by Mark Miller
“You’re already black, Mo, do your really have to wear that?” I said to him one day. “That little piece of cloth is just fighting to keep everything in place. I mean, it is fighting.”
The other fighters laughed; a few patted me on the back, saying things like “Now, that is the truth!” Mo stood on the side of the pool, sporting some multicolored slingshot of a bathing suit. He was totally disinterested in our giggles; instead, he put on that “So what?” face of his and spoke so calmly you almost couldn’t hear him over the sound of the water slapping against the tile.
“First of all, Mark, I’m not black, I am brown. If we were to go to the paint store, you would not find a color that matched my skin that was called black. Black would be the color of the street, or licorice, or some shoe leather. My color would be brown. It would be called milk chocolate, or rich mahogany, or something like that. Not black. And second of all, I wear this suit because it reduces drag in the water, unlike those floppy ridiculous shorts so many of you are wearing. Have you ever seen an Olympic swimmer wear board shorts in the pool? No you have not. And last, I am sorry that not all of you are as gifted as I am, in or out of the water. I know I’m pretty, but don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”
With that, we all died laughing. Mo won. He always won. Sometimes over meals he would take an opposing position to an opinion being clearly presented at the table by someone. He didn’t do it to be a dick; he did it because he genuinely liked to hear the defense of the person speaking so strongly. Mo was impressed with conviction, and he wanted to coax it out of people. He didn’t like milquetoast people and he didn’t like to hear people waffling on subjects. He wanted to get you to claim one side or another on an issue and then he wanted you to stick by it so hard that he wouldn’t be able to shake you off. Simply put, Mo liked competition, and that didn’t mean he loved winning; he almost loved finding an opposition that refused to bend. He respected that. The few times he would get under another fighter’s skin so much that they would criticize him for being argumentative, Mo would lean back and say simply, “I don’t argue. I debate.” It should really be his patented catchphrase, as anyone who has ever worked with him for any length of time has heard him say it at least once . . . or ten times.
Mo drove a black Porsche. He was always dressed well, was well groomed, and walked with a marked swagger. I wanted to learn everything from him. My father had always sported high-end accessories and driven nice cars, but my father was led around by an air of violent braggadocio. He didn’t draw people to him, he drove them away. Mo held a crowd wherever he went. His charisma and intellect allowed him to attract others to him while cleverly filtering out who he wanted to actually get to know and who he would keep at a safe and respectable but friendly distance. Not unlike Mel Blount and some of the other football players I had so admired in my youth, Mo walked with a strength that said he knew himself. And we got along. Amazingly well. A few months into my training with Mo, he sat me down to “have a talk.” Mo was very big on discussions of all types, and he would frequently pass by me during training to say, “Oh, hey, I want to speak to you later about things.” It always scared the shit out of me, as I had been so conditioned to hear these words as a warning that meant “You’re about to get your ass kicked.” But with Mo the subject matter could be anything from his asking me if I had heard about a new training technique and wondering what I thought of it to whatever was on the news that week. This particular time it bore the aura of being more serious than previous talks, so I felt decidedly more ill at ease than usual when sitting down with him.
Mo was still fighting, which meant he was actively pursuing fights, which can make for not being the best coach. While Mo had to invest a large percentage of his time in himself in getting ready for different fights, I can honestly and without embellishment say that even when he was still focused on himself, he was the best coach I have ever had. His time spent focusing on himself didn’t seem to detract from the quality of attention that he afforded us when he was available in the slightest. He had also begun pursuing something called “no holds barred” fighting, or “MMA,” which stands for “mixed martial arts.” There was an organization that had been around for a few years called UFC, short for Ultimate Fighting Championship, and Mo was going to be fighting for them. The style was different in that not only would he have to stay polished in his kickboxing, but the rules also included wrestling and potential stoppages from submissions and “taps” to submissions (a move where an opponent gets caught in a submission, meaning a joint lock or choke, and opts to tap on the body of the aggressing fighter, indicating they have had enough, rather than have their joint broken or be choked unconscious) as well as knockouts. Since MMA was beginning to get a little more attention stateside, while kickboxing seemed to be restricted to mostly overseas, Mo wanted to know if I wanted to stay with kickboxing or venture into MMA. I told him that for now I wanted to stay with kickboxing. Then he offered to try to get me fights in the organization known as K-1. My heart unfurled and fluttered.
K-1 at that time was the organization for kickboxing. All the greats were there. Names that would make their mark on the kickboxing world so deeply they would become synonymous with kickboxing itself. Andy Hug, Peter Aerts, Ernesto Hoost—I mean all the greats. And Mo had been fighting in it for a few years. He began reaching out to them.
The offer came through not long after that for me to fight Masaaki Miyamoto in Japan. I agreed, but my size became an issue for them. I was walking around at two hundred fifteen pounds, and at six feet four, I was not a thick heavyweight. But Miyamoto was smaller, and the Japanese balked at the size difference. Also, I was 10–0 as a pro going into this fight, which made me a risk. The Japanese liked to try to build records for their fighters by pitting them against Americans, assuming that we were the worst of the worst in kickboxing, and while they didn’t stand much of a chance against the Europeans, they felt we were their stepping-stones to beef up their records. I was the wrong fucking American for them, because at that time, seven of my ten wins were by knockout. My right hand has always been a cannon. The fight was pulled off the table real quick once they did their research. The next offer came through. It was to fight Tommy “the Rhino” Glanville in Las Vegas. Tommy was another American. He was a decent fighter, with a decent record, and Tommy was huge: six feet two and around two hundred fifty pounds plus. A cock diesel hulk of a man with a bleached-blond flattop and a jaw so square he looked like a cartoon. I accepted.
I prepared for the fight split between Seattle and Pittsburgh as Mo was getting ready for his own fights and therefore wasn’t always around. When it came time for the fight, I flew out to Las Vegas and arrived at the Bellagio. I was brought in on a Tuesday; the fight wasn’t until Saturday. Leading up to the fight I had several press conferences to attend, photo shoots to do, and weigh-ins the day before. K-1 treated me like a fucking king. I had never been treated so well by an organization. Upon my arrival I was given a series of VIP passes for my meals, which was entirely generous. We were also invited to charge whatever we might need to the room. I holed up, watched TV or worked out in the hotel gym, and tried to lie low for the most part. When I wasn’t needed, I kept to myself. This was my first taste of K-1 hospitality, and I didn’t want to blow it. I passed Tommy a few times in the hotel. I was polite, as was he, albeit somewhat dismissive, which I expected.
When the actual day came, I felt like a lightning rod. The grueling weeks of training all faded into a pleasant wallpaper when “game day” came around. This was the shit I longed for. I walked out and stood in the center of that wide ring in the Bellagio hotel in front of a nearly packed house, Tommy’s imposing form across from me, sneering. I knew this look, and much to my chagrin a phrase my father used to say came to mind: “Too much fooling comes to crying.” Meaning, while you’re busy over there mean-mugging, I’m busy over here thinking about how I’m going to smash you. And so, it begins. . . .
First bell. I’m out of the corner
and I rush him. I throw a series of short, compact punches and crowd him, trying to grab ahold of his head. I want to knee him, smash his nose up, crush into his liver, start breaking him down. Tommy is very good at interrupting me, I learn. He turns my body and shakes me off. I continue to crowd him, but my size is ineffective compared to his. He keeps interrupting me, keeps wrecking my game plan with blocking. I start feeling the anger boiling up. Mo always said to me, “You can’t fight with emotion; emotional fighters are weak and vulnerable,” but I would be lying if I said I never fought emotional. I always took a piece of that unfinished rage in there with me. With my punches finding no purchase, that rage began crawling out of my pores and enveloping me like a cloak. End of round one. I walked back to my corner furious.
“What the fuck is he even doing? He’s fucking jamming me up.” I’m standing in the corner, ignoring the stool, and my corner is trying to tell me that Tommy, the fucking Rhino, has won the first round. I do not want to hear this shit. “He’s hitting you, Mark, he’s scoring on you. You gotta play off of him, counter what he throws.” Where the fuck is Mo? I need Mo.
The bell sounded and I came out, grinding my mouth guard between my teeth angrily. More of the same. Suddenly, in a flash, I saw it. . . . Tommy was bullying me. Tommy was driving me back. The ghosts surrounding me dragged me forward on a wave of violence. Don’t (jab) bully (cross) me (hook) you (cross) fuck (cross). My last right-hand snapped Tommy’s head to the side, and he crumpled to the floor like a wilted daisy. The ref ran in for the count, and I returned to my corner hopeful. The calm exterior hid a cheering section inside of me that was screaming right now. . . . Don’t get up, don’t get up, stay down. . . . The ref was counting higher and higher. . . . Suddenly, at nine, Tommy was starting to rise. His legs were rubbery and as soon as the ref said, “Fight,” I rushed in. There was blood in the water; time for the frenzy. No sooner did I close the distance than the second bell sounded. Tommy, still dazed, toddled into his corner, and I returned to mine, crestfallen.
“I had him. I had him. He was fucking down.” I was angry. My corner was desperately trying to bring me back to the now so I could finish the fight, but I was bound up in thirty seconds ago, reflecting on how close he came to not getting up.
Third round, bell sounded. I came into the center of the ring. We both started throwing. This round was a barn burner. Tommy had been hurt last round but had time to gather himself and recover. So now he was dangerous and pissed off. I was just pissed off. We threw an unrestrained arpeggio of strikes. My shoulders were aching, and there was fire inside my lungs. Final bell, and we went to the corners. I was so stuck in the second round that I barely heard the announcer say that I had lost a unanimous decision. My first loss as a professional fighter. My first dent. I was so furious with myself.
I got back to the locker room and I was bombarded by journalists talking about how the fight was one of the best of the evening, how we really went at it. . . . All I kept thinking about was that second round. And how I wished Mo was there.
That night I lay down convinced that I had to fight Tommy again. I had to avenge this. But first, I wanted to cross the ocean. If I was to fight without Mo in my corner, then I might as well fight far away. I wanted to fight someplace where fights were a part of the people, a part of the culture. I wanted to fight on a soil that knew blood. I wanted to go to the roots of the sport I had been training in.
chapter six
If I tell you I’m good, you would probably think I’m boasting. If I tell you I’m no good, you know I’m lying.
—BRUCE LEE
It was the year 2000. Ihe rain was just beginning to fall on the ring in Thailand. The first round ended and I crossed to my corner to take my one-minute break. One minute between rounds. One minute to reflect before it was back into the fray. One minute of an uninterrupted barrage of thoughts. The crowd was so loud it blocked out the sound of thunder from above, and the large outdoor stadium of Pattaya, Thailand, reeked of late-evening bloodlust and sweat. The alcohol-soaked attendees were out of their seats, screaming and begging for carnage. I couldn’t believe I was fighting in fucking Thailand. The minute I was offered the fight there, I had jumped at the chance. I knew how corrupt the system was, how rigged the fights could be, but I had to take it. Just before the bell had sounded, ending the round, I had landed a right-hand that would have, with a butcher’s precision, taken the jaw clean off of any other man. The shot had spun my opponent into the ropes, and the crowd had leapt up screaming for a finish. Before I could close the distance and shut the lights off on him, the steely Samoan had straightened, adjusted his neck, and started to come forward again. Ding ding, round was over. No time for love; back to the corner you go.
The wooden stool went down in front of my cornerman, but I didn’t sit. I never sit. Some of my coaches have reprimanded me for that in the past, but I rest when the fight is over. I could feel my right hand through my glove. “Fucking guy, I hit him with everything and he didn’t even fall down! Unbelievable!” I laughed to my cornerman as he mopped sweat from my face. Across from me on his stool sat Jason “Psycho” Suttie, a six-feet-even kickboxer who grew up hard in Samoa and fought out of New Zealand. Jason’s cornermen were Thai, which put the fight in his favor to begin with, not that it mattered. Jason wasn’t much for taking fights to the end; he liked to finish people, and so did I. Jason was covered from his waist down in traditional Samoan warrior tattoos, and from the waist up he was covered in scars from gang fights, from being hit with chains, bottles, knives. Jason was not concerned with my 11–1 record going into this fight. His record was 42–5–1. To be honest my record could have been 400–0 and I don’t think Jason would have given a good goddamn. The first round had been ugly. Jason was the kind of fighter other fighters tried to avoid. While his record was not without blemish, he was incredibly technical, fast, and like other Samoan-bred New Zealand kickboxers, violently aggressive. Jason took fights into dark places; he liked to force opponents into the corner and rain punches down, heavy and sharp as ax strokes. His hands were like atlas stones and his speed was uncompromising. He had no give in him. You had to weather the storm against Jason in order to win. It was the only way, if you could handle it, for he would not break and his storm would keep coming.
“I did it! I fucking hit him so hard. What the fuck is he made of?” I was still giggling.
“Use your length, Mark, use your hands. Stay out of the corners, don’t let him get you into the corners.” My corner offered quiet suggestions while doing the regular squirt, spit, pat-pat with the ice, rub down the arms, neck. . . . I kept staring at Jason, who was staring directly at me. I had hit him with the right hand and I hadn’t even knocked him down. This wasn’t disappointment running through my mind. I was marveling. Was it the weight the Thais had forced me to cut before the fight, even though it was a heavyweight fight and I shouldn’t have needed to cut any weight? Was it the running in the sweat suit the day before, trying to get off the pounds they had demanded, getting pelted by the hot rain while Thai drivers passed by me yelling, “Hey, farang, bus stop is over there. . . . Stop running, take the bus. . . .”? Was it the humidity? . . . God, why didn’t he even fall? Nobody had ever taken my right full force and stayed standing, not before, and no one has since. Seconds ticked by; I snorted. “Un-fucking-believable.” Jason’s wide face and dark eyes, one swelled slightly by glove rub, stared back. I’ve always been a big-game hunter. Give me some new-kid tomato-can fighter who bleeds when you yell at him, and I’ll refuse the fight. I want to know I’m not safe in there. It’s the only way that the relief, that joy of surviving, feels real at the end. It’s why I love kickboxing, especially at heavyweight. I want to know there is a threat in front of me, and with heavyweights, every punch thrown is a potential lightning bolt to the breaker. Every single one could shut the lights off in the city, if you know what I mean. Staring at Jason was like staring at a grizzly bear while I stood in the corner with a bowie knife. One of us was coming aw
ay from this with a big hurt on them. Fuck. Yes. Bring it. I came to fight.
Time ticked, seconds flew, the stool disappeared. “You hear me, Mark? Use your length!” my corner shouted as he climbed out. Time in a fight is something you cannot understand unless you’ve been in one. Minutes spent in a ring are simultaneously the longest and shortest minutes of your life. This fight, more than any other fight I have ever been in since, was that way. It was as though some bastard kid had ahold of the remote control to my life clock and was hitting the slow-mo button and fast-forward intermittently. Tick, tick, out of the corner to the center. Take the center quickly, do not let your opponent cut the ring off and close the distance, forcing you into a corner. Tick, tick, as a counter fighter I don’t tend to strike first; wait for the shot, then counter it. Take the morale away from your opponent, make him feel unsure and wary of you as he is punished for every move he makes. Tick, a jab and a cross; I countered, but Jason kept punishing me back. Every shot he landed sent a lightning bolt of adrenaline and elation through me, for I was glad to know I was still standing. Every shot I delivered triggered a roar of applause inside of me. The deep smack of leather colliding with a wide panel of stomach, guts shivering. The thud of shin meeting shin as bone clacks together. Three minutes of solid back-and-forth with no letup. Jason circled to my left, avoiding my power hand, so I knew that while it hadn’t brought him down, he had not liked the way that shot felt. It’s one thing to get bitten by a venomous snake and live to tell about it; that doesn’t mean you’re heading for the black market in the morning to buy one for a pet.