Post by Nathan Lucas on Feb 8, 2011 14:00:59 GMT -5
Have any of you ever heard of the Chaos Theory? It’s the common name for the hypothesis that everything in the world occurs due to a domino effect, a giant chain reaction, and that something as simple as a butterfly flapping its wings in Chicago can cause a tornado in Taiwan. I think they made a movie about it a few years back with one of the guys from ‘That 70’s Show’, but I could be wrong… I was never really the type of person that made time to watch ‘Dude, Where’s My Car?’ try and prove that he’s some sort of serious actor. Call me sheltered, or underprivileged, but while you were sitting on your couch watching Twitters most followed man play practical jokes on other celebrities, I was in the gym actually accomplishing something with my life… I was working towards a goal.
Sorry, not trying to put you guys down or anything… I’m sure you’re all perfectly satisfied with your life choices. So, how’s McDonalds treating you? Did you get that promotion to night shift manager yet?
Again, I’m sorry… I don’t really know where the aggression is coming from, to be honest. I guess I’m just clinging to that tiniest amount of bitterness that’s still coursing through my veins. See, I spent a lot of time in that high school gym, and in my mothers basement doing bicep curls and sit ups for hours on end. Through it all I repeated the mantra that it was all for a purpose. It was worth it, it was time well spent, it was me prioritizing and sacrificing the things that needed to be given up.
I missed a lot more than mediocre movies.
I missed my high school prom, I missed every Chicago Bulls basketball game from the 2002 season until last years playoff collapse to the Celtics, I missed the Paris Hilton sex tape, I missed my families three week vacation to California my senior year… and I missed every Friday night date that I could have potentially gone on, had I ever spared five minutes to look up from a protein shake and talk to someone without a y-chromosome, that is.
I’m rambling now… but long story short, that time wasn’t as well spent as I had hoped. I had sacrificed, all right, but it didn’t pay off like I expected. One little detail changed it all; one tiny mistake flushed my dreams down the toilet. I’ve never let it go… but can you blame me?
One little detail and it all fell apart.
I guess a butterfly flapped its wings.
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Two Years Ago
Niagara Falls, New York
Niagara Falls, New York
Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for a clash of the light heavyweights?
The sell out crowd cheers wildly, the energy in the small building electric as they uniformly stomp their feet on the bleachers until I can feel the ring shaking under my feet. I can’t help but grin, rolling both shoulders in a circle and craning my neck from side to side in an attempt to loosen up a bit. They’re ready. Good. So am I.
Announcer: In the blue corner, making his professional MMA debut, weighing in at 205 pounds and standing 6 feet and one inch tall… proficient in wrestling and boxing… fighting out of Chicago, Illinois… NAAAAAATHAN… LUCAS!
I’m not going to delude myself that the crowd is going to go crazy for me. Hell, ninety five percent of them have no idea who I am and the five percent that does only figured it out because they wanted to know who the hell was standing up to their home town hero. I throw my arm up in the air, half expecting an encouraging cheer of support and well wishes, and half expecting to be booed out of the arena. I get a polite greeting, more of a golf clap than anything. It’s slightly disappointing; I’m not going to lie.
Announcer: And in the red corner, entering this match with a professional record of fourteen wins and two losses, weighing in at 205 pounds and standing five feet and eight inches tall… a black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and a former golden glove boxer… hailing from right here in Niagara Falls, New York… KYLE “THE PIT BULL” LAAAAAARSON!
That right there is a pop. The fans practically explode as his name is called, and an arrogant smirk is plastered on his face as he bangs his fists together and nods his head rhythmically with the energy of the crowd. This is what I’ve spent the past two years striving for. This is the embodiment of ever missed party, every lonely night, and every hour in the gym. They told me I’d never make it, and here I am, standing across a ring from Kyle freaking Larson.
I’ll give them a fight to remember, that’s a guarantee.
Referee: Alright, men, I want a good, clean fight. Protect yourself at all times, follow my instructions, touch gloves and come out fighting!
I extend my hand, a grin on my face as giddy as a kid in a candy shop. Kyle backs away from me, a smirk on his face as he refuses to touch gloves. He stops in his corner, never taking his eyes off me as I retreat towards mine, and he blows me a kiss.
Oh, god… this is going to be fun.
DING! DING! DING!
I come out the aggressor, just as I had planned, and I’m nearly half way across the ring by the time he even blinks. Advance four steps, ending with your left in front… it’ll allow the most power in your punch when you decide to finally throw. Right arm up, protect the face, hands open in case a quick counter grapple is required. Watch his feet… the weight is on the balls of his feet, he’s on his heels and not his toes… he’s defensive. Drop the defensive hand a few inches, open up the face and give him a target to attack.
I listen as the play by play runs through my head, every move playing out in my head a dozen times before I finally make it, like Bobby Fisher, except in a mans sport and not an arena full of chess nerds. He plays into my hands perfectly, seeing my unprotected face and throwing three quick jabs which I avoid easily. I duck to the left, and as he throws another punch, I take advantage with a hook to his exposed ribs.
Back away, don’t stay too close for too long. This kid will score a take down out of nowhere unless distance is maintained. His ground game is better, avoid it. Watch his eyes, think about where he’s looking. Knees, he wants to see if you’re knees are bent and ready to stuff a double leg take down or if they’re straight and easily broken down… keep them bent. Over your shoulder, he’s looking to see how much distance there is between you and the cage, and use that information to guess how close the cage is to him… more than likely, he’s planning a ‘wall and stall’, or he’s going to try and clinch against it. Maintain your position in the center. He throws a quick leg kick, but I avoid any real damage by lifting and turning my leg out, taking the brunt of the attack on the back of my thigh… he’s off balance now. Two steps forward, a three punch combo; body, body, head. Two steps back.
For the first time, I hear some of the fans getting behind me, slight cheers with every shot I land. I knew I’d get them on their feet by the time this is over, I knew the time I put into training would transfer over to the octagon.
Maybe I should push it a little more, show them what I can really do.
I take another two steps in, throwing another three punch combo as I do so, finishing it up with a knee to the midsection. I should back away; I should keep the distance… but listen to those cheers. Right hook, left jab, left hook. That’s enough, back away now, read him and the situation before you make another move… or end this now. He hasn’t touched you once. He can’t stand with you. Put him down! Knock him out!
I drop my guard and swing for the fences with a massive overhand right, but he steps aside and my rocket of a fist goes sailing harmlessly by. I strafe to the side, avoiding any counter he can throw, but as soon as I regain my balance, I begin to throw again… right, left, right, left, left, left, right… I throw a flurry, each one harder than the last, but he ducks from side to side with incredible agility and takes nothing more than a glancing blow. He’s got the punches scouted, end this with something that he doesn’t see coming… get these fans chanting your name.
Shift your weight back, bend the knee and snap it forwards with a devastating head kick. Crack the cranium open and leave him on the mat wondering what just hit him. Get yourself that knockout of the night bonus. Get the-
Oh… shit.
He ducks under the leg kick, coiling his muscles and springing up at me from the canvas, planting a shoulder in my midsection and under hooking the back of my knee, lifting me through the air and slamming me hard to the canvas mat. It’s like a bomb goes off inside my skull, the entire world turning a crimson red and vibrating from side to side, refusing to allow me to see it clearly.
Scramble, scramble, scramble… get back to your feet, don’t let him get into his game or else your game is over, it’s that simple. Scramble, scramble, scramble.
“Larson! Larson! Larson! Larson!”
They cheer his name as he drags me into his domain; I was stupid for ever thinking I could win them over. Ignore them, it’s not about them anymore, they trapped you. Larson throws two heavy hammer fists that sprawl me out flat on my back as he climbs over my knees and into a full mount.
Larson: Give it up, kid, it’s done… save yourself any more embarrassment, or an injury.
Nathan: No!
I wish in that moment I was a little more witty, but “no” is the best I can muster. I reach for his left wrist, trying to l push him off of my hips and find a way to lock in an arm bar, but he uses his free hands to throw another heavy fist that connects on my right orbital. Two more hammer fists, one that barely catches my ear before slamming the canvas, and one that hits flush on my chin… the knock out button.
If only I had been so lucky.
My body goes limp, but only for a moment… not nearly enough for the referee to consider calling the match over. I snap back as quickly as I can, tuning out the screams of the fans, ignoring the sounds of my own flesh being broken down and systematically pounded. Scramble, scramble, scramble out of this… get free, and go back to your game plan!
This? Right here? This is where I fucked up, and blew away my career forever…
I reach out my right arm, trying to force myself up into a sitting position, and as soon as that arm extends I hear the fans scream in amazement. They knew before I did, but I catch up soon enough as Larson grabs the arm in an iron grip and hooks is other arm underneath… no!
Larson: It’s called a kimura, bitch, start taking notes.
I struggle desperately to free myself, but there’s no way… I can barely force myself to move an inch in any direction. I grit my teeth in determination, and he laughs loudly in my ear as the fans once more begin to chant his name.
Referee: Nathan! Do you want to give up?
Nathan: NO!
Referee: You wont prove anything to anyone getting your arm snapped, son… if you’re stuck then you’re stuck, don’t do anything you’ll regret later.
Larson: Listen to him, kid, don’t make me do something you’ll regret.
He chuckles again, but I say nothing… ignore it all… tune it out again… find some way to get out of this, and get back to your god damned game plan! You’ve spent years training for this very moment, so show everyone exactly what you’re made of! Don’t accept defeat, don’t accept anything less than you’re worth! Show them how good you are, think of all those hours, and all of those things you gave up to make it to this point! Where would you rather be than right here, right now!?! IT’S NOT OVER!
SNAAAA-AAAP!
RRRRRRRRR-IP!
Do you know the phrase “it’s always calmest before the storm”? It’s true. For a minute there, it all goes away… I go numb. I don’t feel any more pain in the arm, I don’t hear Larson’s trash talk, I don’t hear the screams and jeers raining down on me from the entire arena… that lasts all of five seconds.
Referee: SHIT! I saw it go! I saw it fucking break! It’s over, he’s finished! GET OFF OF HIM LARSON, IT’S FUCKING OVER!
DING! DING! DING!
Larson rolls off of me like he’s told, leaping to his feet and running to climb the cage as the fans scream his name, cheering on their home town boy. Congratulations Niagara Falls, congratulations ‘Raging Wolf Fight Association’, congratulations Larson… you beat me… you destroyed me… I have nothing now. All those hours of sacrifice and this is how it finally goes down? The medical staff rushes me, pressing me flat on the mat as I scream in agony, tears flowing down my face. I can’t move my arm… I can’t move my fucking arm.
Larson: Game over, kid. Thanks for playing.
I open my eyes, blinking away the tears just long enough to see him grinning above me, and after that… everything goes black.
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Three Months Ago
Chicago, Illinois
Chicago, Illinois
Nathan: What do you mean, Chris? What do you mean ‘no one wants me’?
Chris: I mean what I said, Nathan… I’ve been reaching out to every single organization that’ll answer my calls, and no one is interested to signing you to a contract… not even for one fight. I’m sorry, Nate.
I stare blankly ahead, not believing what I’m being told. It doesn’t make sense, it can’t be right… two years ago there were companies lined up trying to sign me, there was a bidding war! Now no one even wants to talk to me? To give me a freaking try out?
Nathan: Why not, Chris? You still haven’t answered that… call the people who used to call us, tell them we’re open to negotiation again. I’ll go back to Raging Wolf in the Falls, I don’t care what happened last time.
Chris: I’m sure you don’t, Nate, but they do. They don’t want you.
Nathan: Fine. What about that place in Nebraska, huh? Or the guys from Michigan trying to do that ‘Underground’ thing? Did you call Jake, the guy who wanted me in his Honor Club, or whatever it was called?
Chris: It was Code of Honor, and it’s shut down… Nebraska and Michigan are still there, they just said no.
Nathan: Fine. How about-
Chris: Jesus Christ, Nate! Will you listen to me? I have talked to everyone there is to talk to… there is NO WHERE for you to go, right now. Do you understand? No where.
I fall silent for a minute, my eyes glazing over as I stare at him, and then slowly falling to the floor. I take a deep breath, and another for good measure.
Nathan: Why?
Chris: Come on, Nate… be honest with yourself. You were an 18 year old kid who tried to skip the amateur circuit and go straight to the pros. Your first professional fight, you got submitted in less than two minutes, and not only that but you went and got your entire arm shredded. A torn rotator cuff, a broken elbow and a forearm fractured in three places? No one wants that risk. Not to mention that regardless of how bad you performed in your fight then, you haven’t seen a ring in close to two years now.
Nathan: I’ve been rehabbing, Chris… it’s not like I was sitting on my couch! My arm is fine, one hundred percent healed, and I learned from that fight! I’m good to go! I can prove it to them if they just give me a shot, I swear!
Chris: I’m sure you could, Nate. You’re not going to get that shot, though.
He sighs deeply, clearly frustrated… forgive me for not feeling bad for him, the agent that still has his dream job. I feel my eyes beginning to well up, a lump forming in my throat as I try to talk, my soft and wavering voice barely carrying across the desk.
Nathan: So now what, Chris? Is it just over? Do I just tell myself I wasted my entire high school social life getting ready for something that’s never going to happen? Do I tell myself that I have no other notable skills because I put all of my eggs in a basket that just got steamrolled by every fight promoter and owner in the country? Do I pick up a job at the gas station, and tell my kids about what could have been?
Chris: I can get you in at the bottom rung… we go amateur circuit, we put you into independent cards against no name fighters… we build a reel, we get you back into ring shape and get you some experience, and then we show the footage to anyone who’ll see it. With any luck, two or three years down the road you’ll have a good ten fights under your belt and you’ll be back in the-
Nathan: TWO OR THREE YEARS!?!? I can’t do that, Chris! I can’t wait that long.
I slam my fist angrily on the desk, making sure to do it with my ‘bad arm’, just to prove a point. He doesn’t get it.
Chris: Have you ever watched professional wrestling, Nate?
Nathan: What the hell are you talk-
Chris: Hear me out, Nate… No one in MMA will take the risk, but someone in professional wrestling will. It’s not the same game, but it’s fighting and that’s what you do best. It’s national, it’s televised… it’ll get you back in the game. It’ll get you noticed. Are you interested?
Silence.
Chris: Here, let me put you in touch with the guy… his name is Hopkins, Matt Hopkins.
He picks up the phone.
[FADE TO BLACK]