He shadow-boxed in the center of the mat. The venue was small, his locker room smaller, but that’s how it was for his fifth professional fight. Nothing can relieve him of his anxiety or the knot in his stomach that makes him struggle to warm up. Why do I do this? He thinks to himself. Eddie does his best to keep a steady gaze on the pads as Coach Holliday motions him around to set up his shots. The punches feel crisp. Violent.

A fighter rarely enters a bout injury free, and Eddie was no different. He has a nagging pain in his lower back that he got from wrestling a few weeks ago. That doesn’t matter now. All the things that run through his mind at this moment have nothing to do with the soreness of his back. 

“One, two, then load up on three,” coach Holliday instructed. Eddie does it precisely. “Good, that’s what I want. Again!” All three punches uncoil and snap off the pads like a viper. The heat comes over him as switches stances on the mat from orthodox to southpaw. Coach Holliday fakes a takedown for him to sprawl and get back up to his feet quick. He throws another flurry of combo’s that ends with a flush knee. It lands so hard that he feels his coach’s forearm through the pad.

You want this. You want this. You want this. Eddie continues to say the words to himself, wanting them to become true. Behind him he hears the door open, poking his head in was the event coordinator, Bart Tomilson, “Ten minutes.” he said calmly, looking to respect Eddie as best he can. Bart softly closes the door behind him. The feeling in the pit of his stomach grows. He now feels as if a giant is breathing hot air down the back of his neck.

Coach Souza sat with legs crossed on a bench in the corner of the room. He watches Eddie’s every move. He had been with his head coach Marcos Souza for almost five years, ever since he was out of high school. “You been here before. It’s all good. All okay.” The sound of coach Souza’s voice didn’t give Eddie much comfort. Mostly because he had a thick Portuguese accent that incited more hostility than relaxation. If Eddie had it his way, he’d have coach Holliday give the pre-fight talk-downs, and coach Souza hold the pads.

I could go to college. Maybe study English and be a teacher. If my math skills weren’t crap, accounting even. “Don’t worry yourself. Nerves are good, Eddie. Nerves are good. It’s only idiots that get in there and aren’t nervous.” Coach Souza says as he gets up from his stool.

Before stepping on the mat, coach Souza gives a traditional bow. A common sign of respect for the art of fighting in Brazil. Coach Souza and Eddie lock-up and begin to do some light grappling. They fight for underhooks. Once Eddie gets both of his arms under coach Souza’s armpits, he squats down fast. Almost as swift as his punches. He grabs a single leg and postures up to throw coach Souza’s balance off and takes him down. There isn’t much resistance from his coach to defend the takedown during the warm-up. It gives Eddie a slight boost of confidence while also sharpening his technique.

Coach Souza grabs Eddie around the back of the head with both hands and looks into his eyes, “Most lose right here. Most lose before they even start.” He grips Eddie’s neck a little tighter. “High knees.” Eddie begins to run in place. Bringing his knees to his chest in the process. “That’s not who you are. I know it, coach Holliday knows it. And you know it.”

What’s all this for? What’s all this training for if I’m not gonna go out there and put it to use? All the hours of abuse and blood I’ve lost. The amount of blows I’ve already taken to my head that will impact my future? “There’s a guy in the other locker room that wants to hurt you. Make sure that doesn’t happen.” The doors open again. In walks in a pair of men from the athletic commission to escort Eddie to the ring. A few long minutes remain. They stand with their backs against the wall and wait until he’s ready.

His eyes stare at the ground until he closes them. Eddie throws a series of uppercuts over and over. He tries every breathing technique that he’s ever heard of to see if it will help. In through your nose, out through the mouth… That doesn’t help. Wim Hof method then. He takes deep breaths in and gently lets all the air out. Around thirty times he repeated the process until he began to feel light headed. He pauses and stands like a stone pillar, his head still facing the ground. The nerves are still there, but there is also a readiness. Something he didn’t have moments ago.

When you raise your head, you make that walk, and you do your best. We’ll deal with the outcome when it happens. As for now, the goal is to win. Win the fight. Win anything we do. He tells himself. A few moments pass. Eddie’s head raises, and his eyes open. He doesn’t look at coach Souza or Holliday. He makes the walk to the cage. Inauspicious thoughts begin to fall by the wayside. Fight hard, and I’ll be there. Fight hard, and I’ll be there. Words that made sense to him, and that’s all that matters.

# # #

C.J. Caughman is a recent graduate of the University of Central of Oklahoma with a degree in English-Creative Writing. In college, he mostly focussed on writing short stories and screenplays. This year C.J. received his first publication in an issue of Edify for one of his short stories.

Photo: Kyle Brinker