Fighter's Heart, A

by Sheridan, Sam

  One of the Fight Club guys I hung out with was Brandon Adamson, who fights at 155 (and has a thirty-inch vertical) and was making the transition from amateur to pro. He was in Jens Pulver’s weight class and he usually had black eyes from Jens pounding on him, but he was game as hell.

  Brandon was twenty-three and had a wife and two children and was getting his bachelor’s, as well as working as a security guard at a local hospital. He wanted to teach ADD kids, because he himself had serious problems with ADD in high school and “could have really used the help.” That’s one thing about Iowa: There are a lot of guys younger than me with one or two kids. Brandon moved here from California and then Minnesota, and his desire to fight was just growing stronger, his interest deeper. He was 1–1 as a pro, 6–4 as an amateur, and day care cost him four hundred dollars a week, but somehow he held it all together.

  I asked him why he fights. I ask a lot of people that—and it’s where you start to verge into the territory of what fighters don’t talk about. We’re all here for very different reasons and yet there is something we all have in common, and I’m not sure what that is. For Brandon, it’s not about money. “It’s about clout,” he says, and he keeps hold of that word; there is some deeper significance that I am missing. He goes on a bit, about the rush, and adrenaline junkies, and a love of training, but I can tell he feels he has said it all when he says “clout.” He means respect. F. X. Toole wrote in Rope Burns, which became Million Dollar Baby, that fight fans think it is about being tough, but “the fight game is about getting respect.” For Brandon, respect has not been given—he’s had to take it.

  Sam and I went to the fights in Wisconsin, and I saw Brandon fight an epic battle, with many reversals, but he finally prevailed with a guillotine near the end of the third round. He walked away at the end of the night with a face that looked as if it’d been hit with a baseball bat and a trophy that was larger than himself. His face and eyes were swollen and cut like a side of meat, blood and tissue exposed everywhere.

  Watching the crowd react and surge to its feet, I can see that this isn’t just a fight; it’s a celebration of courage. The crowd lives vicariously through the fighters and loves even the losers as “honorable warriors.” The crowd has some kind of cathartic experience through the ordeal of the fighters.

  This particular crowd is so knowledgeable, they cheer before I can even see what’s happening, as when someone goes for an arm-bar (even if they don’t get it), and there is respectful applause when a beleaguered fighter who was mounted finally regains his guard.

  * * *

  I still had car-wreck-itis, but by staying away from the heavyweights, I did much better on Mondays and Wednesdays. Then one Wednesday night came the event I had been dreading.

  I was sparring some kid (never seen before or since) who was just boxing. He was strong and nervous but not great, and I had him bleeding into his mouth guard when he landed a hard body shot on my floating ribs and knocked the wind out of me. We paused, and I caught my breath, and then we kept going and I kept jabbing him, but a part of me went Oh shit.

  I have a recurring injury to my costal cartilage, the stuff in between my ribs on both sides of my chest. I am prone to separating and straining the stuff. It first happened badly when I was working construction at the South Pole. Four guys and I were flipping over an end wall to a large Quonset hut, and it came down on me and folded me in half. I tried to hide it for about a week. I was hanging Sheetrock, but eventually I couldn’t even lift my arms. The doc there wanted to evac me, but I begged and stayed on light duty for six weeks. Then, about a year later, I was in L.A. boxing for a couple of days at the La Brea Boxing Academy, and my first day sparring I got a little excited and was chasing around a guy who was much better than I was, and he settled me down with a good body shot. Again I tried to pretend it was just bruised, but it wasn’t, and I nearly missed the summer firefighting season with the Gila Hotshots.

  Basically, when you injure your ribs, you’re screwed, you can’t do anything for about four to six weeks, sometimes longer. Almost any motion you do involves flexing of the ribcage, and it hurts just to breathe. I had two weeks left till the fight. It was a situation very similar to what had happened to Robbie. I had suspected, at the back of my mind, that this might happen at some point and was just hoping for the best, hoping to get through with a little luck and not tweaking it. But now I was hurt.

  I took a day off to mope. What should I do? Robbie had gone through with his fight, but he was a pro. I didn’t have to fight. So I debated with myself over a weekend. I wrote a long letter to my editor at Men’s Journal explaining the situation but never sent it.

  Pat brought me some Celebrex, a prescription anti-inflammatory, the next night, and I was in a kind of fantasyland, hoping against hope that I would be okay. We went out, driving around Bettendorf. Pat wanted a few beers, and I kept him company. We stopped by some bars, Pat dealing with his celebrity and shaking hands. He told me a story of a couple of years back, when he had nearly gotten into a fight with some guys in a parking lot, and one of them said to him, “Do you know who I am? I’m Pat Miletich!” and Pat gave the guy a look, pulled out his driver’s license, and showed the guy his ID. Everyone was so disgusted with the lie and being found out that the situation was totally defused—no one wanted to fight—and everyone just went home.

  Pat’s fondest wish was to climb Everest. He had read George Mallory’s book when he was a kid, the first book he ever finished. We decided to plan on it in four or five years, when we’re both rich. Pat is known as the nicest guy in the sport, and it’s true. He is charismatic and friendly and just a pleasure to be with. He makes everybody feel good, and yet he has a wicked sense of humor. He has a few false teeth he likes to pull out without telling anyone, and then he gives you a big, gap-toothed, hayseed, “I’m a country idiot” grin. He pretends he wants to name one of his kids Slobodan. He tells stories of street fights and shenanigans from his younger, wilder days that would turn your hair white. His charisma is unmistakable, as is the strength of his character. I just liked him instinctively.

  Later that night, I had a eureka moment. When Pat asked me why I was doing this, without thinking I answered, “Because I’m not very good at it.” That old answer again, but essentially the truth. Pat laughed a little and said, “Well, you’ve gotten a lot better.” I wasn’t convinced, though.

  The next day I ran the Hill eight times, to my astonishment. A fat guy on a golf cart asked me why I was doing that. I’ve got a fight, I told him. Are you with those Ultimate Fighters? he asked. Kind of, I said, that’s the type of fighting I’m doing.

  I thought so, he said, I could tell by the tattoos, and your facial expression when you were sprinting.

  That grimace of agony must look tough from a distance. The next morning, a Saturday, I was significantly worse. It hurt to open the window, to drive, any twisting motion. I wasn’t even going to shadow-box for a week, just run. I was depressed, and I coughed lightly and a twinge shot through my whole body. I had just a few days left to decide if I was going to fight, and those days became a series of separate incidents, erratic moments.

  I was hanging out at Tim Sylvia and Tony Fryklund’s place, watching TV and talking to Tim about Chute Boxe, in Brazil. “I wouldn’t get in there with those guys,” I said, and Tim snorted and said, “Why not? You’re a tough kid.” He didn’t really mean anything by it, just that if I could hang with any of the Miletich guys, I could hang with anybody. That is, he wasn’t trying to compliment me, he was saying, Don’t be a pussy, you can do it. And because he wasn’t trying to compliment me, it was a huge compliment.

  I talked to Pat about not fighting, and he laughingly asked me, “Are you faking injury to get out of a fight?” and I wasn’t, but there was a door, a way out. Always a door. Always a way out, with some honor intact. I wished it was just in my head, but it wasn’t. It was outside of my control. Was it worth fighting hurt?

  Tony and I met Brandon at Barnes and
Noble, and Brandon was full of enthusiasm for my fight, despite the injury. He was all fired up to be my cornerman; he said that he’d get me crazy before the fight. “You gotta fight, man. It’s the warrior way.”

  I would still go to the gym. It was murder to have to sit there at night and not be able to work out, not be able to get in there and hit and be hit. Everyone agrees that coming to practice and not being able to work out, which is what you are supposed to do if you’re injured so at least you can learn through osmosis, is the worst part of getting hurt.

  Tony was moving into the final stages of his fight psychosis. He had a big fight coming up on the same night as mine, in Hawaii, possibly the biggest fight of his career, against Matt Lindland, the number one 185-pound guy in the world. Tony talked to his sparring partners as if they were Lindland; he gave the imaginary Lindland the finger after knocking him out, walking away sneering, leaving his fantasy enemy crumpled in the dust. He’d dyed the tiny stubble he had left on his head blond. He looked ripped, his stamina was up, and he was kicking ass. He was talking to himself all the time.

  There is something that reeks slightly of madness in this approach to violence, the premeditation of a scheduled fight. You watch the days and hours shrink toward a guarantee of violence, and it does something to you. Your contract with society becomes slightly more tenuous.

  It tortured me, watching everyone else train and knowing I couldn’t. I could feel myself slipping out of tip-top shape (which I was never really in), wondering if I was too old and slow and weak.

  Pat tried to take me in hand those last days, working fundamentals such as footwork, but we were both frustrated by my injury. It’s a fact of life, and these guys fought hurt all the time. When you train this hard, there will always be something.

  Tony and I went to the sauna, trying to cut a little water weight. I weighed in at 194 (having just downed a lot of water) and Tony kept referring to me as being “a little portly.” We put Vicks VapoRub on our chests and poured water laced with eucalyptus oil on the hot rocks.

  Just eight days until the fight, and I woke up at three forty-five and couldn’t fall back asleep. My mind was twisted up like a pretzel. All I could think about was dashing elbows in my opponent’s face, scoring hits, putting together combinations, knockouts.

  Another day, Brandon came down to hit mitts with me. In a kind of boxing workout, Brandon held focus mitts and I chased him around punching them, a strict hands-only workout but about all my ribs would allow.

  With four days left I decided to fight, despite the rib. I was depressed and yelling at inaminate objects in my apartment again. But I fell back on those immortal words at the base of all good decision making: Fuck it.

  I ate just one real meal a day. I had been running and my cardio was pretty good (I actually ran the Hill ten times), but I hadn’t been able to roll with anyone for weeks. I was going to have to stay off the ground above all things. I sat on the edge of my bed and thought for a long time while I watched the cars across the river shimmering like droplets in an IV tube.

  I couldn’t have walked away anymore—I would never have felt right about it, partly because I’d worked too hard. I was going to learn what it’s like to fight hurt. That’s something everyone should know.

  All I had left was to make weight.

  On my last workout day, I went in and hit mitts with Pat, something invaluable, as his close personal attention was extremely helpful. Pat’s style was the short, strong man’s game—slip and hard shots on the inside. He had about fifteen fighters he was training and a gym he was starting up, so he was busy as hell. (And he was going to Hawaii to corner for Tony. Matt Lindland had beat Pat when Pat tried to move up in weight; there was history there.)

  I even “sparred” that night, worked on my offense with Rory Markham while he worked on his defense. He didn’t throw anything at me; I chased him around for three rounds. I felt pretty good, able to find angles, which is what Pat had me working on.

  I had thrown some kicks the day before, and when I woke, my rib was twitching but felt okay, and I’d done nearly everything I could do. I’d run the Hill, trained hard, I had taken my licks—So I’m going to go out there and do my best, I thought. If he’s good, or he takes me down, I lose. If he’s just decent, I have a chance.

  I weighed myself that morning and I came in at 186, which was wonderful, and I could relax. My legs were still a little sore, and I just wanted them to be fresh, so coming in at 186 with two days left was a godsend.

  I did some hand fighting that night and I felt good, not great. My sprawl wasn’t instantaneous like it should have been, because of my ribs, but it was as good as possible.

  Tony and I went to the sauna and cranked it up to ten and made our medicinal steam. It descended on my shoulders, scorching my ears, burning my nostrils if I breathed through my nose.

  That Thursday, at five a.m., the day before the fight, I woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went over to the gym as it opened and checked my weight. I was starving. I carefully pulled off my clothes and weighed in at 188. Fuck.

  The weigh-in was going to be the same night as the fight, so I would need to be walking around at close to the right weight. Professional fighters have the weigh-in the day before, so they can dehydrate and “cut” the six or seven pounds of water that all athletes carry, weigh in, and still have twenty-four hours or more to put the fluids back in. I didn’t have that option, I was weighing in just a few hours before the fight.

  I got my “sauna suit,” a cheap, disposable track suit made of trash bag–type material, and put my sweatshirt on over it and went back to the gym. I rode the bike for about ten minutes, sweating heavily, and then I went into the fight room and blasted my music and shadowboxed for three rounds, feeling a little bit like Rocky. Then I skipped rope for three rounds. I didn’t really want to be working like that the day before a fight, but I had to know if I could make weight.

  I showered and went and weighed in at 184 and laughed with relief. I had a dream in which my opponent kicked me in the nuts and broke my cup. I dreamt of tearing my ribs to shreds and still trying to fight, with my left arm pasted low to my body, shielding them.

  * * *

  The next day, I drove the five hours down to Cincinnati with Ben Lowy, a freelance photographer Men’s Journal had hired, and watched him eat Subway sandwiches. I was never a high school wrestler, and I’d never had to “make weight” before, so I wasn’t that experienced with my own body. I didn’t know for sure how much I would have to sweat off before I weighed in. That night, at the hotel, I shadowboxed for another three rounds in the sauna suit and felt pretty crisp, although my legs were hot again.

  Basically, I made a trade-off. I gave away being totally rested and fresh for what I hoped would be a decisive advantage in reach. I’m six foot three, so anybody I fight at 185 will almost certainly be shorter than me. I was going to jab, stay outside, and throw punches in bunches. I had no ground game, so I was counting on my stand-up to carry me.

  I planned on weighing in at five p.m. and then eating (PowerBars and stuff like that) and rehydrating until the fights started, at around eight. At that point I felt like maybe it was a mistake to fight at 185, but I had told Monte Cox, the promoter, that that was what I wanted to fight at, so I was going to show up weighing 185. I wasn’t going to “cheat” and come in over and just say, “Whoops, sorry, you still gotta fight me.”

  The day of the fight, Friday, I sat around the hotel all day, after a light breakfast of cereal and some fruit, and I didn’t drink any water at all. I watched TV, husbanding my resources. Around three-thirty, I got in the sauna suit and went down and rode the hotel exercise bike for ten minutes, then sat in my bathroom with the hot shower on for fifteen minutes, and then showered and went to weigh in. If I was over, I’d be pretty close, and I could make it by skipping rope for fifteen minutes at the weigh-in, I figured. I still hadn’t had anything to drink all that day. I felt a little funny but more or less rested. />
  Ben and I drove through Springdale and found Tori’s Station and went to weigh in. Come back at six, they told me. It was a big pink venue that sometimes had concerts and sometimes had weddings, seats for maybe two hundred people. Nothing fancy, but there was a big white mesh cage, which was exciting just to see.

  We came back at six, and Monte told me that the weigh-in doesn’t matter. “If you’re anywhere from 185 to 190, you should be okay,” he said. Thanks a lot for telling me now, Monte, I thought, and weighed in with clothes on at 185 pounds. So I was probably down around 183.

  My corners, Brandon and Ryan, were driving down that day from Iowa and were still on the road; they got there as we were helping Josh, also from our gym, get ready to fight. Josh, a muscular, broad guy who was maybe five foot nine, was blond and blue-eyed and originally from Zimbabwe. He was fighting a black guy. “Probably Monte’s idea of a joke,” Josh said lightly, “to have the white African fight the African American.” Josh was also fighting at 185, and I had rolled with him quite a bit. He was really strong on the ground. He was strong, period, but his stand-up wasn’t great. Josh had been very, very nervous, although he had gotten better since a few days ago. Now that his fight was here (his first), he was remarkably calm.

  Josh was taken down in the first round, but he maintained his poise and never took much punishment. In the second round, he mounted and was raining down punches, and they stopped the fight. He came out with a big smile and said, “That’s a different kind of rush.” It felt inevitable, Miletich guys are winners.

  Brandon taped me up, and I Vaselined my eyebrows, nose, and inside my nose, all to help avoid cuts. Mouth guard, cup, fight shorts, wrapped hands, and the fingerless MMA gloves. I was ready to go.

  I started warming up and felt good, loose and crisp, my punches felt sharp, and then I threw the left hook and it barely twinged my rib at all. I was going to be fine. My legs still were a little hot, and I knew they weren’t fresh like they should be, but that would be okay. I was going to tower over this guy anyway. Josh had fought at the same weight, and the guy he fought was about five-six.