staggers him, then drive home a knee that finishes the night.

"go over, go over," oron reminds me as he raises my hand to the crowd.

for the last month, every time i've gotten in the ring or out of the ring, oron has had me do the ol' "fall over the top rope" gag that he does after his fights. the trainers LOVE this for some reason, and laugh with hearty guffaws at its proper performance. oh yeah, only when you perform it properly-- i'll tell you something which may be surprising to you, perhaps you are unaware of slapstick comedy ? i don't know the answer to that question, so i'll just assume it's "yes i am unaware," so i'll tell you that there is a technique to this fall, just like there is a technique to anything done well. if you don't commit to it you just leave the audience cold, thinking, "who does this guy think he is, wasting my time here with his amateur-hour novelty shit." but if you dive too hard on it then you spill out into the crowd, which when you're covered in sweat and burning oil and the general grime of battle, is unacceptable apparently. plus how embarrassing and unforgivable would it be to get injured not actually in a fight, but being a fucking jerkoff directly afterward ?

"woah dude you broke your leg ? was that in your fight ??"
"uhhh... not exactly..."

so for the last month i've dedicated myself to learning this art, and i think when it comes down to it, last night, that fall is the only thing i performed with excellent technique until much later when, after getting celebration wasted, danced the night away.