With the initial formalities out of the way, we began circling one another. I continued to test him, searching for weaknesses, using my superior reach to keep him out of his comfort zone. We traded punches. None of his connected with any force, but I landed two good rights on his chest. That took some of the wind from his sails, but he kept coming, responding with a stinging kick to my upper thigh that sent a shock rolling through my body. There was a determined glint in his eyes, a kind of hunger I rarely saw in my opponents. Something primal stirred inside me. This was a real contest.
He advanced again, trying to crowd me, fists tearing through the air as I ducked and wove and defended. He knew his best chance was to find an opening and take me to the mat, and I foolishly gave him one. I put too much into my counter attack. Maybe I was trying to end it then and there, I'm not sure. In any case, I extended too far, my strike shooting out over his head as he dove in low. He slammed into me, knocking me to the floor, tangling his body around mine. The impact drove the air from my lungs.
The next minute was as intense as any in the fight. Ground work doesn't appear particularly exciting at first glance, more like a casual embrace than a vicious battle, but it's actually an intense contest of strength and technique. The goal is to get your opponent into a body lock, applying pressure either to one of their joints or their neck, forcing them to concede the fight. Even the tiniest mistake can give the opponent the opening that they need, and if you don't tap out fast enough, it can lead to serious injury.
The two of us rolled across the mat, desperately jockeying for position. Brock had the upper hand, and was trying to work himself on top of me so he could trap my leg against his body. He was going for a kneebar — a lock that hyper extends the knee — which can be one of the most devastating moves if it goes too far. I fought with everything I had, desperately struggling to keep him to one side of my hips. He was incredibly powerful, and he displayed an uncanny amount of patience. He knew we were evenly matched down here, and if he forced his way between my legs, I wouldn't have the strength to stop him. Blood was raging in my veins, and all my muscles burned. Even in that moment, mere inches from defeat, I felt a powerful sense of euphoria. You're never more alive when you're staring out over the brink.
His grip weakened ever so slightly, and I spotted my opportunity. With a great heave, I yanked myself free and shot to my feet, stumbling backward. He followed with a snarl. I could have tried to use that opening to my advantage and get him in a lock of my own, but the truth was, I was a little shaken. Besides, I'm a striker at heart, and I knew that when we were on our feet, I had the advantage. I wouldn't underestimate him again.
The struggle on the ground had left us both panting, and we were content to slow things down until the bell rung to end the round. As I returned to my corner, my eyes once again returned to Grace. There was concern on her face now, but I once again found a smile. I had this.
"What the hell was that?" Tony asked, handing me a bottle.
I shrugged. "He got lucky."
"No, you got cocky. You wanted to go for a fancy knockout, and you nearly paid the price."
I sucked in some water, just enough to wet my mouth. Tony was right. "It won't happen again."
"You're damn right it won't."
I shook my head. "He must have been training like a motherfucker. His ground game is through the roof compared to last time."
"So don't let him take you down again. Keep your distance."
"That's the plan," I replied.
The bell rang again, and Brock leapt up, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he moved to the center. The break had done him good. He looked fresh and full of energy. That first round performance must have buoyed his spirits, and rightly so. He was in this, which was more than a lot of people would have expected.
I changed tactics, doing everything I could to keep space between the two of us. Whenever he tried to charge, I kept him at bay with long defensive punches that forced him backward. They weren't really capable of causing serious damage, but that was fine. I wasn't trying to hurt him yet. I just needed to keep him from getting close and tire him out. My fitness is second to none. I can go five rounds with the best of them and still have some left in the tank. But a lot of guys don't have that luxury, and when they get tired, they get sloppy.
After a minute of dancing around the ring, I could see the frustration on his face. He'd thought he had a winning strategy, but now he couldn't execute it. I was too tall, too fast on my feet, and I didn't make the same mistake twice. His breath was coming short and sharp and his skin was slick with sweat. I was wearing him down and he knew it. So he went to plan B, which was exactly what I was waiting for.