The Housekeeper: Love, Death, and Prizefighting

by Josh Samman

  She took me to school while I was still trying to attend. It only lasted a few weeks. None of my credits from classes I’d taken at WFWI counted towards a diploma, and I had several attendance failures from being in and out of school for so many years. I’d fallen too far behind. I couldn’t catch up, and dropped out.

  I thought I was done with subcultures and atypical lifestyles. When I moved out, I realized I was wrong about all of it. The transitions were just starting.

  I got my GED, which gave my mom some much-needed faith in me. I got a job and started Tallahassee Community College, and she gave me her old vehicle so I could get there. Beth and I got a Golden Retriever puppy and named him Juice.

  My mom decided to take a final leap and bought a house to rent to me. My independence was important to both of us. I got a couple of the bus stop kids to rent the other two rooms. One had gone on to manage the old Hungry Howies, and the other worked construction with his dad.

  I was 16 years old, and despite self-inflicted hardships, was leading a fortunate life. I had a good girlfriend, an awesome pet, and a new house full of old friends. I was still ambitious, and community college wasn’t challenging. I needed something to throw myself into.

  I was driving home from school one day, when I took a wrong turn and stumbled upon an old busted down warehouse that would change my life forever.

  I knew what it was when I found it. I’d heard of it before. The busted up letters barely hung on the brick exterior.

  Shaolin Kung-Fu.

  45.

  "A love not expressed is a love not experienced."

  -Pastor Fran Bueller

  Isabel and I jumped in, head first. It moved fast, but I didn’t mind. Making up for lost time, I thought. There was no feeling out process, no physical exploration to be done, no games, as there usually were with typical relationship beginnings. We had been saying our I love you’s for years now, only now they were more intimate. I was swept off my feet again in no time. She’d not so much walked back into my life as she had stuck her head down and crashed right in. It was a tactic I could appreciate.

  Veronica had no idea why I never came over that night. I didn’t feel obliged to explain it to her. She was a fling, a temporary diversion from the things that mattered. I got a salty text from her days later.

  “You think you’re some kind of celebrity now? You’re never gonna love anything more than that stupid sport.” I didn’t answer, and it was the last thing I heard from her for a long time. In all fairness, I’d heard it before, complaints of being too absorbed in the sport. There weren’t many things I’d ever loved as much as MMA, although I didn’t think I was any kind of celebrity. I just had a clear path ahead of me, with someone I had an impossible time saying no to.

  As for TV stardom, I was far from it. Instead of notoriety for my hard work and success, the series painted me as a villainous character, something I wasn’t exactly grief-stricken about, but it did teach me a lot about the depths to which people became emotionally involved with folks on TV that they’d never met.

  In the day and age of social media, it was easy for the public to access on-air personalities to tell them exactly what they thought of them. The response to my personality was less than stellar, which is probably the understatement of the year. I had people who didn’t even have Twitter accounts, creating them for the sole purpose of telling me what an asshole they thought I was.

  Watching the show, I did look like a prick. I thought back to the conversation I had with Jimmy, him telling me I had a confidence that made people uncomfortable. In the professional MMA realm, I had a nice streak of finishing opponents in the first round, I’d been a coach, a gym owner, a promoter, and matchmaker. I felt those experiences put me ahead of the other fighters in the house. I thought I was better, and it showed. A certain amount of brass was to be expected of prizefighters, but in the context it was shown, people simply did not like it.

  I began writing contributions for a website called BloodyElbow.com, doing episode breakdowns with a behind the scenes look at things that weren’t shown on air. I wasn’t divulging results, or spilling details of future fights, instead just trying to tell my side of the story. Production felt it was enough to tamper with their planned narratives, and I got a stern warning call from a tyrannical executive producer, telling me to shut the fuck up. That was the end of my blogging for The Ultimate Fighter.

  Tallahassee had no love lost. They didn’t give a shit what the rest of the world thought. I had great support, hugs and handshakes everywhere I went. Isabel was around to witness most of it, and she beamed with pride as I did. It was mutual, immense feelings of being proud of one another. She had made such a turnaround, returning to her old form more with each passing day.

  As for the rest of the episodes, we still watched at Hobbit. The same crowd showed up every week to cheer me on, even on episodes I wasn’t fighting. Instead of Veronica, it was Isabel watching by my side. No one really asked where Veronica went. There were no awkward feelings bringing Isabel around my friends. They all loved her. Everyone always did, and with her by my side it felt like natural order in the world had finally been restored.

  46.

  Late Spring, 2004

  When I walked into the Kung Fu gym, two older men were wrestling on the mat. What they were doing didn’t look like Kung Fu. They stopped rolling around, and the larger one walked over and introduced himself. His name was Brian Orkin. He reminded me of Mr. Shannon from WFWI; a nerdy meathead with thick muscles and thicker glasses.

  For two hours a day, he and a friend rented out the Kung Fu building, and I happened to show up during those hours. I joined them that day, then came back and tried to Kung Fu the following afternoon. I decided quickly which one I liked more.

  They split their classes into two categories: striking and grappling. Striking referred to various forms of boxing and kickboxing. Grappling was what they were doing when I got there, combining traditional wrestling with the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu submission techniques the Gracies had been teaching for years.

  I didn’t yet know what they were doing was “UFC fighting.” The first time I’d watched a whole UFC fight was at Beth’s house. It intrigued me, but it wasn’t something I meant to pursue. It wasn’t until I heard some of the guys at the gym talking about their upcoming fights that I put the pieces together.

  I was still a kid, and martial arts became an avenue through which I could continue learning after traditional education. Fighting satisfied my mental appetite as well as physical, at a time where I was getting neither. I now had another channel to direct my love of excess into.

  Every day I went to the gym, grappling, hitting, and getting punched by grown men. We hurled medicine balls around, and kicked bags, and all suffered together in that musty, shitty gym. Most days I worked out so hard I threw up. I felt like a caveman, and I loved it.

  I had a case of asthma I’d been fighting since I was a kid, and it took me a while to get it under control. Once I did, I began to see results, and people noticed. I liked that they noticed. I’d always been the skinny kid, and it was a good experience finally gaining muscle. Because people knew about my past drug use, they assumed me getting bigger was more of the same. At first, I was flattered, folks insinuating that I could’ve only had the results I did because of steroids or artificial means. It got old fast though, the notion that I’d taken shortcuts. Even my own friends and family asked me about it. It made me want to work even harder, made me want to do things the natural way to spite them.

  MMA became popular at a pivotal time in my life. I’d carried a sense of failure after dropping out of high school that I was looking to cure. Throwing myself into competition was a way to combat that. I didn’t plan on making a career out of it. I just wanted something to work towards, some of that delayed gratification I’d learned about at Disc Village. I told them to sign me up, and they did.

  They didn’t realize I was only 16. I didn’t realize I had to be 18 to fight. When the tw
o intersected, it was a bit of a funny moment. Patience, they told me, my time would come.

  47.

  “If you were all alone in the universe with no one to talk to, no one with which to share the beauty of the stars, to laugh with, to touch, what would be your purpose in life? It is other life; it is love, which gives your life meaning. This is harmony. We must discover the joy of each other, the joy of challenge, the joy of growth.”

  -Mitsugi Saotome

  Besides fitting in by my side at The Hobbit, Isabel grew into her own as a part of our new business, Combat Night. Mitchell’s girlfriend, Brandi, had taken a class with Isabel at Tallahassee Community College, one of the only Isabel had ever went to. Isabel shared a special social intelligence with her brothers, an ability to shapeshift with her surroundings while still keeping an identity all her own. She was my intellectual superior in this sense, by far. She knew how to fit in and make friends with anyone, anywhere, and when she found someone she liked, she knew how to make a good impression. Brandi was someone she really liked. The feelings were reciprocated all around. “I’m guessing you guys dated in high school?” Mitchell asked me after our first interactions.

  “Something like that,” I said. I wish it would’ve been that cut and dry.

  “I like her a lot,” he said.

  “Yeah?” Everyone adored her. I just wanted to hear the reasons out of his mouth.

  “Yeah. She reminds me a lot of Brandi.”

  I could see the similarities, but wanted him to elaborate. “How so?”

  “I dunno. She’s country, but still kind of hood.” I laughed at his description. He didn’t know anything about Isabel being in jail, although I still called her Thug Life from time to time. As for being “country,” she preferred the term “southern,” but she was certainly both.

  Isabel was always looking up to people to learn new things, adapting in social situations. We were at a time in our business’ growth where we were expanding from Tallahassee and Jacksonville to Orlando and Miami, and our projects began to need more hands on deck. Brandi helped, and Isabel followed suit.

  Brandi worked the front desk as guests and fans came in while Isabel and I set up VIP around the clubs. She would take hours to personalize the invitations and reservation cards, writing each letter perfectly in decorative fashion, starting over immediately at the slightest mistake. Meticulous attention to detail was something so attractive to me, someone I didn’t have to micro-manage. Isabel took great pride in the things she did, and became my right-hand lady, doing all the things I wanted in a partner for both love and business. She carried the same enthusiasm for Combat Night as we did, and fit like a glove in our small knit group.

  After an event once, I wanted to show appreciation for her help. I bought a dozen roses and showed up at her house; a typical gesture, but one with which I fought back feelings of puppy love. My butterflies flew in figure eights when I saw her reaction. I’d never seen a girl get so excited over flowers. She was blushing and started waving her fingers in front of her face in elation. “Eeeeeeee,” the expression she let out when excited.

  “You know they’re just flowers, right?”

  “Do you know the last time a boy bought me flowers?”

  I didn’t, and thought for a moment about it. “High school,” she said. Three years was a long time, in the realm of pretty girls not getting flowers.

  After that day, I made sure her vase stayed full. Every week, every other week, however often was necessary. I don’t know who it brought more joy to, me or her, but it was something so fulfilling. I knew that anything I could to light up those brown eyes and dimples was something I wanted to do over and over.

  It was all so fanciful, but another crossroads loomed ahead. Getting out of Tallahassee was part of growing Combat Night, and my own MMA career. I had already made plans to move out of town with my other roommate Brian, and Matt. Brian was an easy-going animal lover, and had played baseball with Isabel’s brother, Owen. Brian wanted in on the adventure out of town.

  I’d sold everything in my gym and began to look for homes in South Florida. Neither Isabel nor I liked to talk about it. I was excited, and I knew she was excited for me, but Miami was a seven-hour drive, and we weren’t sure what effect the distance would have on our relationship. We were riding the train as long as it lasted, feeling maybe that the honeymoon would be coming to an end soon.

  I remember us watching the Grammy’s that year. One performance that stuck out to Isabel was Rihanna’s song “Stay.” Isabel was a sucker for attaching movie and music themes to her life, to our lives, and it rubbed off on me. The particular song struck a chord in her, and she sent me a link to it a few days after, except for instead of Rihanna, it was a version of Vin Diesel singing the song to his wife on Valentine’s day.

  The link came with a short text: “Be my Vin Diesel?” It was funny, and sweet, and had all the poetic humor that she was great at capturing.

  For several years, I’d let my guitar sit idly as a decoration, not playing it much, and certainly never to impress anyone. Not once in my life had I ever played for Isabel. I always had such a complex about it, her being surrounded by musicians growing up.

  I finally got the balls to pick up my guitar and learn the chords to that song that night, and played it for her when she came over. I did my best Vin Diesel baritone voice impression, half joking, half trying to sound good. She joined in soulfully, and there we were, drunk in a golden moment. To have been a fly on the wall, we looked silly I’m sure, but it was another step towards exposed vulnerability.

  That’s what I felt being in love was, a series of events of putting yourself out there for the other person to accept or reject. And silly was good. Silly was comfortable, and complete comfort was a thing I couldn’t find with just anyone.

  48.

  Spring, 2006

  Fighting became all I thought about. I loved it more than I’d loved skateboarding, more than music, more than anything. It consumed me. I spent most of that year inside the gym, and I was finally getting a chance to show everyone what I’d learned.

  I was in the back, one month after turning 18, getting my hands wrapped. I’d never been to a live MMA event, let alone competed in one. I’d never even been in a real fistfight. Behind the scenes was crazy. Next to us one coach was slapping his fighter in the face to ready him. Outside, people were sprinting up and down the hall. Orkin told me not to worry about them, to stay calm. He said it was okay to be nervous. Fear was okay, as long as I didn’t let it paralyze me.

  Violence had become an escape from the mundane, a chaos to lose myself in. Before fights, athletes went through training camps; 8-10 weeks of intense diet and exercise, several workouts a day, and lots of bumps and bruises along the way. I’d done mine diligently. I hadn’t smoked or drank in months.

  We were in the Valdosta County Convention Center in Georgia, and on the other side of that locker room door was an arena full of screaming fans. I’d brought 50 or so from Tallahassee, and the anticipation was palpitating. If I won, jubilation. If I lost, embarrassment and shame.

  People are rarely put in situations where there’s so much to be gained or lost over the course of minutes, or seconds. That’s where I’d put myself, inside that ring. I was 18 years old, standing across from a solid brawler. Orkin was behind me, giving instructions before the fight.

  Relax. Breath. Relax.

  I was relaxed, until the bell rang. It was all a blur after that. Punching, kicking, heaving, kneeing. I could hear my mom screaming in the background. The first round ended, and I dragged myself back to my corner.

  I had to puke. I held it in. I’d been trying to listen to my coach the whole fight, but there was so much going on. The 60 seconds in between rounds flew by, and I stood back up, wobbly legged. It hurt to breath.

  The second round began, and we staggered back towards each other. More punches, more knees, and an uproar from the crowd. It surged the last bit of adrenaline I had left in my body, as I pu
shed him into the corner and unleashed a flurry of sloppy, looping punches. It was enough to win the fight. He covered up, didn’t respond, and the referee pulled me off. I’d done it. At 1:37 of round two, I’d won my first MMA fight by TKO.

  I dizzily returned to the locker room to take it all in. Orkin cut my handwraps off and handed them to me.

  “Keep these, kid. You’ll thank me later.”

  I threw up, and sat in the back until I’d gathered myself. When I returned to the arena, the first person I saw was my mom. It was a mission to get her there, but I was glad she’d come. She hugged me tighter than she ever had before. My grandma stood behind her, grinning widely. Beth and my friends were further back, and broke into celebration when they saw me. For a split second, I was the coolest guy on Earth.

  It gave me great pride to be able to compete and succeed at this thing that few dared to attempt. I didn’t care if it was a fringe sport that people thought was going to get me hurt. I didn’t care about the stereotypes I had to deal with. I didn’t care about the knuckle dragging mouth breathers I had to train with, or the stigmas that came with fighting in a cage. I dealt with it all, because I’d finally fallen in love with something.

  49.

  My mom had left me first; that was the way that I justified it. I’m not sure I needed justification anyway, me finally moving away from home, but I was never sure that I could’ve left her, had she not left first. Luckily for all of us, she’d found someone to go with.

  Her health was declining, showing signs of Fibromyalgia, and possible Multiple Sclerosis. It wasn’t something I often saw, because I was never around her late at night, but Jeff would tell me more than she was willing to admit.