A Fighter's Heart: One Man's Journey Through the World of Fighting by Sam Sheridan Page A

Pat laughed and said to him, “Make sure you buy a round-trip ticket ’cause you won’t make it through two training sessions,” and burst out laughing, with the kid as much as at him.
    Dinner was lively, everyone talking and laughing; ribald and blasé humor abounded. The guys were laid back and friendly and willing to be entertained; they asked me about firefighting, and everyone weighed in on movies and girls, occasionally breaking into extremely technical and detailed discussions of fights that had happened here, or in Japan, or in Korea. Except for the scar tissue, they could have been mistaken for slightly dangerous frat boys on a break, but there was an air of professionalism that would make you question that conclusion. You could see people trying to figure them out, slightly wary of their confidence and roughness. In the limo, someone farted, and there was much yelling and hallooing and covering of faces with shirts, gasping theatrically out of open windows at the gritty Vegas air. It was that kind of night.
    Robbie was probably the quietest, and not just because he had a fight, but because that’s the way he is; he’s not a loud talker. He’s solid and dark—he looks Filipino but is only half. He was relaxed and happy there among his friends and brothers. Team MFS is like a band of brothers with Pat as a sort of father/uncle/eldest brother who is expected to know everything—a role Pat occasionally resists, as he just wants to be a kid sometimes.
    Matt Hughes, on my right, was well known and a six-time UFC welterweight champ, an Iowa farm boy who struck me as the most professional and relaxed of anyone there. He seemed unflappable and confident. Sure, he’s lost fights, you could hear him say, but that stuff happens. He’s still one of the toughest guys in the world.
    Jeremy Horn, across the table and recommending the Tuscan sausage soup, was perhaps the most interesting of Pat’s boys, because of his record (something like 112–6, an unreal number of fights) and his poise. He fights all the time, every month, anywhere against anybody. He’ll fight at 205 pounds or 185, although 185 is a little more natural for him. Most guys who fight at 205 walk around at 230; Jeremy probably walks around at 210. His ground game is considered one of the best in the world; he’s fought the best fighters and beaten some of them, and I’ve watched him spar and bang with Tim without any problem. What’s so funny is that he is the most unassuming and normal-looking guy in the crowd. If you ran into him at a bar, you wouldn’t look at him twice; he looks as if he could be selling Bibles or running for student council. Yet listening to people talk around the gym, most are more afraid of him than anyone else, and most people say he’s the best guy they’ve ever rolled with.
    I kept maintaining to anyone who would listen that this sport is being marketed wrong. They try to spectacle it up, make it like pro wrestling with smoke and fireworks, when really they should be emphasizing the technical aspects of it. The blood will sell itself; everyone knows how rough it is. What should be sold is the technical side. It’s perceived as a pro wrestling type of thing, when in reality it is a very serious, technical sport. It can be hard to watch because the ground fighting can be slow and methodical, each man extremely careful, as any tiny slipup can mean the fight; it’s similar to how cautious heavyweight boxers can get with their constant clinching, because any punch can be a KO.
    The bloody part is incidental; you have to look at it as a part of a greater whole. Noses and lips bleed when they get hit; it’s not a big deal. The guy on the bottom getting pounded and getting bloody isn’t necessarily in a great amount of trouble. He can be bleeding, yet most of the blows are meant to distract him and keep him from thinking while the man on top sets up either more serious blows or submission holds. The tiny gloves mean