The Housekeeper: Love, Death, and Prizefighting

by Josh Samman

  The last piece of the transformation was a new gym. Orkin was an attorney, and the academy was only part time for him. I had surpassed everyone at our little dojo, and I wasn’t getting the training I needed to improve. That was the whole point of this, to get better. It was time to get focused on a career, to take it seriously if I expected others to.

  I sought out other training partners and coaches. I’d found one in Jacksonville that I began learning from, named Roberto. He was a brawny Colombian, a talented black belt, but not enough of an MMA coach for me to move there. I resorted to making the commute every weekend.

  I needed someone to help with striking fundamentals, and amidst the search, one fell into my lap. One of the owners of Gold’s had heard I was a pro fighter. He told me he and his brother also trained, with an older boxer named Rodolfo Aguilar, a former contender to Julio Cesar Chavez.

  Jim and Joey Burtoft were their names, and together all of us began training in the warehouse across from Gold’s. It was a cheerleading studio, and although there was humor in a bunch of meatheads punching each other with tumbling mats right next to us, it was what I needed.

  I’d taken another fight since the luchador-masked man. It was in North Carolina, at Camp Lejeune. I lost the bout, but had entered it with injuries, and didn’t beat myself up about it. Rodolfo came and went, but Jim and Joey stayed. I thought I’d be in the UFC by this time, and with each passing fight that I didn’t get signed, I became hungrier.

  Orkin had mentored me, but the Burtofts were the first to show the kind of enthusiasm that made me believe I wasn’t completely crazy to go for broke. There’s something to be said about the perfect storm of events that make someone who they are. It was a nice whirlwind that removed all doubt from my mind. I would make it to the UFC.

  71.

  "To have a writer fall in love with you is to never truly die."

  -Mik Everett

  Isabel and I were back south for Brian’s birthday. South Beach was lined with nightclubs, but the nicest were in the luxurious hotels that provided exclusivity to high profile customers from around the world. LIV was the name of the club we were going to that night, inside a hotel called the Fontainebleau. It was commonplace for pop culture stars and athletes on a regular basis. and the place itself was ridiculous. Admission could range from $50 ‑ $250. Once inside, the drinks started at $20 a beer, with bottle service in the tens of thousands.

  There wasn’t a single file line outside the club, as with traditional establishments. Instead, a large circle was roped off, with patrons crowding around outside, all vying to get a bouncer’s attention. Once noticed, the bouncer would decide if the patrons were attractive enough to be let inside. And this is how people were chosen, all night long. Sometimes we’d go at midnight and come out hours later to see the same groups of people still hugging the ropes, waiting to get inside. It was so silly.

  I was friends with a promoter of the club, otherwise we wouldn’t have been going at all. She’d heard about the place, and I told her I’d take her, so she could see what the buzz was about. The design of the club was extravagant, a giant rectangular room with lights, lasers, confetti, every assortment of sensory stimulating effect imaginable.

  Inside, girls filled the place with silicone and makeup, fakes tits and asses, rubbing on the occasional celebrity at a VIP table. South Florida was a lot more fun, or a lot more tolerable maybe, when remembered that it was all a big circus. She was so tickled, as I was, that people would pay that much, or wait that long, just to say they were partying at some club.

  It was a stark difference from our quaint Tallahassee upbringings, and for me it was great having her with me, my little piece of home, reminding me where I came from, among a sea of strangers. The last few times I’d been, I had my face in my phone texting her anyway.

  It was one of the last weekends Isabel had before she started her treatment, and she wanted to go out with a bang before we had to stop drinking for the year. I’d promised I’d quit with her. We were both social creatures, and it would’ve made things much more challenging had she done it alone.

  Everything in South Florida started later, because it ended later. While last-call in most of Florida was 2 am, Miami closed shop around 5 am, with many 24 hour districts and after-hours joints that served alcohol all morning. That night we were determined to stay awake until sunrise, and go to Hollywood Beach before daybreak. We got there just in time, bringing blankets, and a cheap bottle of wine. She snuggled up, and asked me things that were on her mind.

  “What else do you want to do in life?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what else do you want to do? What are your goals?”

  “Like a bucket list?”

  “Just like a bucket list.”

  I pondered for a bit. I guess I did have a list of things I’d thought about before.

  “Well, I want to learn another language.” I’d always wanted to be bi-lingual. I planned on learning Spanish before my move to Miami, but when I came down, all my training partners were Brazilian, and I heard Portuguese more than I heard Spanish. I got overwhelmed and decided I’d tackle that quest later on.

  “And I want to make Combat Night bigger.”

  “We will.” I liked her saying we.

  “And I want to headline a UFC card, to be the main event on the biggest stage in the world.” If I had a clearly defined goal for my personal career, it was to be the marquee fight at a UFC event. Samman vs. Whoever.

  “You will,” she said confidently.

  “And I want to rebuild my house that burnt down.” Some of my fondest memories were in that house. I was always infatuated with the idea of building a replica to walk through, and live in once more.

  “Really? I didn’t see that coming. I like that idea.” She was synonymous in my mind with that house, where I first remember being crazy about a girl.

  “And I want to get married, and have a family,” I told her.

  “We will,” she said, turning to face me, “won’t we?” She didn’t ask often, but was always wondering where she fit in. This life of mine was quickly becoming ours.

  “Are you proposing to me?” I joked. I’d thought before, about how I would ask her when the day would come. Big Sur, maybe. That was one of my favorite places, and somewhere she dreamed of going.

  “Who’s going to be in our wedding?” she’d ask. I told her Matt would be best man. She reminded me I had to leave room for her brothers to be groomsmen.

  “And I want to have kids, sons,” I told her.

  “Am I going to have your sons?” Something about the way she worded it gave me chills. Isabel had a touching idea she wanted to do with her sons when she had them, she said, to paint Lynyrd Skynyrd's “Simple Man” lyrics on their wall.

  She shared stories with me of how her mom told her all the ways she loved her dad, how Sue wanted to have all the babies Dallas wanted. “I can’t wait to have grandchildren,” she’d say on more than one occasion. I reminded her that we had to start with regular children first.

  “I think you will have my sons. And I think we’ll make attractive babies,” I said. She agreed. “And last, I think I’d like to write a book before I die.”

  “What kind of book? Like a storybook?”

  “Like a fiction? No.. I’ve got enough real things to share before I have to start making them up.” She was always telling me to write more, to tell stories. I’d promised her I’d never go through her journals, though I suspected she’d gone through many of mine.

  “Well, do you think I’ll be in your book?” she asked, with genuine curiosity and naivety.

  “Darlin’, if I had to guess, I’d say you’ll be the whole damn thing.”

  72.

  Spring, 2009

  I was 21, and with each fight I grew and yearned for the next level. Jim and Joey Burtoft agreed to invest financially in my success. The UFC was holding a casting call for The Ultimate Fighter, Season 10, and the Burtofts
ponied up the money for my hotel and flight to Seattle.

  I’d won another fight in the meantime, against a guy named Ryan Hodge for the middleweight championship of a rinky-dink Florida organization. At the fight, the promoter had forgotten to print ring cards and gave the ring girls cardboard pizza boxes with the number written in sharpie. Competing for local promotions was not a pretty business. It was little pay, unreliable opponents, and dubious promoters. The Ultimate Fighter meant a way out of the pizza box ring cards.

  I had to impress to make it. I trained for it like I did a fight, staying in shape after the Hodge bout. During those months, I started to push my limits of distance running. Often times I wouldn’t plan on going as far as I did, and sometimes I’d bring Juice.

  It was April in Florida, and getting hot. We were on mile nine, a half mile from the house, when Juice laid down. He started panting hard, and wouldn’t get up. I tugged a couple times, before realizing something was wrong. I panicked, and frantically waved down an old couple to give us a ride back home.

  I had to pick Juice up to get him in the back seat. I told the lady where I lived, and thanked her for helping us. Juice was in my lap, breathing heavily in my face, when he started shitting all over the back of the car. I freaked out, and told the poor couple up front to stop so I could carry him the rest of the way home. They drove faster, taking me all the way to the house.

  I called my friend who worked for animal control and knew several veterinarians. He called one he liked, Dr. Ohm, at a place called Animal Aid. He said to take him there right away, and we did. It was awful. Dr. Ohm stated that Juice had a heat stroke, and would need a plasma transfusion to live. I couldn’t afford it, and Joey covered the costs until I could pay him back. The operation was a success, and Juice was back to his old self within days.

  When I went to pick him up, a surprise greeted me at the door. It was Izzi’s mom, Sue, at the desk. I knew their dad was a vet but didn’t realize Sue worked in the same field. I’d met her a few times. At least my mom has a crush on you, Izzi had once said. I remember because she’d said the words at least as a dig.

  I told Sue about my upcoming tryout for The Ultimate Fighter. She didn’t quite know what it meant, but was excited for me. She hadn’t the slightest clue that it was her daughter who set the events into motion.

  We talked about Juice for a bit. She told me to avoid any more crazy runs and to keep his hair short when it got hot. I was able to take him home before I left for Seattle.

  When I landed, it was pouring rain. I tried to fight the feelings of gloom. I had no idea what to expect. They briefed us on the process; two minutes of grappling, two minutes of striking on pads, then a brief interview. There were a few hundred participants, and there would be cuts after each segment.

  The grappling partners were chosen at random. I got matched with future TUF 17 castmate Zak Cummins. I performed better than many of the folks there, submitting him twice within the short allotted time. I had a good feeling I’d make it to the next stage, and walked off the mat happy.

  As I cooled down and waited for the names to be called, my thigh began to hurt. I thought I’d pulled a muscle, and paid it no mind. After an hour, it was severely swollen. After two hours, it became difficult to walk. The paramedics were unqualified. One told me to go upstairs and take a hot bath. The other told me to elevate it and ice. I tried both.

  They phoned my room to tell me I’d been chosen to advance, and I went back downstairs for the next phase of tryouts. I explained to UFC matchmaker Joe Silva that I was injured, but wanted to continue. He said to not worry about kicking, and just show him some punches. I did, and he cut my time short before 30 seconds had passed.

  By this point, I was in pain too severe to hide. Folks around me told stories of similar injuries and tried to guess diagnoses. I had no idea what was going on but knew my grit made an impression. When I finally sat down for a final, Joe Silva shared the concern of many in the room.

  “You did good, kid, but I think you’ve hurt yourself. It’s possible you have a blood clot. I’ve seen stuff like this, and it doesn’t end pretty. I think you need to go to a hospital.”

  I didn’t take his advice. I asked only whether or not I’d made it.

  “You may be hearing from us.”

  And that was that. I went back to my room, drank a small bottle of vodka to ease my pain, and tried to sleep until my flight the next morning.

  When I woke up, my leg was no better but no worse. I wrote it off again and told myself I’d go to the hospital when I got home. I had a five-hour flight before I’d get there.

  Once in the air, I became alarmed. With each passing minute, my leg got worse. It grew before my eyes, doubling in size, and was hard to the touch. I alerted a flight attendant, who consulted with the captain about an emergency landing. I told them I was fine and to just get me home.

  Once we got to Tallahassee, I got in an ambulance from the airport to the hospital. They rushed me to the operating room, and within 10 minutes of being there, I had a gas mask in my face, doctor hovering over.

  “Josh, you’re in serious danger of losing your leg. We need to operate immediately. Relax, and count backwards from 100.” He slipped the mask over my mouth. I’d never been more terrified.

  73.

  "Can you think of anything more permanently elating, than knowing that you're on the right road at last?"

  -Vernon Howard

  There would be no more crazy Vegas trips for the next year, no more late nights partying and watching the sun come up. Isabel was scheduled to start her treatment on a Wednesday, which coincided with her doctor’s appointment explaining dosing schedule, and a demonstration of how to self-inject the interferon. She didn’t need any help with that and took the liberty of pointing it out.

  She was having mixed feelings about it; excited to get the thing over with, nervous about what side effects she’d experience. “What if it never grows back?” She said of her locks. I assured her they would. I didn’t know one way or another.

  Wednesday came, and she went to the office to find that the doctor had double booked her appointment. She’d have to wait until Friday to reschedule. She was not happy about it.

  “It’s only two days, what’s the big deal?” I asked.

  “It just is. I’ve been having a lot of anxiety and I wanted to get it over with. I prepared myself for today.”

  She went back to the doctor Friday and took her first shot at the office. I realized I should’ve been in Tallahassee for this, and felt like an asshole for not making the trip.

  I’d asked her once before if she wanted me to go to the doctor with her. “My dad likes to be the one to go with me,” she said. I suggested the three of us go. I figured it was something we were all suffering through together, and I wanted to let Dallas know I was there for her.

  “I’m not sure that’s the time for you two to meet,” she said. I’d made other efforts to meet her dad on occasions. She was content with only her mom and I having a relationship.

  “How do you feel?” I asked, after her first of 47 treatment shots.

  “Tired. And kind of nauseous.”

  “Hair all still there?” I said, trying to make light of it.

  “Not funny. You’re not being sensitive again.”

  “I’m sorry. Just trying to help.”

  “I’m gonna nap. I’ll call you later.” She didn’t sound good.

  I didn’t hear from her the rest of the day. I hoped it wasn’t an indication of things to come. We finally spoke late that night. She told me she wasn’t feeling well and began asking strange questions.

  “Do you still think of Karla?” she asked. Karla was an ex, my rebound after Isabel, when she was still Izzi. I’d always assumed Isabel was immune to jealousy, but this wasn’t the first time I’d heard Karla’s name. She brought her up from time to time and compared herself in ways. If I bought her a perfume that I liked, she would ask if I’d done the same for Karla.

 
“Sure. Sometimes.” I didn’t blame her if she was jealous. I understood perfectly. I hated every guy who’d ever touched her, resented if I was ever forced to make small talk with them around Tallahassee. I told her so, too.

  Because she compared herself with Karla, I sometimes did the same. This was around the time Facebook began implementing algorithms, narrowing down news feeds to pages visited most often. When Karla was scrolling through her news feed, it was always a ton of guys, most of whom I was already suspicious about. Years later, when I’d see Isabel on her feed, it was never anything but family members, a few close friends, and me. Infidelity was never a thing I worried about with Isabel, not even once.

  “Did you guys ever live together?” The interrogation continued.

  “I stayed at her house for a few weeks in between moves. Does that count?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. We’d discussed her moving down, but she told me she couldn’t leave her dad, so I stopped bringing it up.

  “You haven’t mentioned anything about us living together in a while,” she said, “do you not want to anymore?”

  “I didn’t want to keep bothering you about it. Where is this all coming from?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I just worry about being the girl you thought you wanted.” She found the right words to cripple me.

  “Pack your shit and come on then.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Of course I do.”

  And that’s how it happened. Before I knew it she was in my driveway, car packed full of stuff. The next chapter was starting.

  74.

  Late Spring, 2009

  When I woke up in the hospital, I was surrounded by familiar faces. Roberto, Joey, and my mom, all looked for a first reaction of how I felt. I felt like shit but was relieved to look down and see two legs. I’d nearly killed my dog and lost a limb over the course of weeks. I made it out with both, but landed myself in the hospital with a pain unlike any I’d ever felt.