The Savage Sinner
Page 7
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize. If you don’t wanna talk about it. . .”
“I have no problem talking about my piece of shit old man, as long as you promise me something.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t mention that son of a bitch’s name in the article. I don’t want him commemorated in any way, shape, or form. I don’t mind your mentioning anything I talk about, but I don’t want him celebrated at all. Deal?”
She looks at me seriously. “You have my word. Of course. What happened?”
“Cliché story. He came up rough, down south before moving here and knocking my mom up. She was so fucked up that I actually went to live with him. He turned out to be even worse, and I hadn’t thought that was possible.”
“What happened with your mom?”
“Drugs. A bunch of shady men, several of whom weren’t the most upstanding of gentleman, to put it nicely. Some of them hit my mom. Some hit me. Most were drug addicts. It got so bad that they took me away from her after a few too many teachers reported suspicious bruises and bumps all over me.”
“And that’s when you went to live with your dad?”
“Yup. I remember being excited at first. Ironic to think back, considering what a prick he was, but, at the time, I didn’t know the extent of his issues, and I pretty much thought that anything would be better than the situation at Mom’s place. I was wrong as hell, but I was just a kid—what the hell did I know?”
Harper waves the waitress over as she passes. “Are you hungry?”
“Not hungry,” she says. “But I think I’m going to need another cup for the rest of this story.”
“You might,” I tell her. “You just might.”
11
Harper
I order that second cup of coffee and pretend not to be upset by what he’s telling me.
Let’s put this out there—I’m not a sensitive girl who gets emotional at every little thing. I don’t cry at sad movies and I rarely say ‘awww’ to anything. I grew up rough and tough with a brother who was an MMA fighter. I voluntarily spend my time around guys trying to hurt one another, so I’m not a delicate snowflake.
But, the one thing that gets to me are stories about kids who were mistreated—and that’s Damien’s story.
Still, I’m doing an interview, not a therapy session, so I try to hide my emotions as best I can while letting Damien tell the story of how he started fighting. He’s actually in good spirits as he discusses some of the past that makes me cringe during certain parts of the story. I have questions, of course. I always have a million questions.
“So, wait, making sure I get this right—your dad hit you a lot, but he also took you to your first martial arts class?”
“I know, he was weird like that. It’s not like he beat me unconscious every night or anything like that, but when he drank, everything pissed him off—that’s when he’d let his hands fly over any little thing.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Anything. Literally. A broken glass. My homework not being done fast enough. But the worst was when I lost a fight at school. That got me hit more than anything else.”
I’m confused. Not only because parts of this story are confusing, at least from where I’m sitting, but also because so much of his background is different from how I grew up. I can’t imagine sitting across from someone and casually telling them about my dad beating me up. I’m shocked, horrified, and fascinated all at the same time.
“So let me get this straight. Your abusive dad got mad when someone other than him beat you up? That makes no sense!”
“Not when you think of it like that, but I don’t think that’s how he thought of it. Not making excuses for what he did, but I don’t think that’s what he meant.”
“Then what was it about you getting beat up that pissed him off so much?”
“’Cause he didn’t want his son to be a pussy. Sorry to be crude, but there’s no other way to say it. In his fucked-up mind, his son getting his ass kicked was a reflection on the type of son he was raising, and if I was weak that meant he made me that way. He needed me to be strong.”
This is so crazy to hear. I try to be a good reporter—writing down the key points he’s making, trying to quote him exactly so that I don’t put too much of myself in the profile, but it’s hard to just keep writing while I’m listening to a grown man tell me about his abusive childhood. Damien catches me making faces.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, and when he does I don’t know what to say. I guess honesty is the best thing.
“I’m sorry, it’s just. . .”
“Just what?”
“You don’t seem like someone who was abused by his parents and got his ass kicked a lot. I mean, you’re one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen in person. I’ve seen you kick some pretty tough guys’ butts. I’ve seen you almost lose and then come back. You’re one of the best.”
“Well, thank you. That means a lot. But you don’t sound like you’re saying that just to pay me a compliment out of nowhere.”
“It’s just. . . it’s not what I expected to hear you say.”
“What did you expect?”
“I’m not even sure. I guess your average fighter story.”
“Like your brother, right? A lifelong multi-sport athlete who needed to fulfill those competitive drives long after college ended? That kind of fighter story, you mean?”
It sounds stupid to hear out loud, but that’s exactly what I was expecting. “I guess it’s really dumb for me to expect anything.”
“It’s not about being dumb,” he says. “You were just playing the odds. Pattern recognition. You go to your average gym and ask any random guy hitting the bag why he started and he’ll tell you that story—my background is just. . . different.”
“I’m starting to see that. Keep going.”
“How about I transition from Dad to the actual martial arts part?”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You don’t have to leave out anything, I was just surprised. But tell me anything that you want me to know.”
“You got it. Like I said, it was Dad who took me to my first martial arts class. It was actually a kickboxing class. Man was so crazy, he tried to sign me up for the adult class—they had to tell him that you can’t put kids in a striking class with grown men.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. But he really, really tried. I thought he was going to get into a fight with the gym owner over it, but finally they convinced him to put me in the Saturday kids’ class.”
“And then what?”
“And then I slowly started to believe in myself. Week by week, and eventually month by month, I started to gain confidence from all the training that I was doing. I got better and better, and started being the hammer instead of the nail.”
“Did the kids at school stop picking on you?” I ask.
He snickers. I’m guessing that means no.
“That would have been nice. But, the truth is, that only happens in movies or TV shows. Bullies don’t actually go away just because you learn how to throw a good roundhouse kick. If anything, taking martial arts classes actually made it worse.”
“Worse? How?”
“Because then I had to prove myself. Once people found out I was taking classes, they wanted to test me, and I had to fight my way out of most of those situations. On top of that, I was a small kid—skinny and short.”
“No way,” I tell him. “You’re. . . not a small person.” That’s an understatement. Damien is big, muscled, and has an imposing physique when he’s standing up in front of you. I can’t imagine him as some little scared kid who’s afraid of getting picked on by bullies.
“Yes way. I’ll show you pictures one day.”
“I’d love to see that. I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. I’ll bet you anything that I was a scrawny, tiny little kid.”
“What’ll you bet me then?”
I almost drop my pen. Holy crap, did he just ask me out? “Dinner? Like dinner, dinner?”
“We can eat twice if you want, but that seems a little redundant. I was thinking just dinner. Any place you’d like to go.”
It’s time to come clean—I’m really attracted to Damien, and I have been since the moment I laid eyes on him. I mean, what woman wouldn’t be? He’s tall, built like a tank, all tatted up, and he can kick some serious ass. I bet he has girls hitting on him all the time. I’ve been trying to keep my feelings hidden by not giving all of the obvious signs that I like a guy—especially when I’m supposed to be a professional who’s writing an article. I saw how he looked at me when we first met—and how he’s looked at me every single time since then, but I never thought he would just flat out ask me out on a date like that.
“I. . . I don’t. . .” I’m stumbling over my words, but not because I don’t want to go—because he really took me by surprise.
“It’s okay, we don’t have to. I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable or anything. I’m sorry I asked.”
“Yes!” I blurt out. It’s so loud and awkward that he actually jumps back in his seat. I don’t bother looking around but I know that, if I did, I’d see random people looking over to see if everything was alright. I repeat myself, but in a much lower tone. “I mean, yes, I’d love to go to dinner with you. I didn’t mean to yell like that.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m just happy you said yes. I thought I’d freaked you out by asking you.”
“You did a little,” I admit. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s a good freak out—if that’s not an oxymoron.”
“Even if it is, I’ll take it,” he jokes. “But now that we’re on for our first date, I need to finish my story.”
“Our first date?” I ask.
He smiles. I love when he smiles. “Well, yeah. I don’t think I’m going to be able to go out with you just once.”
12
Damien
The rest of the week is all about training. Training camp, to be specific.
There’s a difference. Training is just to keep in shape—to keep your reflexes sharp and your body where it needs to be in case you get a fight. But training camp is preparing for war. Everything is focused on a single goal that comes at the end of a few weeks—beating the other guy.
Everything in training camp has a purpose and a goal—every meal has to be right so that my weight doesn’t get out of control, every sparring session has to be tailored to my opponent, and every morning I wake up remembering what all this sacrifice is for—to be the best fighter in the world.
But I’ll start with just winning this next fight.
I’ve been out of the game, while Lucas went and got called up by the UFC. Now it’s my turn. Speaking of Lucas, he’s picking me up for training in a minute.
I open the door and see that he looks stressed. “You look like shit, dude.”
“Fuck you, Damien.”
“Excuse me,” I say, joking around. “You look like shit and you’re rude. What crawled up your ass and died?”
“Are you ready, or what?”
“Holy shit!” I say, looking at him. “No, I’m not, and chill out. What’s the matter with you?” He doesn’t answer me at first, just plops himself down on one of the stools I have set up in my kitchen. I ignore him and go into my bedroom so that I can get my shoes on. When I come back, Lucas has his face buried in his hands and he’s taking slow, deep breaths that are a little too exaggerated. “You ready, Captain Dramatic?”
“I’m sorry, dude. I’m so fucking stressed.”
“Stressed? About what? You’re in the UFC and you’re with an amazing woman. To my recollection, neither was true a year ago, so what’s so wrong?” Lucas just looks at me. “Look, tell me what you mean while we drive, alright? I don’t need Matt up my ass about being late. You know how he is when it comes to that kind of thing.”
Lucas doesn’t say a word, he just walks silently with me to the car. Once we get going, he spills his guts. It’s not like him at all to sulk like this. “What I was saying, is that, when I was in your shoes, I thought the same thing as you think—that getting called up to the big show was the end of the line. That once that happens, I’m golden. But now, I know better.”
“I’m confused, man. What’s going on with you? You’re not happy that you’re finally in the biggest organization in the world?”
“I’m happy about that. Of course I am. I’d never disrespect all of the people working their ass off to get where I am by saying I’m not happy. But you can be happy and stressed at the same time. And even though I know I’m happy, deep down, right now, all I’m feeling is the stress part.”
Lucas is a stoic guy. The fact that he’s admitting feeling like this tells me that it really must be eating at him. “But you still haven’t answered me,” I tell him. “Stress about what?”
“I don’t know. It’s just. . . it’s not quite what I was expecting, that’s all. I don’t mean to complain, I’m just not having the kind of experience I thought I would.”
“Experience? What are you talking about, you haven’t even fought yet.”
“Well that might be changing sooner than later.”
I look over at him. “Are you serious? You have a fight?”
“I have something that’s being discussed, let’s put it that way. The matchmaker says it’s ‘something big’ since I had such an impressive win in my last fight, so we’ll see.”
“And you’re stressed about your first big fight? I get that.”
“I’m not stressed about fighting. Fighting is the easy part, you know that.”
He’s not wrong. We get nervous before fights—some more than others. Chuck Liddell, who was the first real celebrity MMA fighter back in the old days, had the nickname of “The Iceman” because his calm before a fight was legendary—they said he had ice in his veins before, during, and after a fight, but he was the exception. Most of us get really nervous leading up to a fight, particularly on the day of.
I know what Lucas means when he says that fighting is the easy part—the hard part is getting up every day to train, the weight cut, the self-doubt, all of it. Once the bell actually rings, and we get to show our skills, all of the nerves just melt away.
“Yeah, you’re right, but I still don’t get what the issue is. Stop being cryptic and just tell me already.”
“All right, I’ll just say it. I’m getting paid absolute shit.”
I’m a little shocked. I’ve never heard Lucas mention money before when it comes to fighting. Most of us don’t fight for money, even though we fight for money. What I mean is that money isn’t the reason most of us risk our bodies a few times a year. Some do it for the love, some for the glory, and a lot because we want to be the best. But it’s rare to hear guys talk about their paychecks.
“Really?” I say, just playing along. “I’m surprised.”
“I’m not. I expected a smaller contract. I’m not a household name, obviously, but I didn’t expect it to be as small as it is.”
“How small are we talking?” I ask. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t. . .”
“Ten to show and ten to win.”
“Oh,” I say, honestly shocked. “That is small. I’d be stressed too.”
“Gee, thanks.”
The UFC still has a show-win system, which means that their contracts are structured so that the only money you’re guaranteed to get by fighting is your show money—literally the money you get for showing up on fight night. Show money is usually half the purse. The other half of your money only comes if you win. So what Lucas is saying is that, at most, he can make twenty thousand per fight, but that, if he loses, he only makes ten thousand. That sounds like a lot of money to get for one night’s wo
rk, but after you realize how many expenses fighters have, ten and ten is barley enough to get by on.
“Why so low? I thought you were going to be their new golden boy.”
“That’s a great fucking question, man. I wish I had the answer. They lowballed me in Vegas and there wasn’t shit that Matt or I could do about it.”
“Why not try to negotiate for more?”
“Yeah, but how much more could I possibly get? Fifteen to show and fifteen to win? Even so, it’s a risk that they tell me to take my talents elsewhere. I figured that I could make an impressive debut, win the fight after that, then maybe start making some real money.”
“So you signed a multi-fight contract?” I ask.
“Yeah. If I kick some serious ass, I’ll be in a better position to negotiate next time around, hopefully by early next year, but right now I feel like I have to fight for my food, you know?”
“I know. But honestly, you weren’t even making close to that fighting on the local circuit, so can I ask why you’re so down on your contract?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe it’s all in my head, but I just expected more money. The UFC is a multibillion-dollar company, you think they’d be past of the days of paying fighters so little. I mean, think about it, if I only fight two to three times a year I’m practically making minimum wage.”
I never thought about it that way. I’m sorry he’s stressed out, but there isn’t a thing I can do about it. “Hey, look, you know I’m not the best at sympathy, but I do feel for you. I wish I could help.”
“I know, man, and thanks. I’m just venting. I’ve been keeping this all pent up inside. Everyone thinks that I’m supposed to be shitting butterflies because I got what I always wanted, the coveted call up, so I feel like a dick talking about how unhappy I am with the situation—especially at the gym. Those guys would kill to be in the UFC, so I’m not going to whine in front of them.” He pulls into the lot and parks in his usual spot. There are no reserved spots, but there are reserved spots.