Why I Stopped Cage Fighting
Entering a cage won’t protect you from the demons within
I heared screaming over the crowd’s roar — blood exploded from his mouth spraying the ringside panel of judges.
The crowd oohed and cringed.
He won’t fall — dump everything, all your life’s lividities, dump it all into every punch, barked my mind.
I fired a barrage of right and left hooks — he’s going for a clinch, shove him back in the corner. Again! one-hiss, two-hiss — the jab-cross stuck and pushed him back into the corner.
The all-black dressed ref hesitated to call the fight. He was letting me finish him.
“Stop the fight! stop the fight!” wailed someone from the audience.
In my periphery, I saw the opposing coach rushing for my side of the cage white towel in hand — fuck that! you are not turning my knock out to some bullshit standing TKO (technical knock out).
I fired another strike and with merciless precision. The uppercut firmly connected, his knees locked. Specks of warm blood splattered on my neck and lips — I liked it, a primal growl was building deep within me as I set up my most vicious weapon, my overhand right.
