Pain Don't Hurt by Mark Miller Page B

their joint broken or be choked unconscious) as well as knockouts. Since MMA was beginning to get a little more attention stateside, while kickboxing seemed to be restricted to mostly overseas, Mo wanted to know if I wanted to stay with kickboxing or venture into MMA. I told him that for now I wanted to stay with kickboxing. Then he offered to try to get me fights in the organization known as K-1. My heart unfurled and fluttered.
    K-1 at that time was the organization for kickboxing. All the greats were there. Names that would make their mark on the kickboxing world so deeply they would become synonymous with kickboxing itself. Andy Hug, Peter Aerts, Ernesto Hoost—I mean all the greats. And Mo had been fighting in it for a few years. He began reaching out to them.
    The offer came through not long after that for me to fight Masaaki Miyamoto in Japan. I agreed, but my size became an issue for them. I was walking around at two hundred fifteen pounds, and at six feet four, I was not a thick heavyweight. But Miyamoto was smaller, and the Japanese balked at the size difference. Also, I was 10–0 as a pro going into this fight, which made me a risk. The Japanese liked to try to build records for their fighters by pitting them against Americans, assuming that we were the worst of the worst in kickboxing, and while they didn’t stand much of a chance against the Europeans, they felt we were their stepping-stones to beef up their records. I was the wrong fucking American for them, because at that time, seven of my ten wins were by knockout. My right hand has always been a cannon. The fight was pulled off the table real quick once they did their research. The next offer came through. It was to fight Tommy “the Rhino” Glanville in Las Vegas. Tommy was another American. He was a decent fighter, with a decent record, and Tommy was huge : six feet two and around two hundred fifty pounds plus. A cock diesel hulk of a man with a bleached-blond flattop and a jaw so square he looked like a cartoon. I accepted.
    I prepared for the fight split between Seattle and Pittsburgh as Mo was getting ready for his own fights and therefore wasn’t always around. When it came time for the fight, I flew out to Las Vegas and arrived at the Bellagio. I was brought in on a Tuesday; the fight wasn’t until Saturday. Leading up to the fight I had several press conferences to attend, photo shoots to do, and weigh-ins the day before. K-1 treated me like a fucking king. I had never been treated so well by an organization. Upon my arrival I was given a series of VIP passes for my meals, which was entirely generous. We were also invited to charge whatever we might need to the room. I holed up, watched TV or worked out in the hotel gym, and tried to lie low for the most part. When I wasn’t needed, I kept to myself. This was my first taste of K-1 hospitality, and I didn’t want to blow it. I passed Tommy a few times in the hotel. I was polite, as was he, albeit somewhat dismissive, which I expected.
    When the actual day came, I felt like a lightning rod. The grueling weeks of training all faded into a pleasant wallpaper when “game day” came around. This was the shit I longed for. I walked out and stood in the center of that wide ring in the Bellagio hotel in front of a nearly packed house, Tommy’s imposing form across from me, sneering. I knew this look, and much to my chagrin a phrase my father used to say came to mind: “Too much fooling comes to crying.” Meaning, while you’re busy over there mean-mugging, I’m busy over here thinking about how I’m going to smash you. And so, it begins. . . .
    First bell. I’m out of the corner and I rush him. I throw a series of short, compact punches and crowd him, trying to grab ahold of his head. I want to knee him, smash his nose up, crush into his liver, start breaking him down. Tommy is very good at interrupting me, I learn. He turns my