I’ve been a professional MMA fighter for nearly six months, but if you took one look at me, you’d never know.
My body is battered, my skin bruised. I haven’t been able to put on any muscle or bulk up in any of the ways I need to. In this world the strong win—they survive—any less and you’re turned into the dirt they use to level the mats. Me? Yeah, I’m currently hanging out with the dirt.
I have no idea where to go from here or which path will bring me to the strength I’m seeking.
Leaving my fight, my head hangs low as I wander up the sidewalk. Another loss, another dirt facial. I know I can do this, be a successful fighter who battles my way to the top. But no matter what I do or who I plead with, I have yet to find a manager that will take me on as a client. My determination is there, my anger is there, I just need someone to help me focus it.
As I walk down this dimly lit street, the neon sign hanging above a little dive bar catches my eye. It’s a literal hole-in-the-wall place, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it, or stumbling around aimlessly like I am. This last match thoroughly kicked the shit out of me. My skin looks more like an artist's canvas than a human suit. So, even though I know I shouldn’t, I decide to say fuck it.
Stepping into the bar, the atmosphere hits you with a welcome feeling. It’s lively and homey, one of those places where you set up roots and come back out of sheer loyalty. There’s an Indie band playing the stage at the back, a small dance floor just in front of them. Laughter and light flow from every corner of the place, as the patrons sing along to the songs in off-key wails and chug their beers.
I slide my way onto an empty stool at the bar and signal the barkeep. She nods my way and finishes up with the person she’s talking to before joining me.
“What can I get for ya, Sugar?” she asks, the southern twang in her voice hitting me like a brick to the chest. I did not expect that strong of an accent from this small woman.
“Uhh, whiskey on the rocks, please,” I order, hanging my head in my hands.
“You got it, hun.”
A minute passes by and then a glass is being slid into my field of view. With a nod of appreciation, I grab it, gulping the brown liquid down in one go. The intense burn sliding down my throat, gives me something to feel against the numbness currently residing in my soul.
With a quick rapt on the counter-top, I request another and without hesitation a second glass is placed in my hand.
“Sugar, I ain’t one to pry, but you look like you could use someone willing to listen,” the bartender says, and for a second I consider telling her to fuck off.
Biting my tongue, I look up into her eyes, hazel orbs stare back at me swimming with honest concern. I guess it’s not everyday a guy walks in here looking like he just picked a fight with the ball machine at the batting cages.
She’s not bad looking. Petite little thing, maybe five-five in height with brown hair that bounces when she walks. Couldn’t be much older than I am either.
“Thanks. I’m just in a bit of a slump. I’m an MMA fighter and I can’t seem to get representation. Which means I’m having a hell of a time booking matches or reserving agym to train. I can’t bulk up because of it, so the fights I do manage to book, I lose. Like tonight,” I spew out.
Her eyes haven’t left my face as she listens to my word vomit of the problems I’m going through. It was like the second they started flowing from my mouth, I couldn't get them to stop. Which is the excuse I’m going to use for why I still keep going.
“Fighting is my release. I lost a friend a number of years ago and when I’m in the ring, it’s like I’m finally able to feel something. I have no back up if this doesn’t work out for me. It’s the only thing I know how to do and the last dream I have.”
Once the waterfall of depression finishes cascading out of me, and I stop to catch my breath, I look up at the random woman who I just bared my soul to. The complete stranger who, in a matter of minutes, lent me her ear and became my sound board. Shaking my head in shame and embarrassment, I quickly down the rest of my drink before standing up.
“Thanks for the whiskey, and lending an ear,” I tell her as I throw a twenty onto the counter and turn to leave.
“Hold on there, Sugar.” She reaches across the bar-top, placing her hand over top of mine. “I believe everything happens for a reason. And I think I know the reason you walked into my bar tonight.”
She taps the top of my hand, smiling as my forehead creases in confusion. What on earth is she talking about?
“Because you’re on my route home, open still, and have alcohol?” I cock my head, trying to figure out the motives of this woman.
She laughs, wiping her hands on the towel hanging from her waist. “You’re funny, Sugar. Hold on to that.”
I watch her head to the other end of the bar, stick two fingers in her mouth and let off the shrillest whistle I’ve ever heard. The sound echoing through the room halts everyone in their tracks, all eyes drifting to her. The band stops playing and conversations pause. It’s eerily quiet all of a sudden and a vibration races up my spine.
“What’s up, Dina?” the drummer of the band asks.
“Oh, not much, Handsome. I just needa borrow Mike for a moment. Would you be a peach and send him over here?”
“You got it, Sweets.” He winks at her and just like that, the energy within the bar returns to normal.
That night Dina introduced me to her cousin Mike, who just so happened to be in the fight management industry. We got to talking, which turned into shots and laughing, and before long he was presenting me with an offer. He would take me on as a client, but in return I had to promise him to speak to someone about the shit I was clearly going through. I have no idea how he managed to see what I thought I was careful to hide, but I never hesitated in accepting.
I’m forever grateful for Dina and walking into her bar that night. It set me on the path where now I have Mikayla. My woman who is not only standing in my corner, but cheering the loudest for me. Physically and metaphorically. She grounds me in reality, even though she’s the one holding on to me as if she’s falling. It’s a dangerous game to play, because I have no interest in catching her. When it comes to my Baby Girl, I will always fall with her. Chasing after her even in death.
