Pain Don't Hurt by Mark Miller Page A

unanimous decision. I didn’t get a good look at him when he came in the back. I was still focused on myself and what I was going to do. A win was what we wanted obviously, but with a decision it meant he’d spent more time in the ring and in the fight, so there was a possibility that he might have taken damage. It was unlikely, as Mo’s style was to take little damage, but the potential was still there. I wasn’t sure if he had, so I waited and listened. A half hour later he fought Gunter Singer. At the beginning of the second round, Mo crushed Gunter with a right-hand. The crowd roared. Mo came into the back and glanced at me. I was warming up at this point; I caught his eye just for a moment, just long enough to see that he was unmarked and to see him make solid eye contact and give me a thumbs-up. A few more fights passed and someone from the organization came in the back and called my name. “Mr. Miller, we are going to have you and Mr. Glanville walk out at the same time. So you will meet in the hall and enter the ring together.”
    Uhh. What the fuck?
    That is never how it’s done. This threw me. Typically you walk out at completely different times. I mean, you don’t even come near each other until the first bell. Fuck this. I didn’t want to see him before. I didn’t want to nod and fucking half-smile and be forced into either uncomfortable silence or fake pleasantries before I went to beat this guy’s ass; no thanks. That’s for after the fight. At the end, when it’s done, it’s a job, and whoever wins wins, and you buy each other beers and it’s all water under the proverbial bridge, but before? No.
    And I didn’t have a choice. Because this was what the powers that be wanted.
    I was stomping at the ground by the time they brought me out to the hallway to walk out. Tommy’s big blond head was barely visible on my periphery. I refused to turn and look at him. Nothing personal; it was just better for both of us this way. We got the signal and started walking out. The crowd was booing me, ferociously. This was Tommy’s town. As we walked, they started playing a clip from an interview Tommy had done two days before. They had been very secretive when he had done this interview, and I couldn’t understand why. It all became apparent in the seconds it took me to get to that ring. I looked up at the screens just in time to hear him say, “Mark is from the Iron City, so that’s where his chin was forged. He’s really tough. But tonight, he’s my bitch.”
    The crowd roared with cheers. I whipped my head to look Tommy full in the face right before we entered the ring and just started laughing. “Really, Tommy?!” I shook my head. All right fucker, it’ll be like last time, only this time, you won’t get up.
    Tommy was in the corner shimmying like a show pony. First bell sounded. Let’s go.
    I came out baiting him. The game plan was to keep everything straight down the pipe, let him back me up, and then unload. Fighters get cocky when they think they are backing you up. They get brave. I let him drive me back a few times, clinching on him when he got close. He threw a few low kicks, and I checked them. He hated it. Absorbing the impact of a kick on your thigh is stupid, because you can’t do it very many times before your leg is dead. But if you lift the leg being kicked, stiffen the lower part of the leg, and “check,” or take the impact on the shin . . . Trust me. As bad as it might hurt you, it hurts them far worse. Tommy was pawing at me. I was circling out, frustrating him. He feinted a low kick and I lifted my leg to check, but he went for my back leg instead, dropping me to the floor. As I was pushing to get myself up, he placed his fucking foot on my back, as if he was going to stand on me while I was on all fours. The ref yelled at him to get back in his corner. I got up. A few more