A Fighter's Heart: One Man's Journey Through the World of Fighting by Sam Sheridan Read Free Book Online Page B

he’s Catholic. Later I found out he had said, “Sam, have a cool heart.”
    I go back to the center and touch gloves with my opponent. He is trying to glare me down. I’m not interested in a staring contest. The referee holds both our gloves and says something in Thai, warning us. We both nod, even though neither of us understands him.
    I return to my corner and the bell rings. The pipes trill, and we come together. I have my game plan and I’m not going to deviate from it: Take it easy the first round, kick low and hard at his legs, and feel him out. Nobody kicks high until the third round. Don’t clinch.
    I kick him first, a low right-leg kick, and a few seconds later land a weak left-leg kick. I fight traditional, or orthodox, stance, which, like boxing, leads with the left, so my stronger kicks are right-leg kicks. The lead-leg kicks require a quick shuffle step that telegraphs. My opponent comes back with a heavy, strong leg kick. He is a southpaw, a lefty, so he uses his right hand to jab and his left to power punch. He begins alternating between leading with his left and leading with his right, a very karate thing to do, to try to confuse your opponent. His stance is shallow, though, and his shoulders are nearly parallel with mine, so it doesn’t make much difference; the angle and speed of his blows don’t change much whether he is leading left or right. After a few more punches, he throws a heavy kick to my right side, low, just above the waist, and I think, Hey, maybe I can kick to the body too.
    I’m not really thinking out there; I’m just trying to stay with him, stay in his face. There are moments when the ref is yelling, “Pick it up, Red!”—referring to my red trunks—which kind of throws me, as my world has shrunk to my opposition and nothing exists or makes sense outside of our intense dialogue of punches and kicks. I just want to keep up my end of the conversation.
    My opponent keeps landing heavy kicks on my lead leg, on the outside of my left knee. They don’t really hurt, but I know that it’s not good for me. For some reason, I can’t block them shin on shin.
    Suddenly I’m on my ass, scrambling to get to my feet. I can’t tell if it was a punch or kick that put me down, I think probably a kick. I just want to get up, to get on with it, to get back in front of him. I don’t even take my standing eight count to catch my breath, which surprises my opponent a little; he’s already walked over to his corner. He comes back warily and we touch gloves. He should jump all over me, but he doesn’t, so I take those few seconds of rest. Then I start punching, and he stumbles and slips and goes down on his own.
    I am exhausted, but I hear Blue calling through the haze, “He’s through! He’s through!” and I think, Shit, Blue’s right. He’s all done. I just have to keep on him, not let up, and he’ll run out of gas.
    He keeps swinging for me, going for the big knockout punch, but I keep my hands up and he never lands one. I chase him around and he turns and grapples with me, and I hear someone yell, “Knee!” I throw a knee, just a little one. I feel it smush into his gut, into the softness underneath his rib cage, and to my astonishment he collapses, just goes straight down. The ref steps in and I stand over my opponent in amazement. Finally, I walk over to a neutral corner, unable to believe what is happening. I watch him try, still on one knee, to pick up his mouth guard, and I think, Don’t get up, don’t get up. Then the ref beckons me over, so I start back, squaring myself up, getting back onto my toes. The ref looks back at him, and he still isn’t really on his feet. He is doubled over and pawing weakly for his mouth guard, swaying unsteadily. The ref waves him out. First-round KO.
     
     
    I was relieved, but I didn’t quite know what to do. I went down on one knee next to my opponent, who had collapsed again, touched his gloves, and said something like “Good fight,”