Pain Don't Hurt by Mark Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

was unexpected. A professional fighter, eloquent, stylish, and quick-witted. While Rick came on like a ball of violent energy in a fight, flustered and evaded his opponents while attacking with impossibly difficult shots and throwing everything at full power, Mo demoralized opponents by meeting them head-on, taking no damage and pummeling away at them. Rick at his core was a brawler with incredible skill, and Mo was a skilled fighter who just loved to brawl. Mo didn’t widely evade, he didn’t “explore the ring’s space,” as we used to say. He cut small angles and popped at his opponents with the same quickness you would expect a person to use when brushing a bee off their shoulder, yet inflicting seismic damage with what looked like no effort. Rick made it look easy to kick a skilled fighter’s ass. Mo made it look fun. From the first walk out, Mo’s face would never change. He had this incredible “So what?” look that he would wear while he fought. No rage faces, no harried expressions, no wincing. Just “So what?,” which made his onslaught seem all the more unbelievable. Mo was more or less self-taught until he rose to a particular level of success, at which point he took it upon himself to seek out every trainer he felt was worth it to learn from. He spent tedious time honing his abilities. He always spoke softly at interviews, never was cutting or classless or brutish. It was as though he had risen to the highest level of alpha that a man can achieve and had nothing to prove to anyone anymore. Before a fight against Mike Bernardo, Mo had walked to the center of the ring. As the referee read out his rules, Mike began grimacing and leaning closer and closer in to Mo, who seemed unfazed. Mo never looked away, never pushed back, just stood his ground. The message was clear: “My mountain; you ain’t gonna scare me off, you’re going to have to take it.” Finally, as Mike pushed harder and harder, Mo did the best thing I have ever seen. He puckered up and planted a kiss full on Mike Bernardo’s snarling lips. In one second, Mo defused Mike, and Mike pulled away giggling. Mo barely cracked a trace of a smile. Mo lost that fight to a decision, but he won the audience clean. There was just something about him. He reminded me of my first trainers in that dingy boxing gym. Big, black, and unflappable. He was so comfortable in his own skin, so completely at ease.
    I chose Mo Smith. After flipping through phone books and calling various people, I finally got ahold of him. I will never forget the first time I got him on the phone. I explained that I was really looking forward to getting some better training. How I was wanting to pursue kickboxing more and more, and how I would love to work with him. This is the cool, casual fighter way of saying, “ Please train me. ” Mo was smooth and calm as he invited me to come out, train, and see how it went. I knew then that I was coming for what was essentially an audition; no one said that, but that’s what it was. A few months later I packed my bags and flew to Seattle to begin training with him. On the plane I listened to Everlast, an L.A.-based rapper who had just had open-heart surgery to correct a defective valve, so I felt somehow connected to him. I tried to convince myself that I was going to be fine. In truth, I had not been this nervous for as long as I could remember. I had never known what it felt like to yearn for approval from another fighter. I was walking into an established pack, and I was going to have to prove myself. There was no way for me to be a big fish in the pond I was leaping into. Hell, I wasn’t even going to be a medium-size fish. I was a fucking minnow compared to the barracuda that swam there. But I would be in my element; sink or swim, this was it. Risk nothing, and gain nothing. I was risking it all. I leaned back and tried to sleep, feeling every cord that had tethered me to