Pain Don't Hurt by Mark Miller Page B

pitty-pat exchanges occurred and then I was back in the corner. Tommy had me angry.
    In Tommy’s corner he learned that he had a split over his eye. He also got told by his corner repeatedly to not “follow [me] around.” Tommy had a weak gas tank, and he tired easily. They couldn’t figure out how I had made contact with him, and now they were worried. Shit was happening that they hadn’t counted on, and Tommy was getting tired. I was in my corner fresh as could be.
    Second round started and he began pawing at me again, desperate to gauge distance. I threw a right kick slicing directly at the top of his thighs. It hurt him, and off of that I threw a knee directly to his sternum and circled out. Tommy followed me, followed me, followed me. . . . I threw a kick, and he checked it, but I got a solid jab and a cross off on him. The cross bobbled him. He stepped back. Eager, I rushed in and threw another big cross, which he sidestepped, and I threw myself off balance and ended up on the floor. Tommy came up behind me and pretended to hump my back. The crowd cheered. I have no tolerance for this bullshit. You wanna showboat, fine, but you better beat me decisively now; otherwise, you’re going to look like showboating is all you have. And I intended to exploit Tommy the next time he fucked around in there.
    The ref scolded Tommy, recommended that he cease with the shenanigans, and Tommy feigned feeling contrite. He came back with his paw bullshit again. Then he jammed me up, hugging on me so tight the ref had to pull him off. I could feel his breathing getting labored. I threw a spinning back kick that was ill timed; I didn’t have enough distance and I just knocked myself off balance. Pause; okay, back to it.
    I came out with an ax kick. Crowd liked it. Tommy flashed slight concern before jamming a kick into my thigh. I’ll take it for making you look like a boring pud. You got jokes? I got skill, motherfucker. We clinched up a few more times, and the bell sounded.
    I went into my corner, and Jason smiled and asked how I was feeling. “I feel good. And I think I hurt him.”
    â€œHe’s not looking so fresh, Mark, that’s for sure.”
    And he wasn’t. I was pacing in my corner. Tommy was plunked on his stool heaving away. Big muscles need big oxygen. Tommy was built for looks, not stamina. I may not ever have had Tommy’s size, but I don’t wear out in the second. I started punching into my gloves with fifteen seconds to spare. “Let’s go let’s go let’s go.”
    Tommy pulled himself off the stool, a deep breath following before his mouth guard was put back in. He met me in the center and hugged me. Third and final round. I appreciated it. Not two seconds later he clinched me up again and turned me around to face the crowd. This time, I showboated. Throwing my arms up and shrugging at the crowd as if to say, “Hey, he clearly came here to hug, I came to fight.” The crowd cheered for me. Tommy shrugged and looked irritated. I had gotten his goat.
    I threw a kick and it grazed the top of his cup. I paused and offered my glove. Nut shots happen in fighting; they aren’t intentional (unless you’re a complete dickweed and you don’t trust your skill to get you by), but it’s only right to put your glove out if you think you might have grazed a guy. It’s the universal sign for “My bad; sorry, dude.” Tommy patted at his groin for a second, then gave me a glove bump, as if to say, “All good.”
    I threw another kick, and Tommy grabbed my leg, backing me into the ropes. As my back was against the ropes, I felt him cranking my leg higher and higher. . . . This motherfucker was trying to dump me through the ropes. I pitched my body forward as the ref pulled him off of me. . . . But I was firing on all cylinders now. I was done fooling around.
    I came straight at Tommy with a series of