Free Pain Don't Hurt by Mark Miller

three minutes if you know that after those three minutes, it will end. Dig into your reserves, keep your chin down, and don’t . . . back . . . down. I felt like I was out of my body. Nothing hurt; it was just survival. Jason and I collided fast and hard. He grazed his gloves over the top of my head, an attempt at a clinch to pull my head down and slam into my face with knees. I shook him off and shot back. Two minutes. He kept circling, trying to walk me down, but I held my center. Give and take, body shots and leg kicks; tomorrow was going to be one of those “stay in bed” type of days. One minute. Sixty seconds left. That big bear stared at me over his gloves; sweat and hot lights stung my eyes. I started to throw, just throw. Jason met me and threw back. Thirty seconds. Just keep throwing, and don’t forget to protect home base. My left hand returned to block my jaw after every single jab I threw, my left shoulder taking shot after shot; he wanted me to fall so bad. Ten seconds. This is it. Swing from the fences. The last seconds are the hardest, for you can see the shore is close, you’re almost out. My left shoulder ached from throwing, from blocking. Let your hands fly and what happens happens, just fight. Ding, fucking ding. It was all over.
    Fights are always kind of a blur. Like the morning following a drunken evening, you find yourself asking others, “What did I do?” after the fact. During the fight it’s all skill and instinct. After, it’s adrenaline dump, exhaustion, and back to reality.
    I crossed the ring to Jason, clasped his glove between mine, and thanked him. He nodded and said through his thick New Zealand accent, “Ya hit me hard there!” We walked to the center of the ring to hear what the judges would say. I prayed. Closed my eyes and just silently asked whatever, whomever, Please, please give it to me. Give me the win. The decision came through. It was unanimous. I had lost.
    I can’t speak on what a knockout loss feels like, as I’ve never suffered one. Decision losses are hard enough. The first thing that goes through my head is, Why the fuck did I just go through that? Why did I go through that entire thing just to lose? What was the point? Regret, anger, disappointment, self-deprecation. I’d be willing to bet that every fighter directly following a loss has that brief line of questioning go through his or her head that asks, Why do I do this?
    Jason stood with his hands raised. After waving to the crowd, which was now so drunk and loud I wonder if they even remembered who was who (though we look nothing alike), Jason walked over to me, pausing to tear some of the tape from his hands, and said, “Eh, fuck all this, all right, let’s go get a beer, yeah?” Yeah.
    Back at the hotel we sat in our tracksuits crowding up a large section of the bar. First we just hashed out the fight itself. He complimented me, said I was strong. More than that, he said my will seemed “uncompromising.”
    â€œMan, I hit you with what I had, you know? I never let up on you; most guys don’t have the heart for that kind of a fight. You just wouldn’t fall down!” Jason shook his head, peppered in bruises, and sipped a lukewarm Thai beer.
    â€œYeah, well, fuck. I’ve never had anyone, not anyone that I’ve hit with my right that stayed upright.” I clinked my bottle feebly against his.
    Drunk locals filtered in and out of the bar. Women leaned up against us for a while, then left when we didn’t afford them the attention they wanted. There have been plenty of fights where I crowded myself with booze and girls, but oftentimes it’s the company of other fighters at that time that means the most, as they understand what it feels like to survive those compressed minutes inside a ring or a cage.
    Jason talked about growing up on the streets, defending himself against street gangs who came at him with