I've seen him bleed before.
I've seen his eye swell and his nose cuve.
I've seen him struggle to breath and I've seen his arm raise.
But today I see him downing his third margarita, floating around a pool escaping in the Jamaican heat.
He's a middleweight fighter in one of the deadliests divisions in the UFC.
My brother and I downed our pina coladas and swim. Seconds laters — guys being dudes.
“Okay, I have to ask,” I said. “Who wins in a fight: The wrestler or boxer.”
“It doesn't matter.” He smiles. “The one who turns the fight to their favor wins.”
I didn't get it.
“If the boxer can stay on his feet, he wins.” He takes another drink. “Then again, if I get him to the ground. Game over.”
I like this guy. He's the tough guy you don't realize is a tough guy until you try to be a tough guy. Savvy? Seems like it's how he's gotten to where he is. Guys underestimate him, and by the time they realize they are in over their head, the medical staff is shaking their legs hoping their pupils can still dilate.
He reaches over for another drink. I see his Muay Thai back tattoo. He sees my portrait. His feel more earned. “Through it all, you must be willing to stand in the octagon.”
He was talking about fighting.
I am not.
What's Wrong With Me