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This was something I had written once when asked "What does it feel like to be a fighter?" Since I am (for the most part), retired from actively fighting, I thought I would publish it here. I hope you enjoy the read as you gain a rare look through my eyes inside a fight.
Critics have called it a “blood-sport” and “human cock-fighting”. However, Mixed Martial Arts remains not only a test of skill and endurance, but an essential part of human character-building and quest for the ultimate in physical excellence. The mixture of intense pain and pleasure felt through pushing yourself cannot be duplicated or rationalized, it can only be lived. Further, the emotions and feelings experienced during an MMA fight far exceed any other form of competition I have ever known.
As my fatigued body slumped backwards against the cage wall, the cold rubber-coated fencing only gives slightly against my weight. The cold and clammy steel is a welcome feeling. Every fiber of my body is on fire with exhaustion and the sweat is pouring down my limbs in streams of lava. My trainers try to fan my body and pour ice-cold water over my back. It is no use, I am rapidly overheating. My eyes are burning, no doubt from the sweat that has flowed into them for the last 5 minutes of furious combat. Every ragged breath I take causes my lungs to be scorched in a burning heat. There is no escape from the oppressive heat within this cage. This must be what Hell itself feels like to the damned.
Everything hurts now, my trainer’s voice is a sledgehammer of sound pounding against my ears. I have no idea what he is saying or of his instructions to me. The waves of noise enveloping everything from the crowd in attendance drown out any possibility of comprehending him. I taste an overwhelming sensation of warm copper and salt. As he squirts water into my mouth, I realize that the coppery taste is my own blood streaming from my nose. I exhale sharply, trying desperately to shed some of the heat from my core and a fine crimson mist sprays over my chest. It is then that my skull begins to lodge its own protest. It reminds me that the jaw’s hinge was not designed for traumatic impact and my skull’s dull constant throbbing is doing its absolute best to convince me of this.
I am finished, the exhaustion has overcome me when I see it. Across twenty feet of sweat and blood-stained canvas, my eyes see my opponent. He is slumped against the cage, his trainers are feverishly trying to cool his body down as well. I watch his chest heaving for precious air, he is gasping in a combination of agony, overwhelming heat and fatigue. Our eyes meet and he looks down, refusing to meet my gaze. I know now that he is feeling every single thing that I have, plus one another that I have not experienced…. He is scared. My adversary’s confidence is shaken and we both realize that he cannot defeat me. He has used the hardest and most savage strikes in his arsenal and I still remain standing and unbroken.
The pain, heat and exhaustion are gone now. I may still have them, but I no longer notice them. My adrenaline has taken over, my eyes dilate and my fists clench within their leather-wrapped shells. Without conscious effort, my lips curl into a sneer, a low and primal growl escaped from somewhere deep within my chest. The predator inside my heart has just woken, and he feels none of the physical limits that I had. A savage grin draws over my face and I step forward, no longer leaning on the cold chain-link fencing behind me.
My trainer is still screaming instructions to me and I still do not hear him, but now it is for a different reason. The beast inside of me roars back to life and I know that within the next two minutes, my opponent’s bloodied and battered form will be laying at my feet. This victory is already mine. As the horn sounds to signal the release of the predator, I meet his eyes once more and flash a grin towards him. My God, how I love this! It’s time for the beast to claim his prey. It’s time to show everyone in attendance why I am a fighter.
