By Sean Quinn

I’ve always had to wrap my wrists well. I can’t remember the last time I popped a knuckle, but I’ve always had to baby my wrists. My shoulders and knuckles are indestructible, but if I’m not careful about nursing my wrists after a layoff, I can’t turn a doorknob the next day without being an absolute crybaby.

That’s an interesting thing about fighters: the very real need to emanate a sense of invulnerability along with the deep-rooted desire to put on a show. I think that’s why the American Staffordshire Terrier was hand-picked for his/her proclivities.

“Bake, Bake, it’s in my mouth.”

“Don’t worry Babe. You’ve got ‘em. Let’s go Home.”

“Let’s go Home.”

There’s nothing more infuriating than watching the first round and hearing somebody yell out “hit him!” You can have the baddest left hook this side of the Mississippi, but all it takes is one hard shot to the liver, and suddenly you’re 8 years old and scared. This is where the rubber meets the road. He’s just as scared of you as you are of him.

The first round is a gentle dance, sensing one’s timing, and getting a feeling for each other’s reach. Hopefully, it’s the most violent first date you’ll ever be on.

The middle rounds show how things will play out. Who has mastered the craft, and who has just cultivated a jaw that just won’t quit? There is a saying in distance running:

“Run the first third with your brain, the middle with your body, and run the finale with your heart.”

The same is true in combat sports. Be a miser with your energy, but then everyone has a breaking point. There’s nothing more sorrowful than seeing a fighter with a capable body, but the eyes are hollow.

“No mas. No mas.”

I understand the immediate joy in seeing that in an opponent’s eyes: blood in the water. To beat someone is one thing, but to take their will is an entirely different ordeal. It feels good at the time, but ten minutes later you want to tell them that they were brave. You feel exposed to an intimate part of their soul that you never had any business looking into.

I am of the personal belief that that piece of vulnerability should only be reserved for quiet, dark hours in a bedroom or the silence of a dance floor as the songs change and you hear a soft voice singing into your ear to fill the void. You don’t give that to anyone else. To do otherwise is a death sentence. Otherwise, it should only be greeted with a loving embrace and the assurance that you were courageous in defeat.

To those who dare.