The Housekeeper: Love, Death, and Prizefighting

by Josh Samman

  I left the funeral on a mission. I had to do something, anything. I was out of money, my mom was in shambles, and I could feel myself going back into a bad place. My leg still bothered me, but I didn’t know how much longer I could wait. I had to get a fight.

  Gary told me to find a card that I wanted to fight on. I was hoping the UFC would come back to Florida, and I started looking at the schedule on the website, pressing the refresh button incessantly, waiting for new announcements.

  Finally, one of those times I pressed the button, and I saw it.

  December 6th, 2014.

  Isabel’s birthday.

  The room got cold, and goosebumps covered my body.

  Location: TBA.

  I called my manager. I called Joe Silva. I called Dana White. I called anyone and everyone that I thought would listen. Within days, I got a call back, and an opponent.

  I’d be going up against TUF season 19 champion Eddie Gordon. He was one of the goliaths from the season I’d accompanied Palomino to tryout in, on that stupid fucking trip to Indianapolis. Eddie had ended up winning the whole thing.

  The fight was scheduled for what would have been Isabel’s 24th birthday, in the location I’d last fought, where she’d curled her hair, and whispered in my ear how proud she was. Mandalay Bay Event Center. Montauk. Fate had a funny way of coming around.

  I spent the last few days that I could with my mom in Tallahassee and said my final goodbyes to the rest of those around town. Wyatt and I brought a lawn mower to Sue’s house and cut her grass. I told her about the fight on Isabel’s birthday. She cried, and hugged me, and told me that she knew that Isabel would be with me that day, that it would be a good day.

  She told me to make sure that I believed, pointing to her tattoo she’d gotten to match Isabel’s. She told me she loved me, to train hard, and to “sleep with the angels.”

  It would be the last time I’d ever see Sue Monroe.

  99.

  Sue Monroe died at 59 years old, slipping away in her sleep exactly 13 months after her daughter died. Some of her health problems were self-inflicted. Many she couldn’t help.

  I’d been back in Miami only a couple weeks. After practice one morning, I picked up my phone to see a single missed call from Landon. Just as when Grandma had called Wyatt, I knew that something was wrong. Landon never just called.

  He texted me as I dialed him back.

  “Mom passed away this morning.”

  I didn’t react. I sat there, staring at the phone. I felt numb. I felt as if the last string had been cut, the final piece of Isabel that I could touch, and grab onto, and love, gone.

  Training camp stopped as I drove back to Tallahassee for another burial, another funeral. There was no grave bought for Sue, and her ashes were buried with her daughter, as Jeff’s had been preemptively buried with his wife.

  Once more I was asked to speak, this time not by family, or by choice, but by Pastor Fran, of the Monroe’s church. It was the same that Isabel’s funeral was in, the same chapel that Dallas and Sue walked down the aisle in. I wondered how any of them still went there.

  No one but Landon and Wyatt saw Pastor Fran ask me to speak. I wished it had been more people making that decision. I wished he’d have run it by others before asking me. Passivity was high in the family, and there was no patriarch, no one to make those decisions. I wasn’t sure of my place, but I wasn’t sure of a lot of things, and I said yes, as he’d figured I’d might.

  I spoke on what I learned from Sue, about the value of parenthood. I think we all have paths to greatness. Some paths may be through art, or creativity, or civil duties, but some paths of greatness are through one’s children, by creating people who change the world. Any of the ways Isabel moved me, or her brothers for their lovers, or their children and so on, could all be traced back to Sue and Dallas Monroe. Just as Isabel had a hand in anything I ended up contributing to the world, the same could be said for Sue, and that, to me, was her greatness. If the people we create are a person’s measure of success, then Sue was the most prosperous I’d ever met.

  There’s no way to describe speaking at three funerals in a year. I wondered if Isabel dying and Sue dying were even separate instances, or just one with a 13-month shelf life. I felt responsible for Isabel, and it made me feel responsible for Sue too, and how she died. I wondered if I’d been the wind to blow over the dominoes, the catalyst for the demise of a family.

  One of Isabel’s aunts had lived with Sue, and asked me to come by. She’d watched me sit with Sue as she went through her daughter’s things, and now she wanted me to do the same for her. There were notes Sue had written about me, about seeing her daughter in love. She had the same potency for words that she’d passed on to Isabel. She still had all of Isabel’s journals too. We sometimes couldn’t decipher which of them had written what.

  At her house was also the amulet of Isabel’s hair I’d made for Sue the previous year. Landon asked me to retrieve it for him. I was happy for him to have it.

  My reality had become a series of tragedies that I wasn’t sure was ever going to stop. Nothing seemed out of the realm of possibility anymore. Every conversation I had with friends and family became a potential last. I didn’t know who was going to get picked off next, who else would fall victim to something I’d done.

  I spent much of the camp in Tallahassee. Joey created a makeshift training area in the attic of Gold’s to accommodate us, and we trained every morning. It was just he and I, like the old days. The routine of a past life brought comfort. War brought peace in a way I’d never experienced. It was unlike any other fight I’d had, in that I never grew tired of the question that had irked me for years.

  When’s the next fight?

  The fight was on December 6th, and I was reminded of its gravity each time someone asked. Purpose. Purpose. Purpose. I had it in spades for months.

  Training for Eddie was easy, mentally. He had children, a family, and title of The Ultimate Fighter tournament champion. He represented everything I wanted in life and didn’t have. The fight was a platform to elevate Isabel, and the things our families had went through. To win became my only focus. Every time I trained, I trained for all of us. Accomplishment made struggle more meaningful. Success was never more delectable than in the wake of collapse.

  Physically, it was anything but easy. It was the most painful training camp I’d ever gone through. During each massage a therapist kneaded at my incision point where my ass met my hamstring, grinding out scar tissue from the surgery with every session.

  It hurt my leg to wrestle. It hurt to grapple. It hurt to run, and to lift heavy. I skipped those things, and half the other movements I was accustomed to practicing. I made damn sure to not get injured. Being ill prepared and making it to the fight was better in my mind than not showing up at all. Anything besides another injury. So I hit mits. I lifted light. And I trained my left high kick.

  I drilled it over and over again. We repped it hundreds of times a day. It was the only thing that didn’t hurt, it seemed. I wondered if I had nerve damage. I didn’t care. Every day I woke up, looked at her initials on my ribs, and practiced my head kick. It spoke to me as if I had no other choice.

  I added to her initials, a Phoenix bird to honor my mother, and to symbolize my return to the cage. My tattoos became a way for me to wear the pain of my journey, to not forget the places I came from. It was my way to bring the things I valued most with me, as I tried to catapult into another life, one where my best days were not behind me.

  I donned the fight name Anqa, an Arab firebird, to strengthen the notion of rebirth. To be reborn, I had to win. I had to do something with the stage I’d set. I romanticized about battering Eddie with my left leg, the same one that had crippled me, the one that had stolen my opportunity last time I’d tried to turn things around. Time after time in my dreams I saw my shin land on his jaw, and him crumpling to the ground.

  I would soon be in Las Vegas, to see if my vision would become reality.
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  100.

  “There is love in me the likes of which you've never seen. There is rage in me the likes of which should never escape. If I am not satisfied in the one, I will indulge the other.”

  -Mary Shelley

  And so here I am.

  612 days.

  That’s how long it’s been since I’ve last seen the inside of the Octagon. I’ve reached my threshold of all the death I can take, and it is now do or die myself. I'm half asleep, wondering to myself whether I'm in the exact locker room as before, or a next door replica. The familiarity helps. It comforts me knowing the last time I made this walk in the Mandalay Bay Arena, I returned victorious.

  I’ve been in plenty of cages since the one on April 13th, 2013, but none so consequential. I’ve wrestled in my mind with far larger monsters than the one I’ll face tonight, just none so public. The locker room is eerily quiet. An occasional smack of a kick on a pad interrupts my pre-fight nap.

  Eyes open, go time. As soon as I wake, movement begins. Movement relieves tension, and as long as my body is in motion, my mind is at peace.

  "Slow down," my coaches say. "We’ve got plenty of time." They don’t know how I feel. No one could.

  I start to think of them one by one, the people I draw courage from. I begin with those that are no longer here to watch. I suspend my disbelief in afterlives, convincing myself that the three of them are looking down on me, surrounding and enveloping me, guiding my every movement. They’ve been on my mind every second of every training session for the last year, and I feel their presence now more than ever.

  I move next to the most important people that I know with certainty are watching, the folks who’ve seen me at my worst. I think of my mother and Isabel’s family in Tallahassee. I know that it’s not enough to have just made it here. I have to do something truly special with the opportunity.

  I think about my corner, the men in the room with me. I think about how exhilarating and frightening it is to be mere feet away from one of your best friends in a fist fight, not being able to do anything but yell from the outside. I think of how all of us will be celebrating wildly in a few minutes; if only I can just find that off button on my opponent. They all have one. I know I’ll find his. It may take some digging, but I’ll find it.

  Lastly, I think about all the random folks along the way. All the coaches, the training partners, the fans, people I know, people I don't. They’ve all been a part of my experience, part of this journey.

  I use all these people and I paint a picture in my mind that fills me with such determination and moxie that I know no matter what happens, the one thing I can rely on with overwhelming conviction, is that I won't be broken. Not in there. I may win, I may lose, but I will bare all from start to finish, never having to explain to a single person as to why I gave up. There will not be any letdowns on this day. Today is meant for celebration.

  I step out of my locker room and look to my left to see my opponent and his coaches already waiting. I’m set to walk first, led by a production team of cameramen and UFC employees in black t-shirts, logo emblazoned on the front. Hyper focus begins, minor details become apparent and abundant. I’m stopped at the curtain, able to see only a fraction of the thousands awaiting my entrance. I’m afforded one last moment of self-reflection before the show really begins.

  My lover’s got humor..

  I hear the opening lyrics of my walkout music blasting through the arena, and everything changes. I’m overcome with emotion and scream in anticipation as I sidestep the security guard ushering me in.

  Knows everybody’s disapproval..

  I've walked out to this song a million times before in my head, so many that it feels unreal to be actually doing it in real life. This is the last bit of outcome that I’m 100% sure of, the last thing that I know will happen how it did in my mind, before the bedlam begins.

  I should've worshipped her sooner..

  I reach the end of my walk, and remove my shirt first, then my most prized possession, my piece of her draped around my neck. I place it over the head of Joey, and take solace in the fact that it will be there waiting for me when I return.

  If the heavens ever did speak, she’s the last true mouthpiece..

  I hug my corners, get inspected by the referee, and make the final few steps up the stairs into the cage. I take one last look down at my body, and tattoos, and remind myself what it took for me to get here. I feel the soft give of the canvas underneath my feet. It's been too long.

  I take the center of the cage, my way of claiming my territory from the onset. My coaches are behind me, screaming pre-fight instructions, but their words are drowned out by Eddie’s walkout music. I’m waiting desperately for the moment I can lay my eyes on him.

  Finally, he enters, followed by his coaches. He clenches his jaw and slaps hands with fans as he walks in the arena. He looks mean, and crawls into the cage before circling me as I continue to stand in the center.

  I’m looking for any indication that he’s uncertain of himself, any misstep in his behavior, and I've found one already. He stops 90 degrees short of 360, setting up shop in the neutral corner. I point at his coaches in the red corner, directing him as to where he should be standing. He looks a bit confused, before realizing his mistake. I’m pleased by this. Confusion is good.

  We stand across from each other for what feels like an eternity. Bruce Buffer takes the center of the cage and I can feel my heartbeat in my chest for the first time in the night. I let out one last scream before he begins, and do my best to take it all in.

  "Fighting out of Tallahassee, Florida!" Those words sound so damn sweet.

  I know the ensuing moments will determine how I feel about myself and what people think of me for a long time to come. I take a final look at the face on my banner. The same picture used on Isabel’s funeral program and gravestone is now behind me, standing over my shoulder, watching. Sue was right. She’s with me, as much as she ever will be again. They all are.

  Buffer introduces my opponent, and Eddie looks away. Another misstep on his part and my confidence is further strengthened. Referee Herb Dean asks if I'm ready. I nod, and the bell rings. My fate awaits me.

  Eddie motions to touch gloves. This isn’t a glove touch kind of fight. He knows that. It’s his last and final misstep, and I know now that it’s just a matter of time. I oblige him, and the violence begins.

  A kick, a punch, a takedown attempt, and I finally feel his strength.

  This is not going to be easy.

  An accidental eye poke on his part, an inadvertent knee to the groin on my part. The action is halted. The ref gives him a moment to recover, and I look down at my corners as they urge me to calm down. I try to.

  Another glove touch, more kicks and punches. He throws me on the ground and lands on top. He’s stronger than anyone I’ve ever faced. I try to be active on the ground but he gives me no room to work. I opt instead to hold on for a referee standup. After a couple minutes of inactivity, the referee obliges.

  Kick, kick, kick, another takedown. I’m on my back again. My corner tells me he’s getting tired. Another lull in the action, and it becomes apparent that Eddie is there only to win rounds. He’s content being on top, not doing damage. I’ll keep trading those kicks for these takedowns, as long as he keeps reaching down to catch that body kick.

  The round ends and my corner rushes in the with the stool. They aren’t happy. "Set your kicks up," they plead. I’m staring across the cage, trying to gauge how tired he really is. I look outside the Octagon and find Joe Rogan watching me. His face depicts confusion, eyebrows scrunched low. I stare back at him, and we lock eyes briefly. I pretend for a moment I have telepathy. "I’m still here," I tell him. "I know that last round wasn’t pretty." The referee interrupts my whimsical conversation, and it’s time to fight again.

  The round begins with more kicks and punches. He falls to a leg kick, I follow, and end up on my back again. Smother, smother, attempted sweep, more smothering. He
has his head in the center of my chest, nullifying any movement from bottom. I am losing the fight. The crowd boos, and I feel another referee standup imminent.

  We’re back to our feet again. We reset and his hands are low, his breathing labored. I know it’s time.

  Ding, ding, wop.

  My punches are landing, and he is a step behind now.

  Believe.

  I fake a body kick, the same one I’ve thrown dozens of times in the last few minutes, and change trajectories at the final moment. I feel my shin land with brutal momentum, perfectly nestled in the crevice where his jaw and neck meet.

  I did it.

  He falls below my line of vision, and I know he won’t be getting up. I throw my hands up. The crowd roars. I fall to my knees. It’s everything I thought it would be, and more.

  A high kick for The Housekeeper.

  If I never do another thing, I’ve become the hero, at least one final time. I have no control of my emotions as I circle the cage, uncertain of just what to do next with my life. I find the nearest camera, my imaginary medium to the heavens.

  I love you Isabel. I love you Jeff, I love you Sue.

  My coaches come rushing in, raging with excitement. Joey places my chain back around my neck. Everything is back to happening how I imagined it in my mind. Rogan comes in, microphone in hand.

  "Doubt and uncertainty be damned, never give up,” I tell him, in more words than that. "I love you, mom. I love you, Tallahassee.”

  Eddie is finally up and walking, and I jump out of the cage to apologize to him. The people have gotten what they wanted, more destruction, and Eddie is just a victim of circumstance.

  We make our way back to the physicians that await post-fight combatants. There is a thin curtain separating our camps. A doctor shines his light in my eyes and asks me if anything hurts. Nothing hurts, and everything hurts. I burst into tears. One of my cornermen cries flowingly with me. Cesar chokes up but holds it back. Joey is wearing a huge smile.