Born to Fight by Mark Hunt, Ben Mckelvey Read Free Book Online Page A

but isn’t that how real life works? It’s only ever looking backwards that you can see whether a road you’ve taken was a road to fortune or ruin.
    That night started pretty much like all the rest. Johnno and I were up to our regular brand of mischief – we found a few fellas on Karangahape Road, just north of the city, with a jacket and watch we liked the look of. We gave those fellas a whipping, stole their gear and then headed to Don’t Tell Mama’s nightclub nearby for some celebratory drinks.
    All was good at DTMs – a little Bobby Brown on the decks and the drinks were flowing – until I realised I hadn’t seen Johnno for a little while. After a bit of asking around, I was told Johnno had gone out the front of theclub with some angry-looking fellas. In fact, the dude had been frog-marched.
    Outside the club I found a scrum of guys putting the boot into Johnno, who was on the ground in a ball. I ran over to help, but slipped and soon I was on the ground next to him, copping my own kicking.
    The police turned up on the scene, dragging these fellas off us. They put themselves between us and these fellas, some of whom we’d robbed earlier. The cops started asking questions, but of course no one was answering. I’m guessing we were close to being given a stern talking-to and told to piss off, but that old anger started to burn hotter than reason or consequence could possibly cool.
    I could still feel their kicks on me and see the foot scuffs on my clothes. What were they, these fellas, to me? What gave them the right to put their boots into me? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?
    While one of the cops was jibber-jabbering, I moved slowly towards one of the guys who’d been kicking me and I let fly with a big right hand. The fella was out before he even landed, falling under the wheels of the police car. Then I reloaded and dropped one of his mates, and then one more after that.
    Soon it was mayhem out on the street. Johnno and I were into it, and the fellas on the other side, but alsopeople who’d come from nowhere. It became one of those scraps no one wanted to miss. The cops were trying to get a handle on the whole ruckus, but they realised they needed back-up, and they were calling for it on their radios.
    While the street was all flying fists and shouting, a hand reached over and pulled me back into the club. It was a dreadlocked guy, shorter and older than me, but strong, tattooed and with a definite confidence. This guy pushed me into the staff toilets and told me to stay there until he came and got me. I did what he said, and waited there for what felt like an hour. When the door opened, I knew this guy had probably just kept me from another stint in prison.
    ‘So, you like a scrap, do you son?’ the man asked.
    I didn’t say anything.
    ‘You want a real fight then?’
    I did wonder what I’d been doing up to that point. The man said the words
Muay Thai
, but it didn’t mean anything to me. He said the word ‘kickboxing’, which I did understand. Then he said the word ‘Thursday’.
    ‘This Thursday?’ I asked.
    ‘This Thursday, bro.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Here. You in?’
    This guy’s name was Sam Marsters, a bouncer at DTMs and a few other clubs around K’Road. He was also a fighter,a trainer and a bit of a local entrepreneur. In five days’ time, Marsters wanted me to have a kickboxing fight in this nightclub. I was in.
    There have been a few people over the years who’ve reached into the sloppy mess of my life, pulled me out and put me on some solid ground, and Sam Marsters was probably the first. He invited me to go to his gym in Fort Street for a little bit of training, and the two things I remember about that place are the smell of liniment, and learning how to throw a punch into a pad, which was pretty much all I did learn. After all, five days is five days.
    Sam Marsters is a cool cat. Even though he was only ten or so years older than me, he had lived a life, having worked as a free-diving