Taking a blow to the head or the ribs is one thing. What separates the winners from the wannabes is the ability to think. If you’re hit with the left cross that usually means the right side of the fighter’s upper body is open. Only the most disciplined of fighters always keep their right side protected, and Bo isn’t a disciplined fighter. He’s fast and he has hammers for fists, but he’s lazy, which is why he’s only my sparring partner and not competing professionally. This morning, though, my reflexes were coated with tar. Gym chum could take me down this morning.
Bo sensed this and apparently Paulie did as well. “Get over there and do chest crawls. Twenty five times,” Paulie instructed. Holding the upper rope up and pushing the lower rope down, he gestured for me to get going. Bo helped by shoving me in the back.
Military crawls? I could do those in my sleep. I tried not to look grateful at being released from sparring. Pulling my body across the gym mats, one forearm and knee at a time, required no thought at all. By the tenth one, my mind was completely blank of everything but the abrasiveness of the rubber weave of the mats cutting into my arms and legs. By number fifteen, I wasn’t feeling anything but a burning sensation in my abdomen. Pain is weakness leaving the body, I repeated in a loop. By twenty-five, I felt like liquefied rubber.
My effort didn’t quite meet Paulie’s standards. When I stood up, he looked at me grim-faced. “Took you two minutes longer today. You’re a worthless schmuck. Go run and get the fuck out of here. When you come back tomorrow, your mind better be in the game. We have a fucking meet in four weeks. Do you want to get on the card or not?”
I nodded and took the water bottle that appeared at my side. Gulping down some much-needed hydration, I went over to the bench where my running shoes were. I pulled them on and nodded to Bo. He always ran my cool-down with me.
Every morning I got up at 5 a.m. to train with Paulie Generoli. When I had decided to come to Central, I figured that fighting would’ve to be shelved or put aside entirely. I wasn’t broken up about it. Few fighters ever made any money, although with new network television contracts, and increasing interest in pay-per-view events, the sport was making everyone richer.
Even with the influx of new money, though, the likelihood of fighters making a real living out of it was low. The goal was to get on a television fight card. You do that and you get a pretty nice payday. I played high percentage shots, like saving all my money while deployed, instead of buying new trucks, bikes, or boats. But the lure of getting paid big money for beating the shit out of someone was too enticing to pass up.
My trainer in San Diego begged me not to leave, but when it became clear that I wasn’t going to change my mind, he hooked me up with Paulie, a former Olympic wrestling coach. I was lucky to have him and even luckier not to have to pay Paulie for his training services, only for my gym membership. But if I could win something—anything—then Paulie could use me to bolster his gym’s reputation. It was a mutual back-scratching arrangement that could all go to hell if Paulie found out that I was messed up this morning because I couldn’t stop thinking about a girl.
Never a big equal rights supporter, Paulie had become increasingly angry toward females after so many colleges began eliminating their wrestling programs. He viewed women as good for only one thing, and Paulie was perpetually single because he couldn’t keep his opinions to himself.
“I’m going to talk to her after her last class today,” I told Bo as we ran along the nearly deserted downtown streets. Traffic would pick up in about fifteen minutes, but we’d be close to done by that time.
“Where?”
“Outside her classroom.”
“Sounds like a terrible idea.”
“It’s not,” I denied. I had debated this all night. It was why I couldn’t focus this morning. “Or it might be, but it’s the best I’ve got. I’ve let it fester too long. It’s time to pull the Band-Aid off.”
“What was the Band-Aid, exactly? The Dear John letter you wrote to her?”
“Was I supposed to show up at her door with my rucksack and say, ‘I’m a fucking mess. I can’t sleep. I jump at loud noises. I’m likely to strangle your cat if you have one,’” I retorted. When Bo and I separated, I’d spent three months wondering if I had made a big mistake by getting out. I wasn’t suited for anything but being a Marine, but time and multiple visits to the VA helped calm me down.
I had wanted to separate, get Grace, and start a new life together. Instead, I sent her a letter telling her she reminded me of someone’s little sister and friend-zoned her. I didn’t want to think about the anger I would’ve felt getting that kind of letter from her. The guilt wore me down sometimes, but I didn’t want to present a fucked-up version of myself. I’d spent the year putting myself back together, physically and mentally, and another year making sure I could not only get into Central, but pay for it.