The Laws of the Ring by Tim Keown, Urijah Faber

really want to train to fight,” he said. “I just want to fight. And if you get me a fight, I’ll repay you by landscaping your backyard for free.”
    Much to my surprise, Jack had turned into a very successful businessman. He was working as a landscaper, and he had no problem coming right out and telling me he was making a hundred thousand dollars a year. Now, while I can honestly say that money isn’t my primary motivation, this was shortly after I’d opened the gym and shortly after I’d quit my job busing tables, and I was living pretty frugally with my buddies. A hundred grand seemed like a million bucks to me.
    Okay, so . . . moral dilemma? Do I seek out a fight for a guy who isn’t equipped for it just for my own benefit? How much was a backyard worth to me?
    Ultimately, I assessed that he was fully competent and that if it meant that much to him, I had enough pull to get him a low-level fight that few would ever see and nobody but Jack would remember.
    When I had it arranged, I called him and told him. He was ecstatic, but before he could thank me for the twentieth time, I said, “Jack, I got you the fight, but I really want you to come into the gym and train. You need to train.”
    I didn’t want him to go out and get hurt. He could embarrass himself—that was his problem—but an injury would weigh on my conscience. But once I got him the fight, I never saw him at the gym.
    I called him a second time and he said, “I’ll be good. I’ve been training in my garage.”
    By then, I gave up. Okay. Whatever. Suit yourself.
    Jack’s fight was at an Indian casino called Konocti Vista, in a parking lot. When I saw him before the fight, he was shaking. I swear I’ve never seen a human being more scared than this guy was in the minutes leading up to this fight. It was like all his bluster and confidence leaked out of him onto the ground and he was left with nothing.
    I tried to talk to him. “Hey, man, how you feeling?” He wouldn’t even respond with words. He was making these guttural sounds that conveyed no information whatsoever—except that he was scared out of his mind. His face was completely white. I gave him the option of backing out, but he shook his head vehemently and said nothing. He was going to go through with it, apparently, no matter what.
    Jack walked into the cage as slow as I’ve ever seen anyone approach a fight. It wasn’t a psychological ploy either. This was like a walk to the gas chamber. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if he’d thrown up right there on the canvas.
    And it only got worse. When the ref said, “Fight,” Jack came charging forward. His opponent punched him a couple of times, slammed him, beat him up a little bit more, and then choked him out. There was very little resistance. Jack’s philosophy was unique: He would get in there and get his fight over as quickly as humanly possible. I stood there shaking my head, not sure whether to laugh or cry, as he got up and walked back to his corner, defeat covering him like a blanket. This was something he wanted so badly—until it was actually happening. And then there was nothing in the world he wanted less. Thankfully, he didn’t get hurt.
    Clearly, Jack’s priorities were messed up. He was a ridiculous, fun-house-mirror example of misguided priorities and lack of planning. Not even three weeks later, he reappeared. He told me he knew what he did wrong and how to fix it. He was going to “go back into” training and work hard. And oh, by the way, he wanted me to get him another fight. At the same time I was hearing from friends back in my hometown that he was hanging out in the bars, telling everyone he was a professional fighter. That, of course, had been his motivation in the first place.
    I didn’t want to be involved with anything like this. I washed my hands of the operation. But Jack