Pain Don't Hurt by Mark Miller
Authors: Mark Miller
he was honest to a fault. The guy just leaked positivity and calm. He never buckled under pressure, and he never got heated when things got tense. He was also bullshit-proof. He would tell me exactly what I needed to do in between rounds, without sugarcoating it but without shouting at me. I knew that if I couldnât have Mo in my corner, I needed an equally cool and honest head there to talk to me. Jason was perfect. A few days before the fight, I flew out. Jason and Mo met me there. This time I was fighting at the Mirage. While we in the lobby, Jason commented, âDo either of you act any different before fights? Itâs bizarre how calm you both are!â To this Mo responded, âJust another day at the office, right?â And promptly flashed the face.
A mutual acquaintance of ours, another cornerman, saw all of us standing together and came over. He smiled up at Mo and said, âYou still doing this? Youâre an old man!â to which Mo deftly responded, âYeah, but Iâm a bad old man.â Maurice Smith was almost forty at this time, which is practically primordial for a kickboxer. He had accrued no injuries in his time as a fighter, looked not a day over twenty-eight, and he moved exactly like the twenty-eight-year-olds, so not only was this not an exaggeration, it was possibly a downplay of just how fucking bad he really was.
The days leading up to the fight were standard. K-1 treated us very well but also put us through our paces when it came to promoting. Back then everything in kickboxing was run by Japanese businessmen, with Kazuyoshi Ishii at the helm. Ishii was the epitome of what you would expect from a high-level Japanese businessman and martial arts master. He was always well dressed, and he always presented himself with maximal class. He demanded the same level of poise and gentility of the fighters he brought to fight in his organization when they were not in the ring. You were required to show up at all press appearances on time, well groomed and in a suit. You were expected to behave yourself. Speak when spoken to, answer the questions asked of you to the best of your ability, and never interrupt or shout either at a journalist, at other media personnel, or at another fighter. Ishii frowned on clownish behavior. He didnât value shit-talking or bashing between fighters. He valued fighters who put on a show worth watching. You didnât have to win, but you had to show fighting spirit. Like the Japanese fans, Ishii wanted to see your heart.
One night on the evening of May 4, Ishii had requested that all of the fighters come to a nightclub in Las Vegas located inside of the Hard Rock Hotel. We were there to do promoting for the fights, meet with media, do some TV interviews for networks, and just generally be available. I was less than thrilled by this, as it was the night before the fight, and all I wanted to be doing was resting. At one point I looked over and saw that Ishii was sitting by himself. My bravery rose and I approached him and sat beside him. He turned to me and smiled. âMr. Miller, are you enjoying yourself?â His English was a bit broken, but he spoke enough to be a true gentleman and ensure the comfort of the fighters he was employing at any given moment.
I responded, âYes, sir. I just wanted you to know, I am the American fighter you are looking for, and tomorrow night I will prove it.â
He smiled and grasped my hand firmly in his. He seemed pleased with my self-assurance. I stood, bowed to him, and bade him good evening. As I walked away, I felt the bag of bricks I had just harnessed to myself pull at my neck. I had promised Ishii I would win. Fuck it. All the more reason. Now I really had to.
The next day at the venue I sat listening to the announcers call the fights. Mo fought his first two fights before me, so I was partially distracted, paying attention to how his fights went. Mo fought Pedro Fernandez first. He won, in a
A mutual acquaintance of ours, another cornerman, saw all of us standing together and came over. He smiled up at Mo and said, âYou still doing this? Youâre an old man!â to which Mo deftly responded, âYeah, but Iâm a bad old man.â Maurice Smith was almost forty at this time, which is practically primordial for a kickboxer. He had accrued no injuries in his time as a fighter, looked not a day over twenty-eight, and he moved exactly like the twenty-eight-year-olds, so not only was this not an exaggeration, it was possibly a downplay of just how fucking bad he really was.
The days leading up to the fight were standard. K-1 treated us very well but also put us through our paces when it came to promoting. Back then everything in kickboxing was run by Japanese businessmen, with Kazuyoshi Ishii at the helm. Ishii was the epitome of what you would expect from a high-level Japanese businessman and martial arts master. He was always well dressed, and he always presented himself with maximal class. He demanded the same level of poise and gentility of the fighters he brought to fight in his organization when they were not in the ring. You were required to show up at all press appearances on time, well groomed and in a suit. You were expected to behave yourself. Speak when spoken to, answer the questions asked of you to the best of your ability, and never interrupt or shout either at a journalist, at other media personnel, or at another fighter. Ishii frowned on clownish behavior. He didnât value shit-talking or bashing between fighters. He valued fighters who put on a show worth watching. You didnât have to win, but you had to show fighting spirit. Like the Japanese fans, Ishii wanted to see your heart.
One night on the evening of May 4, Ishii had requested that all of the fighters come to a nightclub in Las Vegas located inside of the Hard Rock Hotel. We were there to do promoting for the fights, meet with media, do some TV interviews for networks, and just generally be available. I was less than thrilled by this, as it was the night before the fight, and all I wanted to be doing was resting. At one point I looked over and saw that Ishii was sitting by himself. My bravery rose and I approached him and sat beside him. He turned to me and smiled. âMr. Miller, are you enjoying yourself?â His English was a bit broken, but he spoke enough to be a true gentleman and ensure the comfort of the fighters he was employing at any given moment.
I responded, âYes, sir. I just wanted you to know, I am the American fighter you are looking for, and tomorrow night I will prove it.â
He smiled and grasped my hand firmly in his. He seemed pleased with my self-assurance. I stood, bowed to him, and bade him good evening. As I walked away, I felt the bag of bricks I had just harnessed to myself pull at my neck. I had promised Ishii I would win. Fuck it. All the more reason. Now I really had to.
The next day at the venue I sat listening to the announcers call the fights. Mo fought his first two fights before me, so I was partially distracted, paying attention to how his fights went. Mo fought Pedro Fernandez first. He won, in a