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Samman’s Prizefighting Chronicles: Battling a Barbarian Part II – The brawl
- Updated: July 28, 2016
My bouts are customarily preceded by pre-fight naps in the locker room. My placement on the card dictates that I won’t be shuttled to the venue until late and my nap is done at hotel instead of arena.
There is an element of business-as-usual to the day, and I wonder for a moment if I’m too calm; if for some reason I need silly bright Vegas lights to get me excited about a prizefight. The thrill can’t be gone this early. I put the thoughts out of my mind and remind myself this is the way I’ve planned on feeling today, emotions in check.
Time speeds, the bell rings, and suddenly it is no longer how I imagined.
There are a few “Keys to Victory” on the screen near me that the production team has deemed necessary for either of us to win. For me; stick and move. Him; use ground and pound. They both sound about right. I think about them while warming up. I do it the same way I have for a decade now. Following a loss, it’s hard not to question whether our tried and true practices shouldn’t be reconsidered, but this one I stick with. Stretch, shadowbox, hit mits, grapple, stay warm.
I relax for a few minutes while waiting on Brock, the jacked white boy from earlier in the week, to come in the locker room and tell me it’s time. He does, and I make the walk, 22nd in total, to the bright lights waiting. I take a seat in my corner and keep my heart rate low. Everything is as I pictured in my head.
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Time speeds, the bell rings, and suddenly it is no longer how I imagined. Boetsch throws a front kick and I catch it. He turns away to retract his leg, and my first instinct is to switch levels and try to take his back. The attempt fails and we end up with his rear end against the fence, me plowing forward. I’m loading up on hard knees, trying to catch him just right in the thigh for a dead-leg. He times my third attempt and I end up on my back.
I’m irked. This is specifically what we’d worked on not doing. I take a body lock and close my grip behind his back, working to elevate his hips for a sweep. He stays heavy and I eat a few shots because of it. I’m forced to bail and try to get up, which I do. I disengage, though only briefly, before crashing back into him after a few punches.
It’s this sequence that is the most frustrating of the fight. I’m once again pushing forward with my head on his chest, and I’m not sure why. I’m displeased with myself, but look to make the best of it, ducking under, once again going for his back. I’ve got it this time, and try to turn it into the position I gained my last win with.
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