My Fight / Your Fight (24 page)

“I didn't mean to say it in the way I said it,” Edmond said.

It was a very Edmond apology. He couldn't just say he was sorry for brushing me off. In fact, this wasn't an apology at all. This wasn't even Edmond telling me that he didn't want me to go. This was Edmond letting
me know that he was right
to not train me that day.

We pulled up to the bank. Edmond got out of the car, while I looked straight ahead. He took a few steps, then doubled back and leaned in the rolled-down passenger window.

“Don't leave me, OK?” he said. “I'll be right back. Don't drive away. OK?”

He paused, unsure whether I was going to peel away from the curb or not. I couldn't help but crack a smile.

“I'll be here.”

A few minutes later, Edmond emerged and got back into the car. “Look, Ronda, I have seen that you have been practicing,” Edmond said. “I see you training really hard.”

I nodded.

“Maybe I haven't really been working with you,” he continued.

“Yeah.” I summoned all of my inner strength not to whip out a sarcastic reply.

“But I will put in more time training with you,” he said.

“Yeah?” I said. It was the only word I could choke out while holding back what I really wanted to say, which was, “That won't be very hard considering you've put in absolutely no time so far.”

“Maybe hold the mitts,” he said.

“That would be great,” I replied.

“You got a fight coming up?” Edmond asked.

“My amateur debut is next month.”

“OK, I'll make sure you're ready for that,” he told me.

We were back at the gym. Edmond flung open the door and all but jumped out of the car, putting as much distance as possible between him and my dog-hair disaster of a car.

“OK, see you on Monday,” Edmond said.

“Monday,” I agreed.

As I pulled away, I broke into a huge smile. I was halfway home when I realized my gloves were still at the gym. I would just have to get them on Monday.

Monday morning, I smiled the entire drive to the gym. I could hardly contain my excitement. This was the day.

I got there early, before even Sevak, and let myself in. About an hour later, Edmond walked through the door.

“Hey, Edmond, you said you would hold mitts for me today.” It wasn't a question.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “After I train some guys.”

A training session with Edmond could be an hour if he was really into working with the person or he might only hold mitts less than a round (a professional boxing round is three minutes) and then move on. It depends on the mood Edmond is in and whether or not he likes you. I didn't know how many guys he was planning to train first, and I didn't care. I was not leaving that gym until Edmond held mitts for me.

For the next hour, I waited around, warming up and bouncing around. I wanted to be limber so that I would be ready to jump in the ring as soon as Edmond said, “OK, Ronda, now.” Then he called my name.

I tried not to look overly excited as I stepped into the ring. I wanted him to understand that I was serious and focused. I didn't say a word. I had learned from Big Jim that coaches really like when you shut up and do what they say.

He worked with me for a few minutes on basic footwork. Then he told me to throw a left jab.

I threw one. I was trying to stay relaxed, because if you're stiff you can't punch for shit, but I was way too stiff because I was all amped up and my jab was awful. He had me throw a few more jabs, and then as soon as I felt like I was loosening up and doing a good job, Edmond said, “Okay, we're done.”

We had been in the ring for less than twenty minutes.

Years later, I heard Edmond say in an interview that the morning I yelled at him was a turning point, because he saw that I had the balls to say something. In that moment, he saw how much I wanted to train and it made him realize I was worth training. In that moment, I found my coach.

I have lost tournaments. I have lost friendships. I have lost my father. I know that I can deal when things are bad. I can come back when things are at their worst. I'm not afraid of losing all my money or losing my career, because I know I'm capable of living in my car and rising up. Once you've conquered the worst things that could happen, there is no need to fear the unknown. You are fearless.

My MMA career was getting off the ground, but I needed another job to carry me through until fighting started paying the bills. I hustled to find work. My sister Maria called a friend from high school and got me a job working the graveyard shift at 24 Hour Fitness. The job sucked, but every time the resentment welled up, I imagined the backseat of my Honda as my bedroom.

A few weeks later, I got a second job teaching judo at a club on L.A.'s Westside. I picked up a third job working as a vet assistant at an animal rehabilitation clinic. It was piecemeal employment, but it was enough to pay (most of) my bills. Besides, I was so in love with DPCG that, as long as he was with me, nothing else in the world mattered.

But you can only live in a bubble for so long before it pops.

After almost a year of being nearly inseparable, DPCG called me as I was leaving grappling practice.

“I need to see you,” he pleaded.

When I got to his place, he was sitting on his bed, crouched over. Roxie was cowering in the corner of the room, more frightened than I had ever seen her. I set my purse down next to the bedroom door.

“I drank,” he said.

I didn't know what that meant. “It's not the end of the world. You drank today. It's one lost day. We will move on. Just talk to me about everything that's going on with you.”

He had drunk a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor before I arrived and he pulled out a six-pack of beer that he drank as we sat there.
He's going to drink for today
, I thought to myself.
Just let him get it out of his system and we will move on tomorrow.

A few hours passed. He slipped into this other place. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes looked black. I couldn't get him to focus on me.

“I gotta go on a journey,” he told me. His voice was flat.

“What is wrong with you?”

As a bartender, I was used to seeing people who had too much to drink, but this was unlike anything I had ever seen. He was starting to scare me.

“I gotta go on a journey,” he said again.

“Talk to me. I'm right here.” But he was somewhere else. He kept staring into space, then he got up to leave.

“You're not fucking leaving this room.” I didn't raise my voice, but I stood blocking the doorway.

Looking right past me, he tried to move me aside as if I was a chair that happened to be in his way. I planted my hands on his chest and pushed him onto the bed. He tried to get back up. I shoved him again and he hit his head against the wall. My stomach dropped. I thought I'd hurt him. But he shook it off, unfazed, then tried to get up again. I shoved him once again, more gently this time. He didn't fight me. He just sat there for a few seconds, then tried again as if he had forgotten what had preceded. We must have danced this strange dance a dozen times. Each time he tried to stand, my muscles tensed, preparing to go another round. And each time my heart sank deeper. DPCG was slipping further away from me, and I could not pull him back. Finally he sat on the bed.

I ran into the kitchen, found his keys on the counter, and hid them in a cupboard before running back into the bedroom in case I had to intercept him again.

I sat down beside him, feeling exhausted and sad. A little while later, he got up like he was going to the bathroom, then made a sharp turn for the front door.

I headed him off, and for the next hour, I sat guarding the door, blocking the apartment's only exit.

“I'm sorry,” he said finally. “I'm sorry. Let's lie down. Let's just lie down.”

I was drained. It was past three a.m. and I had been guarding him for hours. We got into bed in silence. I looked into his eyes and he seemed present again. It looked like he was finally sobering up. We lay there together, and he held me in his tattooed arms. Slowly, I relaxed, and eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up in the morning, alone. The contents of my purse were strewn all over the bedroom floor. DPCG was gone along with my car.

I called his phone, but he didn't answer.

I called everybody I could think of. I called his friend Mike. I called his friend Luke. I called his friend Jack. I called his mother. I called my mother. Everyone said the same thing: Call the police and report your car stolen. They'll look for the car and they'll find him.

I felt ill and my hands shook as I dialed 911. The dispatcher did little to reassure me.

“If you report this car stolen and he tries to resist, then you know, they have license to shoot him,” he said. “Do you want that to happen?”

“No!” I said appalled. “I don't want you to shoot my boyfriend!”

They sent a squad car over to the apartment. There were two officers—one a head taller than the other. I invited them inside. They were very nice. The tall one gave me a forced smile, then his partner took out a notepad and flipped it open. I told them my story, and the knowing looks on their faces made it clear that they'd heard this all before.

“Are you really going to shoot him?” I asked.

The officers looked slightly confused.

“No,” the short one said. “We're going to drive around to different motels, looking in the parking lots. We'll try to find him for you.”

His partner gave me a sympathetic look.

“Here is a number where you can reach us,” he said, handing me a business card. Then they set out to look for him.

I sat on DPCG's living room floor, leaning against the wall, and barely moved. His dog, Roxie, lay at my feet.

“What the fuck did you get yourself into?” I asked myself aloud.

I had no idea what to do. I kept checking my phone, turning it over and over in my hands. Willing it to ring. Then it did. It was his mother. We had met in passing, but were not close.

“What exactly happened?” she asked.

I recounted the events of the night before.

“You let an addict drink?” she said, her tone accusatory. “How could do you that?”

“I . . . I . . . I thought he had a problem with heroin, not alcohol,” I stammered.

“Unbelievable. They're all connected,” she said. “I know you don't want to hear this, but this is your fault. You encouraged him.

“Let me know if you hear from him,” she said, and hung up. Fifteen minutes later, she called again. I let it go straight to voicemail.

An hour passed, and I heard someone at the door. I jumped up. Roxie started barking like crazy. The door opened. It was his mother.

“No word?” she asked. She seemed less angry at me.

I shook my head.

“This is why you shouldn't get involved with an addict,” she said.

She pulled out her phone and started making phone calls. I sat there in the kitchen, shell-shocked. She went into his bedroom and started throwing clothes into a bag. Her phone rang. We both jumped.

“It's not him,” she told me, looking at the caller ID.

Late that afternoon, DPCG just walked back into the house. A wave of relief washed over me. He looked like shit, but he was OK. He threw himself down on the bed and started crying.

“I'm so sorry,” he choked out between sobs. I'd never seen him cry before. He confessed to taking my car downtown to score heroin. All he could find was crack. So he spent the morning doing crack, then just drove around. As he started to come down, everything hit him at once. He was low. Lower than I'd ever seen him. He couldn't even look me in the eye.

The situation was so fucked up, I didn't even know how to process it. His mom took control with an amazing level of organization; she had been down this road before.

“Get in the car,” she said, firmly. “You're going back to rehab.”

He stood up slowly but didn't argue. She led him out to her car, a luxury sedan. I followed them, Roxie close behind me. DPCG slid into the back and I sat next to him. Roxie lay down at his feet. It was a forty-five-minute drive to the rehab center, and it was silent all the way there.

“I'm sorry,” he said once we stepped out of the car.

I tried to force the kind of smile that tells a person it's going to be all right, but I couldn't get the corners of my mouth to turn up.

DPCG signed his admittance papers with a shaking hand.

“I'm sorry,” he said again. “I'm so sorry.”

His mom and I got into her car. I needed to go back to his place to get my car. She looked tired and worried. We pulled onto the freeway.

“I can't believe you let him drink,” she said again. I said nothing.

“God, who lets an addict drink?” She wasn't even looking in my direction. She was quiet for the next few miles.

“I knew when he met you, he would be back here, but I still can't believe we're going down this road again.” She wasn't talking to me this time. She was clutching the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. I glanced back at Roxie, who was still lying on the floor in the backseat.

We kept driving.

“You need to leave him,” his mom said to me, breaking the silence. “He's no good for you, and you're no good for him. You can't be with someone who is running around doing this kind of shit.”

She continued like this in bursts, the entire way home. She never took her eyes off the road, and I never said a word.

She dropped me off at the house and drove away without saying goodbye. I stood there with Roxie, who stared up at me looking scared and lonely. I realized I felt the exact same way. I reached down and scratched the back of her neck.

“Come on, girl,” I said. She followed me to my car. I opened the back door and tossed my purse on the floor. I tried to get Roxie in the car, but she became frantic, pulled away, and ran down the street. I slammed the door and ran after her, catching her halfway down the block. Holding tightly to her leash, I walked her back to the car and went to pull open the door. It was locked. I had to laugh. I could not have possibly imagined that the day could get any worse. I called AAA, and then sat on the curb to wait. Roxie would not settle down, and I yanked hard on her leash.