Free The Laws of the Ring by Tim Keown, Urijah Faber

of his room, which was directly across from the spa, and stopped in his tracks when he saw me.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œUh . . . relaxing after a run?” I said.
    â€œDo you realize we’re supposed to be having a meeting right now?”
    â€œOh, dude—I completely forgot. I’m sorry. I’ll be right there.”
    Instead of heading to my room to change, I went directly to the RD’s room to have the meeting. I had a towel around my waist and was wearing no shirt.
    The RD looked at me with disgust. I didn’t mean any harm, but I had broken nearly every rule in the book. I had shown no indication that I understood the severity of the situation. And now I showed up for the meeting bare-chested, seconds after breaking another rule by being in the spa at the wrong time. I was young, but not an idiot, and I pretty quickly realized that my state of un dress was going to fan the flames.
    The RD started running down the list of offenses of the previous weekend. There was alcohol in the room. People were jumping off balconies. Curfew was broken. Noise rules were violated. A door was broken.
    â€œSorry,” I said. “Those were my buddies. I guess they thought they were in Mexico.” I wasn’t mocking the guy; just trying to lighten the mood.
    â€œ You’re responsible for your buddies,” he said, clearly not amused.
    He was getting more pissed off every minute. I was disrespecting him by dismissing what he had to say and sitting there in nothing but a wet towel.
    â€œI’m going to recommend you meet with Judicial Affairs,” he said. “You are in some trouble.”
    I immediately understood the implications of this. A meeting with Judicial Affairs was serious—not a student RA or even the head honcho of the dorms, the RD—and they had the authority to kick me out of school. I thought the guy had overreacted; surely he could have just disciplined me without passing me on to the big-time authorities, couldn’t he?
    â€œDude, it was all in fun,” I said, expressing more urgency.
    â€œJust watch your mail for the notice of your next date to appear,” he said.
    Well, I immediately developed a phobia about that mailbox and the phone in our room. I thought every envelope was a dismissal notice and every phone call was informing me that I was through.
    I still remember the name of the man at Judicial Affairs who would be determining my fate—Donald Moore. When I met with him, he immediately gave me a pretty thorough dressing-down.
    â€œYou have to understand that you are now living in an environment with neighbors and rules,” he said sternly. “You have to respect those neighbors and be aware of the rules.”
    Of course, by now I had come to the conclusion that I couldn’t wiggle out of this with my boys-will-be-boys defense. That might have cut it back home in Lincoln, but Donald Moore was here to tell me those days were over.
    I promised to do better, and I apologized for screwing up, and Moore put me on some sort of probationary watch list that meant I better not make any more mistakes.
    Two weeks later I got back from a wrestling tournament late on a Saturday and went with some of the guys over to another dorm to see some friends. It turned out to be a full-on party, and within three minutes—no joke—I saw two RAs heading our way ready to break it up. I hadn’t had a beer. I barely had time to say hello to anyone. But I panicked. I can’t be in here. I can’t be in here. I can’t be in here.
    I went into the back bedroom and crawled out the first-floor window. I thought I was home free, until I found a slip in my mailbox the next morning. I had either been seen leaving the party or someone had turned me in. Back to Donald Moore I went.
    This time, as you can imagine, it was more serious. I got moved out of my original dorm, away from my girlfriend, away from my friends Dustin and