Pain Don't Hurt (18 page)

After I worked the bag, Buddy switched to mitt work. Buddy moved fast and tight, forcing punches to come short and quick. He forced me to follow him or control the work by cutting angles. He bullied me and got me to spin off throwing hard hooks. Every time my right landed properly, Buddy shouted, “
Now you're cooking with grease!
” The work went on for another thirty minutes. I was tired. Seven or eight rounds on a bag, seven or eight rounds on mitts. Now he wanted me to end on a speed bag. Two rounds' worth. And Rob hadn't even shown up yet.

As my training session with Buddy came to an end, he rattled off a few things. “You need to work on keeping your hands up, you drop your left when you bring your jab back, and you aren't getting full power out of your hooks. When you come back next time we'll work more on that.” Buddy had just agreed to be my boxing coach for the next month and a half. Now I just needed Rob.

Rob came walking in a few minutes later as I was shoveling trail mix into my mouth and chugging water. Rob was a big man. Six foot one but with massive legs and feet. Shelby would later say that his big toes looked like the fists of a small child. He was wearing board shorts and a black T-shirt. His shoulders and hands were wide, massive. He seemed larger than life. For the second time that day, Shelby was sitting on the edge of the ring, starstruck. “Hello, Mr. Kaman,” I said, standing and giving him a big hug. Rob and I had known each other for many years. This, however, would be our first time working together.

Rob had me start by warming up shadowboxing. Buddy was sitting in the corner smiling, watching us. He stood and shook Rob's hand. He knew I'd warmed up, but he wasn't going to say anything and I was sure as hell not going to say anything either. I was being forced into deep water on purpose by these guys. This was how they tested people. After shadowboxing, Rob put me on a bag. Low kicks. I was practicing low kicks and low-kick combinations. I did this, I swear to fucking God, for an hour and a half. My shins split, and I lost feeling in the bottoms of my feet. I refused to complain. Then Rob moved to the mitts. Mitt work, throwing combinations, most commonly the right low kick to a jab, then a right hook. Over and over and over. For another hour and a half. In between rounds, Shelby ran in and was pouring a carbohydrate-fortified drink down my throat, trying to keep my sugars high enough to perform. Rob stopped her at one point and stuck his hand out. “I'm Rob, by the way, we haven't met.”

Shelby grinned and said, “I know who you are.” And shook his hand vigorously, blushing before going back to trying to keep me hydrated.

After mitt work, Rob had me cool down with shadowboxing. He told me almost the same things that Buddy had, and added, “But we will work on all of this. I will see you tomorrow then? I'm staying in Ventura County, so it takes me a while—”

I cut him off. “Rob, I'm living in Ventura County right now. You're really close to me!”

“Oh, then we can train in the park out in the sunshine during the day and in the afternoon you come here.” His thick Dutch accent was softened with age and time. He had just accepted me. I had passed the test. I had coaches.

“Thank you, Rob, thank you, Buddy. I'll see both of you gentlemen tomorrow?” I was standing on rubber legs as Shelby bustled around behind me gathering up my gear and stuffing it into my bag.

“See you tomorrow, Mark. And see you, Miss Shelby.” Rob waved and winked as he exited. Buddy stood from his chair and walked over to us.

“You did good today. This was not an easy day.” He let out a chuckle.

“Fuck no, it was not. But I love this.” I was wiped out. Exhausted. Beat to shit. But I was happy.

“All right, Mr. Miller, I will see you tomorrow. And
you,
young lady, bring your gloves tomorrow, it's you and me.” Buddy pointed at Shelby before he grabbed her for a big hug. She blushed deeply and nodded. She picked up both her bag and mine and we headed out the door. As we got to the car she shoved the bags in, arranging the gloves on the backseat so they could partially dry out. She then pulled a bag of almonds and a protein drink out of a bag and shoved them in my face with a palm full of small white pills.

“BCAAs [branch chain amino acids],” she said. “You're going to need them. Your muscles got beat to shit today.”

I swallowed the pills and drank half the shake in one gulp. Shelby climbed into the driver's seat and started the car.

“Hey, Shelby, I need a favor.”

“Yeah? What's up?” She turned to me quickly.

“Uh, I can't lift my arms to put on my seat belt. . . .”

We both burst out laughing. I was being serious. She reached across and plugged my seat belt in and we started the drive home. About twenty minutes later we were driving by the ocean while the sun was setting and I heard a sniffle. I turned to look at Shelby to see that she was crying.

“What is wrong?” I was trying to sound concerned, because I really was. But I was so tired, I couldn't even make myself sound concerned. I just sounded half-drunk and sort of amused.

Shelby pulled the car suddenly into a gas station and turned it off. She turned to me and wrapped her arms around me in a massive hug. “I stood in a room with three men who have inspired me. Buddy, Rob, and now you. I never would have had this happen if I had never met you. Thank you, Mark.
You
are my hero. I'm so proud of you. And I'm so proud to be a part of your team. Thank you for letting me.” She then quickly let go, turned around, started the car, and continued driving.

I may not have had arms that worked to hug back, but I had a heart that said loudly and despite the odds, “We are going to win this fight.”

chapter eighteen

Travelers never think that they themselves are the foreigners.

—
MASON COOLEY

U
p until now, I had been calm, Up until now, I had been busy, For weeks
I had trained with Rob and Buddy. Buddy was always calm, funny, cracking jokes. He used to crank the radio up. Some awful pop song had come on the radio once that had a line in it about being a “boomerang.” I happened to be on the speed bag keeping time with the rhythm when Buddy decided that my new nickname had to be “Boomerang.” So that's what Buddy called me. Rob just called me what everyone else called me. He called me Shark. I spent weeks getting my ass kicked by Rob, having him bloody up my face and bruise my legs. And after every single training session he would sit and tell me everything I did that was good and where I needed to improve. He was calm and wouldn't let me criticize myself, encouraging me to just see where improvement was needed and focus on that. He always talked about my right hand, worked multiple drills to get me to set it up. Up until now, I had felt totally at peace with everything. But it had been a week since I'd seen Buddy or Rob. I had just gotten off the phone with Rob; he had given me his best wishes, told me he knew I would do well, said he was proud of me. I was standing inside of LAX with Shelby, the only person I had opted to take with me on this long journey to my first fight in six years. Rob could not come with me; neither could Buddy. They had previous obligations. The only other person I trusted enough to bring with me was Shelby. She was working out our luggage and getting us through the lines. I was just following. Up until now, I had been helpful. But now, I was checking out. Now, the fight was incredibly close and imminent, and I was shrinking down into myself, like a star before a supernova. All movement, all words were preserved. I was meant for one thing now.

A few weeks previously I had been sitting at home when Shelby came running in saying that there was mention of me on a blog; a mother of a young man named Jacob was talking about me. I had done an appearance on a few TV shows to talk about my comeback fight, to help promote it, and I guess Jacob's mother, Jenn, and his stepfather, Lonnie, had seen me, heard my story. Jacob was born with a congenital heart defect also. Jacob had already had multiple surgeries. After seeing me on TV, Jenn and Lonnie had felt inspired, felt like I represented a fight against the overall morbid attitude offered to CHD kids. I had gotten in touch with them, spoken on the phone a few times. They had become fast friends. They were hosting a party at their house to watch my fight, and Jacob would be there. Jenn was worried; she cared about me. She was worried about Jacob's watching; what if I got hurt? I told her I would be fine and asked that she have Jacob nearby when I called before I got on the plane.

Shelby pulled me into yet another line. I was plugged into my headphones: Wu-Tang Clan, Gang Starr, House of Pain, Cypress Hill, KRS-One, Dilated Peoples . . . Rakaa had texted me,
Strike fast and true fam, leave no question to the masses about who is the winner. Much love.
I had received a card from Shelby's mom signed, “To my other son, be careful.” Shelby's brother, Tristan, a twenty-five-year-old guitar player, had pulled me aside and asked me where a good place to bet on my fight was. This was his way of telling me that he was willing to put his money behind me, that he believed in me. Shelby's dad had pulled me in for a hug and said to me, “Warriors are never truly themselves unless they have a fight to go to. This time is yours.” Ever the poet. Cory and his mom had sent their best. Amy had put my sons on the phone earlier. I told them I loved them. Nothing from Justin. I was antsy. I called Jenn and had her put Jacob on the phone, and I could hear his excitement. He wished me good luck, and I knew he meant it. Still, Justin . . . Where was Justin . . . ?

Suddenly a text popped up.
I want you to know, that while I'm not gay, I am so proud of you, and everything you have done, all the hard work and how far you've come, that I might kiss you when I see you next. And I mean kiss you for real. Like a viking.
There he was. There was Justin.

I wrote back,
I love you brother. I mean that. And thank you.

His last text to me:
Bring home the victory. I know you will, it already belongs to you.

Now. Now I could board. Now I could go.

We boarded the first flight. Los Angeles to Chicago. From there we were to fly from Chicago to Helsinki, and then from Helsinki to Moscow. The entire process would take about fifteen hours, give or take, with stops. Shelby had stocked her purse and backpack with nonperishable food, vitamins, and supplements. She was trying to counteract the jet lag that would be inevitable. The only gift I was going to get was that by the time I landed, I wouldn't have to fight until two days later. The jet lag would hit me most likely the day after the fight, by which time I'd be back on the plane heading home. Still, since I was a diabetic, my sugars could go weird when I was forced to travel long distances and cross multiple time zones, and Shelby was trying to make sure I felt as good as I possibly could. As soon as we sat down, she pulled out two different protein bars, a small baggie of almonds, and an apple. She set them all in front of me and said, “Pick one to eat now.” For anyone wondering, this is what it is like if she is working with you. She doesn't ask if you are hungry; she tells you when you are going to eat and what you are going to eat. It isn't an option. You still have choices, but that's really where it ends. She also stuck a sixteen-ounce bottle of water in front of me, one of fourteen she had bought once we had passed through security, and said, “And drink this too. Now.” I chose a protein bar and began to absentmindedly shove it into my mouth. I was not hungry, but I knew she was right. It was very early, and while I'd eaten breakfast, I knew it was probably time for me to eat again. Shelby had my meal planning down to a science. She could tell by the way my skin looked if I had cheated and had a high-sodium or high-sugar meal. I finished the bar and she tucked the rest away under her seat, settling in with a water bottle of her own.

“What about you? Aren't you going to eat?” I asked.

“Oh no, I can't risk running out of food. I want to make sure you're eating properly. It doesn't matter if I feel like crap; you're the one who can't afford to. I'll eat whatever hell on a plate they serve once we're airborne.”

Los Angeles to Chicago was a breeze. We boarded the second leg of our flight and got settled onto one of Finnair's planes. I highly recommend this airline. It is a huge misconception that fighters get treated like royalty. The promotion barely rolled out enough money to afford me a corner person, and they sure as hell weren't putting any of us fighters in anything above coach, which is a joke. Coach is a possible loss on a fight record, that's how fucking bad it is for a heavyweight kickboxer to fly it for over four hours. I was to be jammed on this particular plane for around eight. Fifteen hours total in coach for the whole travel time. Finnair was surprisingly comfortable, very empty, which meant Shelby and I moved back to take an entire row up all for ourselves, with movie screens and
beautiful
tall, blond stewardesses, one of whom took a liking to me and kept my water glass full and brought me extra bags of peanuts and pretzels when Shelby wasn't looking. We were on the plane for a few hours when suddenly the captain came on over the intercom: “Hey, folks, uh, our computer isn't working very well, and we don't really want to cross the Atlantic without a fully functional computer, so we are going to emergency-land at JFK in New York and de-board. We shouldn't be too long, and we'll be back up in the air before you know it. We are terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

Before he stopped talking Shelby was already rifling through our papers to check our itinerary. She was worried.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing, it's not a problem. Don't worry about it.” She was a terrible fucking liar. The worst.

“
What is it,
Shelby?” I asked more seriously, closing my eyes and feigning melodrama, as though I was thoroughly exhausted with her.

“It's just that . . . our plane change in Helsinki was going to be a tight squeeze. . . . I don't think there is any way we'll make it now. But it's fine, I'm sure there are tons of planes that they can bump us to.”

She jinxed us right there.

We landed in New York. I saw the Statue of Liberty through a window as we were descending. I was born there, in Queens, thirty-nine years ago. My dad was from there. We got off the plane and searched for a real meal. Though only about six or seven hours had passed since we boarded in the morning in Los Angeles, it was getting dark here in New York. I took Shelby to a small restaurant inside the airport to buy her a steak dinner. She ordered salmon for both of us. I was slightly disappointed. We spent an hour and a half eating before we were called to reboard the plane.

As we were getting back on I saw Mighty Mo, another American kickboxer who was also fighting on the show, boarding our plane. I hadn't seen him before. I stopped him and shook his hand. Part of me relaxed a little. Nothing could go wrong the rest of the trip if we were both here. Strength in numbers.

The plane took off and we were on our way to Helsinki. We arrived several hours and a few not-so-terrible plane meals later. Shelby had been shoving her tray in front of me the whole time, picking off the tray what she didn't want me to eat. I'd been getting doubles of meat, salad, and fruit. She'd been living off of dinner rolls and water for hours since the salmon without a single complaint. Pollyanna Sunshine.

We touched down in Helsinki. The airport was beautiful. I mean it, it's worth seeing. Mighty Mo and I searched for an outlet to charge our phones as Shelby went to the nearest desk to ask about what we should do since we had missed our connecting flight . . . by five hours, which I still can't figure out. A smiling blond woman was explaining things to her with an apologetic look on her face. This was unnerving. After writing a few things down on a piece of paper and making several phone calls, the woman shook Shelby's hand and Shelby turned to walk toward us. She was trying to act unfazed. She was, again, a terrible, terrible liar.

“So, here is the deal. We have two choices. We can either stay the night in Helsinki and hop a plane at nine
A.M
. tomorrow, or we can grab a flight to Frankfurt and then get a connecting flight to Moscow from there. If we choose door number two, we have to run, because that flight leaves in around thirty minutes.”

Motherfucker. Frankfurt was the
other direction
. So we had to go
backward
to go forward. My hands were tied. I had to get to Moscow that night.

“Well, we have to run, because I don't know what else to do.” I picked up our stuff, and me, Mighty Mo, and Shelby started tearing ass through the airport. A tall redhead, a tall tattooed guy, and a giant Samoan. We did not fit in. We made it onto the plane to Frankfurt by the skin of our teeth. It had now been fifteen hours or so since we left L.A. You see, the goal had been to sleep on the plane. I hadn't slept yet.

Frankfurt's airport was not so nice. Actually, it was fine, it was just confusing and very, very big. When we got there, once again Shelby was trying to figure out our connecting flight. An American gentleman who had happened to be on the same flights as us had taken a liking to us. His name was Gordon, and thank God for him, because by this time, none of us were making much sense. Mighty Mo and I were underfed, overtired, and cranky. Shelby was trying her best, but she was also running on no sleep and hadn't eaten half as well as we had. Gordon and Shelby decided to approach the connecting gate together, leaving Mo and me to stand off to the side. They walked up to a window for Aeroflot. Gordon was making jokes about Aeroflot before we landed. Aeroflot is called “Aeroflop” by those who travel frequently to Eastern Europe, as it is widely regarded as the worst airline. No sooner did they get to the window than a severe-looking gentleman slammed it shut in their faces. I was starting to get angry. Shelby ran over to a window for a Siberian airline. The woman there looked at her tickets but clearly told her that she couldn't help her. Gordon and Shelby were looking desperate. I shouted, “What the fuck is going on now? What is the goddamn holdup?” People were turning around to stare at me. I was now the ugly American asshole in a German airport. Airport security moved a little closer. Shelby rushed over.

“Please please lower your voice, Mark, we are figuring it out.”

Mo was as mad as I was, but instead of voicing it, he was just scanning the area looking for something to break. I was seething.

Gordon and Shelby conversed, and Shelby walked over to the Aeroflot window again and knocked. The same man shrugged and waved her away. Shelby moved to the next window over and started talking to a German woman, who seemed to be helping. Within five minutes Shelby and Gordon were smiling again and running back to us with tickets in hand.

“Okay. She was able to find us by tracking our luggage. We are on Aeroflot. Now, the only catch is, the plane leaves in twenty-five minutes. So we have to run. Again.”

We were now trying to function after about eighteen to nineteen hours without sleep. Running was increasingly difficult. We moved from one line to another, got on a bus, got off a bus. Finally we were at the plane. We boarded, and suddenly I felt like I was on the set of a bad movie. The aircraft was shabby, to say the least. The carpet was coming up in the corners on the floor. The seat cushions were ripped and some had been taped back together. All the magazines in the pockets of the seats in front of us looked like they might have been twelve years old. The flight attendants looked like they were from a sixties movie. The uniforms were bright orange, with pencil skirts, white gloves, and pillbox hats, still sporting the hammer and sickle. This was the strangest airplane I had ever been on. Gordon was already laughing. “So this is why they get the reputation. Oh boy . . .”