Thoughts From the Mat.

It's dirty, painful, bloody, exhausting, and honest. The big wigs steep the canvass in lies and grime, their empty promises leak from crooked smirks, but beyond the paper, exists some of the purest elements of human emotion, physical development, and determination seen by mankind.

For a year, I hammered my wrists into place. "Und machine, und machine" I'd whisper over and over as I buried hooks into leather, I pulled myself through an aching body, constantly reminding myself the body is only my mind's machine to control. "Und machine, und machine, und machine" a brainwashing experiment, two words deafened skinned and broken knuckles, splintered fingers and swollen joints. I wore my most important human tools into blunt objects, purposefully callousing soft spots and banging fists against immovable objects, collecting scar tissue as a hobby.

There aren't too many places in reality where you find grins stained with blood, where the injured beg to continue, no matter how evident their defeat. In reality, when you don't like the way someone smirks it's unacceptable to saw off their teeth, but I found a place where that is encouraged. You hunt for weakness, prey on it, pray for it, frantically searching and prodding, looking for the right time to hurt whatever is in front of you. Someone may walk in one minute screaming "The champ is here!" and get mopped off the floor the next.

David and Goliath, dog fights, and chess matches, there's something for everyone. Some arrive with God, others with hate, and some just want to feed their babies, willing to sacrifice themselves to provide what some a mile down the road throw in the trash. Some are bored and curious, searching for a moment to feel alive, playing cards with Death as the Devil deals. For others, it is all they have ever known, the last or only chance to avoid the terrors of society, cold bars and dark hearts, feeding on the weak, an initiation where dreams are stomped out.

It's honest. It's a dance floor stained with tears and blood, covered by dust, where greats and fakes both trod fully exposed. You hear the echoes of champions, and stories from those who shook their hands or fell from their punishment. It's the realist thing, I have ever experienced, and I will never walk away.