Totaled (30 page)

The media started by asking me a few questions, which I answered as best I could, but they quickly shifted their interest to my opponent, almost dismissively, as if I was a nobody. I wasn’t talking smack or taunting him. I wasn’t giving any extra details or information. I wasn’t interested in the show boating. I was just ready to fight. I wanted to prove that I deserved to be here in the octagon, not by making an ass of myself. I sat quietly and calmly as he spoke of our upcoming match as a training exercise, a mere warm-up for his next scheduled fight with another prominent heavyweight in the sport. He said that he was almost insulted that the UFC officials had paired him up with such an “inexperienced novice,” but that I apparently knew somebody who knew somebody that had enough connections to score me the fight. He laughed at me and talked about how everybody has to start somewhere and that not long ago, he was given a shot too, and look how far it had gotten him.
He had no idea who he was dismissing.
My pulse raced and my hands twitched, but I remained calm and collected, knowing I had to focus all of that energy and determination into the octagon later.

And later had arrived. I looked out of my hotel room window at the skyline of beautiful downtown Atlanta. I had never been before. Pat had called all of his contacts and cashed in on numerous favors to get me on the card for tonight. I was lucky to have him in my life and felt a wave of appreciation for everything that he’d done for me over the past two months. It was show time for me and I knew that it was now or never. I would likely never get a shot like this again.

I walked over to the nightstand, noting the blinking light on the hotel room phone indicating that there was a message. I turned over my cell phone, which I had silenced last night before going to bed, and saw that I had voicemails and text messages waiting for me. Quite the popular guy all of a sudden. I got straight to checking them. Reading one after the other, I clicked delete with each one and proceeded to listen to voicemails. A few were from media outlets, which was annoying. I have no idea how they got my personal cell number, but I knew I would have to change it. A couple of messages were from Pat and my other trainers, reminding me of the times and locations to meet up, like I was a child that needed to be reminded of the field trip itinerary. There was even one from Mick saying that he was more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, but that he wished me luck. He was hilarious and it was nice of him to call, but they all just felt empty. Until I got to hers.

“Drew…I just wanted to…well, good luck tonight. I just wanted to wish you luck. I know you’ll be great. I put something in your gear bag. It’s in a small brown box, next to your mouthguard. It’s just a little something for luck. Be safe.”

Bree sounded nervous and hesitant. She sounded scared for me. I just wanted to hold her and reassure her that I would be fine and that things were about to be different. I didn’t want her to worry about me. I wanted to comfort her, console her, and protect her. The love that I felt for Bree so quickly was almost too much for me to process. I felt like I was on the precipice of something bigger and greater, not just with Bree, but with my entire life. I just had to hold it together.

I found the little brown box and untied the green ribbon around it. The paper tag on the ribbon had her handwriting on it.

Adh mor ort

~Bree

I knew this phrase to mean “good luck” or “luck be with you” in Gaelic. I opened the box to see a tiny green four leaf clover pressed flat between two circular pieces of glass and sealed around the edge. I closed my eyes tight and smiled. This girl. This girl that I confessed my love for both with my words and with my body just over a week ago was unbelievable. Damn it. This sucked. I understood why she couldn’t be here with me, but I wished it weren’t the case. I wanted her here. I needed her here, more than I even wanted to admit to myself.

After piddling around my hotel room for hours and watching some more tape footage of my opponent in previous fights, I was going absolutely stir crazy. I ate my favorite pre-fight meal for lunch—steel cut oatmeal, yams, grilled chicken, and a liter of room temperature water. I was happy to hear my alarm go off when it was finally time to get my gear together and make my way to the arena. I opened my hotel room door, bag in hand, and was greeted by Pat. I didn’t know how long he’d been standing outside my door, but we made our way down the hall to the elevator together. He didn’t say much, but he was fidgety and anxious.

We arrived at the arena and were shown to our dressing room, where I quickly unpacked my gear and started mentally preparing myself. There were people in and out of the room, the increased activity around me loud and distracting. I remained focused. Centered. I got dressed and sat on the warm-up mat in the center of the room to stretch. I pictured my old coach in Arizona, bowing to him with honor before a sparring match. I pictured the peaceful desert landscape that I used to gaze out into while jogging. I pictured my mother sitting down onto the edge of my bed next to my sleeping body, rubbing my head to wake me up. I could see her smiling down at me every morning as a child, saying “Rise up my sweet child, my sleepy head.” I pictured the ocean at my new summer home. I could smell the briny air and almost feel the sea breeze on my face. And I pictured Bree. I saw her crystal blue eyes in front of me, framed by long, brown lashes, inviting me to stare into her soul. I envisioned her perfect full lips and how she bit the bottom one when she was nervous. I opened my eyes and saw everything. I saw where I was going after tonight. And I liked what I saw.

My hands were taped and my gloves put on. I was all set to head out into the chaos, shadowboxing around while I waited for the officials to tell us when. It wasn’t long before we were summoned and lead down a long hallway. The crowd noise and the music were getting louder and louder the closer we got to the arena’s center. But it wasn’t nearly as loud as the sound of my own rapidly beating heart in my ears. The music blasted and the lights illuminated the octagon ahead of me. The crowd went crazy. Flanked by multiple security guards, I walked calmly down the tunnel of fan hands reaching out. I felt focused. Confident. Excited. The octagon beckoned me, tugging at me like the center of it had its own gravitational pull. I got petroleum jelly rubbed onto my face over my eyebrows and frisked by the officials.

The commentator, standing in the center of the ring, began. “Ladies and Gentleman, this is the first event of the evening!” he announced. “This fight is three rounds in the UFC heavyweight division.” There was something surreal about even being in the announcer’s presence, but to hear his famous voice announce a fight that I was actually a part of was just crazy. “Introducing first, fighting out of the blue corner, in his debut UFC professional fight, he stands six feet, four inches tall and weighs in at two hundred and fifty-five pounds. With an impressive amateur record of twenty-six wins and two losses, fighting out of Fernandina Beach, Florida, by way of Murphy’s Gym, Drew Dougherty!”

I climbed up the stairs into the octagon and circled around, loosening up my legs. I retreated to my “corner” and the commentator introduced my opponent with equal enthusiasm, but added an impressive professional record of sixteen wins and two losses. He entered the ring with even more charisma than he showed at the weigh-in yesterday. Dancing around, punching the air, and hyping up the crowd, inviting them to cheer louder, he looked like he enjoyed the show more than the fight. I was just ready to fight.

We were both brought to the center from our corners. The referee insisted on a clean fight and reminded us of a few rules. We touched gloves and the bell sounded. I stood back, not timid, but cautious. I wanted him to strike first, needing to feel his power. I needed to see his eyes when his blow stuck to gauge exactly how my attack would be most effective. But he seemed to be doing the same to me. We danced around each other for a few seconds, long enough to illicit booing from the crowd. So I gave him what he wanted. I charged in, punching and easily landing a left jab, right cross combination to the face. He shook his head and smiled at me.

And then the true fight began. We exchanged punches to the face and the body. He had a lot of one-punch power, but wasted too much energy dancing and skipping around. I felt the power in his blows decreasing as time went on. He was definitely spastic and difficult to read, but I was blocking more than he was landing. And what I landed, he was feeling. The left side of his face was already swollen and he was bleeding above his left eye. I could hear Pat yelling from my corner and knew that I needed to get him to the mat. Just as I was about to charge in for the take down, the bell sounded, ending the round. I made my way back to my corner and sat on the stool. Pat yelled instructions to me as I doused myself with cold water over my head and put an ice pack on the base of my neck.

“Jesus Christ Almighty, Drew! You’ve got to get him to the fucking mat. You aren’t going to knock this guy out in a boxing match. Show these people what you’ve got. Show them you deserve to be here. Show this showboating cocksucker that he underestimated the wrong fucking guy!” Pat screamed. “Get him to the floor and go for the submission.”

I stood, energized and empowered, finally letting the noise of the crowd reach my ears. Time to go to work. The bell sounded again and I came out swinging. Stunning him a little with an uppercut to the jaw and a two-punch connection to the body, I kicked and swept his legs out from under him. To the mat we went. He shook off his fog and twisted his body to get into a better position. We tumbled around a little, all the while punching each other in between, exchanging holds and both vying for the advantage. I brought my left leg up higher to try to reverse his hold and better my position. Not being able to see his opposing movement, I in turn got myself right into the worst position possible. He maneuvered and locked me up.

It wasn’t but split seconds before he had me in the guillotine hold, and it sucked worse than I could possibly imagine. I couldn’t budge from his vice-like grip. My arms and legs flailed erratically, trying to connect with something, anything, to give me leverage. I felt my throat close even tighter in the choke hold, heard the throbbing of my pulse in my head, and then my eyes started to blur. A gray cloud of haze passed in front of me and I was suddenly removed from the fight, looking into the eyes of my father, watching him choke down on me with a sinister expression of hate. I felt the control slipping away and wasn’t about to let him take it away again.

Fuck. This. Shit.

I was able to blink his face away, inhale a slight breath of air and point my chin down toward my chest, hard. I slowly brought my right arm over his shoulder and down his back, and with all of my remaining strength, rolled him up onto his shoulder, ridding him of the leverage he previously had. I struggled to loosen his grip and somehow I got loose, probably aided by his exhaustion and the shock of me actually getting out of a near unbreakable hold. I got to my feet before he did and capitalized on that opportunity to get a few punches in.

He was visibly stunned, and as he shook his head as if to shake off the blow, it turned to pure rage. Now he was pissed off. Taking two steps towards me, with his face unguarded, I tried to anticipate his next move, glancing down at his feet, taking note of the angle of his body, what stance he was in. I stepped to my right, avoiding his sad, half-assed attempt at a kick to my leg, and the bell dinged. I smiled at him and the crowd and walked to my corner.

Pat squatted down in front of me and started shouting again. “Holy Christ, son! I can’t believe you just got out of that. You’ve got to capitalize on this. You’re in control now.”

Hands were all over me, drying my sweat and blood to goop more petroleum jelly on my face. I opened my mouth and someone squirted water into it, which I spit out into a bucket after swishing the blood out of my mouth.

“You’ve got him by the balls,” Pat hissed. “Now neuter the son of a bitch. One more round. You dictate the pace of the fight. The best offense is not defense. Come out striking. Tear this motherfucker apart!”

We both rose when the bell sounded and moved to the center. Like a great white shark on the hunt for its next meal and suddenly smelling the blood of chummed up waters ahead, I charged towards him, backing him up against the cage. Trapping him against the chain link fencing of the octagon, I wailed on him. I punched, and punched, and punched. When he was blocking my blows to the face, I switched to the body. When he brought his elbows down the guard his ribs, I brought my fists back up to his face. I saw him start to lean and turn to his left, so I spun around, as if to walk away, but shocked him with my left arm, spinning my elbow into his face. And down he went. He fell to the floor, but still had light in his eyes. I mounted over him and hammer-fist punched his face over and over again. Right, right, right, right, and then left, left, left, again and again until the referee physically pulled me off of him and waved his arms that the fight was over.

I had done it. I had beaten him.

I was tackled to the ground as Pat and my trainers rushed me in excitement, hugging and slapping my back in congratulations. The officials came to do a once over and make sure I didn’t need immediate medical attention, but I waved them off.

Once the mania died down and the officials gathered to announce the decision, I stood in the center of the octagon, surrounded by my team. The crowd was going crazy with cheers and I felt on top of the world to feel my hand raised by the referee and hear my name announced as the winner of the match by way of knockout.

The commentator tried to interview me after the announcement was made, but I couldn’t tell you anything he asked me. It was all just a blur. I could only remember one thing in all of the madness. I heard the announcer, with crystal clarity, say into the camera at the conclusion of his questioning me, “And with a surprising win, the newcomer, Drew Dougherty! This isn’t the last we’ll hear of this name!”