Lessons Learned

I remember standing next to him for the photo op and realizing how outsized I was.  I think the moment of anger and frustration I experienced was completely natural.  This was an obviously shady transaction.

Preparations for this fight had been weird. I was told that I needed to weigh in on the day of the fight rather than the night before.  Standard protocol was to weigh in the night before, but I was told that the venue was only available for the day of the actual fights and that the promotion needed photos on that particular day.

This was the biggest—and most professional—card I had fought on to date.  There were media appearances, promotional videos, and sponsors.  The venue itself was monstrous, and I was about to fight in front of the largest crowd I’d ever been in front of.

It was going to be a good fight for me.

I was a fighting a fighter with a great reputation—there had been some shenanigans with that, too.  I had originally matched to fight one of his teammates and their coach realized that I was much better than my first matched opponent.  That coach—who was unprofessionally tight with the promoter—pulled some strings so that I would fight his top fighter, instead.  This was a fighter who was holding titles for two notable promotions in the area and was known to be incredibly skilled.  He was also incredibly…big.

I showed up to weigh-ins just like I had been directed.  I wasn’t concerned about my weight.  In those days I didn’t cut.  I didn’t like the idea of dieting and eating clean.  I just liked to show up and fight.

I was accompanied by my primary training partner, who was also my coach and friend.  He’d been hounding me for months to drop down a weight class.  He felt like I’d function better with some of the slightly smaller fighters.  But the idea of all that discipline and counting calories annoyed my brain.  When I stepped onto the scale my coach was standing at my side.

I made weight easily.  I was barely hungry.

My coach looked at my opponent, who was standing nearby.  “Your turn,” he said, gesturing to the scale.

“Oh,” said my soon-to-be-opponent.  “I weighed in last night.”

My coach—my friend—shuffled up next to my opponent so they could stand side by side.  He looked to my opponent, then to me, then back to my opponent.

“You made weight?  You’re bigger than me.”

My coach fought a weight class or two above me, so he was obviously bigger than me.  And my opponent made him look small…and made me look even smaller.

My coach looked at me and raised an eyebrow.  I suppose I could have protested or made a big deal about the obvious shenanigans.  But I had come to fight.  I’d already sold tickets.  Friends and family were coming to watch.  I’d done video promos and interviews.  I knew this was a shady deal, but there was no turning back.

In just a few hours I recognized how much of a difference size can make.

I had taken my opponent down without much effort, but he moved well and we engaged in a calorie-burning scramble.  In the middle of those transitions I found a strong triangle choke—at the time, the triangle choke was sort of a specialty of mine.  It had fallen perfectly into place—his head and arm trapped between my knees with the back of my knee locked over the opposing shin of my other leg.

I saw the panic in his eyes, and I knew I had won this fight.

But size matters.

He framed his feet underneath himself and lifted himself forcefully into a standing position.  I was suddenly airborne as he arched his back and lifted me like a barbell.  He didn’t stop there.  He kept extending, bodily evelevating me over his head with every intention—I knew—of slamming me to the mat.  I could feel myself descending with force.  I knew better than to let go.  If I released I would create space and make the impact that much more significant.

I didn’t let go, but I did feel the impact.

He took advantage of that moment, clawing both of his thumbs into my neck and extending his arms until they were fully straightened.  The tips of his thumbs drove directly into the carotid arteries on either side of my throat.  I pulled and pushed at his arms while he extended away.  Despite my efforts, I was forced to let go of my choke.

I ended up losing a decision that time.  It was incredibly frustrating.  I’d gone from believing I had the win to seeing his hand raised.

I remember that he and I found a couple of couches back in the warmup area.  We were physically exhausted and lying exhausted while we talked about the fight.

“That triangle was close,” he told me.  “I was afraid you were going to start punching me.  I wouldn’t have been able to defend those punches.”

He was right…I should have started punching him.  I should have also had a better angle on the choke.  I’d developed a habit that allowed me to get away with a slightly inferior version of the technique because I was used to fighting people in my own weight class.  That said, he should have weighed in honestly—that would have changed the texture of the fight.

It wasn’t that long after that my coach found me.  He’d checked in with my team before coming back to chat.

“Good fight,” he said. 

“I should have won,” I replied, obviously downcast.  I hate losing.

“Probably,” he said.  “But it was a great fight for you.  How do you feel about cutting down to welterweight next time?”

Welterweight sounded good.

I could call them obstacles, or barriers, or challenges.  None of those words seem to do justice to what is standing before me and to what is standing between me and where I know I need to be.  I know it’s going to be a difficult journey.  I know it’s going to be difficult because I have barely started and it’s already difficult. 

I see that there is a journey ahead of me and I pause.  It’s going to be a difficult climb to get to where I’m supposed to be.  But I know the place where I am has become inhospitable.  I can’t stay here anymore.  There’s nothing left here but atrophy—that’s just a fancy word for death and I’m not willing to die yet.  Comfort is a grinding death.  I know the journey is going to be a journey of refining, and I know that refining is always unpleasant.  Things don’t grow without resistance, and I don’t grow without opposition.

“This is going to be a good fight for you,” I hear the Spirit whisper in my ear.  “You’re going to learn so much about me and you’re going to learn so much about yourself.”

Look, I have refined you, but not as silver; I have tested you in the furnace of affliction. (Isaiah 48:10) 

I know this is going to hurt and I don’t think I want to do it.  The enemy cheats.  He doesn’t play by the rules.  He makes up his own rules, in fact, then he tries to hold me accountable to the rules he makes up.  Worst thing is, I let him do it to me.  I let him force me to fight according to his rules even though I don’t have to.

Be serious! Be alert! Your adversary the Devil is prowling around like a roaring lion, looking for anyone he can devour. (1 Peter 5:8) 

I know I am at a disadvantage.  There’s a fight in front of me that I know I have to fight.  But I don’t want to, even though I need to.  My God tells me that I need to fight that fight.  Certainly, I know He’s going to be at my side—that’s a promise He made and God keeps His promises—but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be a pleasant journey.  It’s going to be a difficult journey and a difficult process that I’m not excited about.  I don’t like pain.  I prefer comfort.

I need to fight this fight.  This is a good fight for me.

Less than a year later found me in a cage again, and once more facing off against a notably larger and noticeably stronger opponent—that seemed to happen to me a lot.  This time, however, my opponent had weighed in honorably.  This was a far more professional arrangement, possibly because it was my first ever professional fight.  I was making legitimate money on this one (it wasn’t very much but it felt like a lot).

He had come at me hard early in the match and I had immediately recognized that I was the physically weaker fighter.  He was trying to muscle me around—and succeeding to a degree.  I was just a little bit more technical, which allowed me to maintain some control.  I used a few strikes to maneuver inside of his defense before hitting a clean takedown that put us on the mat.

I immediately knew my ground game was better.

I went to work with some sharp elbows, then passed into half-guard.  I cut him nicely underneath an eye and added a couple of punches for good measure.  I was feeling good about my ground dominance when he deployed all of his strength and weight against me, posting an arm and driving up into a strong combat base.  He moved me like a sandbag.

I felt myself being manhandled, but I also recognized a submission opening.  I extended my hips and snapped into the familiar triangle choke that I knew and loved.  Like I had done so many times before, I snapped the submission into place behind his head and over his arm.

But he was a professional, too.  He’d done this before.  He lunged to his feet before I could lock my submission.  I was forced to let go and scramble to my feet to avoid being caught underneath his offense.

The round ended shortly after.

The second round started and we got back to work.  He was bigger than me, but that didn’t mean his cardio was bad.  It was actually pretty solid.  We were grinding on the cage with punches, kicks, knees, and elbows.  It was sweaty, physical work.  I was having fun in the way that only crazy people have fun.  I was also having a terrible time while I was having fun.  That’s the sort of thing that only makes sense to fighters.

Unexpectedly—in the flash of a moment—he pressed my back to the cage and launched a hard knee for my face.  I saw the strike coming and managed to rotate off the cage to avoid the strike.  In that moment our feet tangled, and I felt myself falling to my back with his weight crashing down on top of me.

It might have been bad—it could have been disastrous.

But I saw the triangle choke once more.  As he fell forward, his head and arm presented a perfect setup.  I bridged my hips and clamped my legs into place.  This time I knew how strong he was and I knew what to expect.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered what one of my coaches once told me—“angles win fights.”

In motion, as I was locking down the submission, I turned my hips and reached out to scoop under his leg, capturing the angle at the same time.  I felt him try to stand, but he couldn’t.  My angle and my grip nullified his posture.  He couldn’t stand to his feet.  He couldn’t use his strength.

After that, it was just a matter of seconds before the tap came.

I can almost see the destination from the place where I am standing now.  It’s just over the horizon, just beyond my eyesight.  That’s the place I need to be before I can declare victory.  That’s where I’ll find rest and that’s where I’ll find satisfaction.  I long to stand in that place rather than the place I am standing right now.

But something shifts.

That’s not the place where my victory lies.

I’ve designed my own idea of victory within the confines of my mind.  I’ve declared my own destination.  I wrote a narrative for myself so that I could know when it was time to stop striving—so that I could know when I could finally rest.  I created my own timeline so that I could identify a stopping place.  I’m tired and wounded—I don’t think I’ve ever fought a good fight that didn’t leave me tired and wounded.  This has been a long battle but knowing that it has an end has given me something like hope.

That’s not hope.  That’s artificial something artificial.  It’s a flimsy optimism that I built myself.

Unless the LORD builds a house, its builders labor over it in vain; unless the LORD watches over a city, the watchman stays alert in vain.  In vain you get up early and stay up late, working hard to have enough food— yes, He gives sleep to the one He loves. (Psalms 127:1-2) 

I don’t know what God’s victory for me looks like. I can’t define it and I can’t capture it.  My eyes aren’t big enough and my heart isn’t full enough.  I have to learn to trust that God has my best interest in mind and His refining process is taking me somewhere beautiful—even if I can’t see what that looks like.

Honestly, trusting God is hard for me.  I like my plans better.  I’m quite good at making them.  I’ve defined my own victories and drawn my own battle lines.  I know how I win.  I know what victory looks like—what it looks like to me.  I long for that moment when my hand is raised because I finally got what I want.

But it’s not what I want.  I’m not God.  I don’t even know what I want, let alone what I need.

Take delight in the LORD, and He will give you your heart's desires. (Psalms 37:4) 

I’m going to have to fight this fight while I fight that fight, it seems.  There is a battle laid out before me and, maybe just for a moment, I thought I was getting close.  I was almost there.  I could have won.  But there’s more fight to go.

And it’s a good fight for me.

Once again, I hear the Spirit whisper in my ear, “this is a great fight for us.  Remember all those lessons we learned during that last one?  We’re going to put them to work here, and you’re going to own them.  It’s going to be hard, but we’re going to get there—together.”

"For My thoughts are not your thoughts, and your ways are not My ways." This is the LORD's declaration.  "For as heaven is higher than earth, so My ways are higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts. (Isaiah 55:8-9) 

He was supposed to beat me.  There was a lot of hype around him as a fighter—young and talented and going places.  He was skilled in all dimensions of the fight game: striking, grappling, wrestling.  He was looking for a couple good wins before jumping to the next level.  My coaches were well aware of all of his creds when my manager called with the offer. 

“We’ll take it,” my MMA coach said.  “It’s a good fight for you.”

The fight started and I quickly realized the hype wasn’t hype—or, if it was, it was really justified hype.  He was good.  He was very good.

His jabs were snappy and his hands were landing like he was holding rocks.  He moved in and out of range with tight angles, disciplined with hands up and chin down.  His wrestling was strong—the takedowns were on-point and the takedown defense was sharp.  He felt like he was completely dialed in.

But so was I.

He was the toughest opponent I had faced thus far.  This time—unlike so many times before—he wasn’t stronger than me.  I’d added a strength and conditioning regime to my training and the effort was paying off.  My cardio felt fantastic.  I was breathing easily and my eyes were catching every movement.  I could hear my coaches clearly and—as strange as it is that a remember it even now—I could hear some guy about four rows back yelling about the tattoo on my left shoulder (I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or complimentary). 

It’s wild the things I remember all these years later.

His hands were sharp, but I matched his speed.  He caught me once high on the jaw over my fist, but I made him pay for that with a cross and a hook of my own.  He set up to kick, but I got there first, dropping a hard shin to his lead leg.  I knew I was getting the better of the exchanges when he initiated a clinch and pressed me to the cage wall.  Seamlessly, he changed levels to initiate the takedown and dropped me to my back—but only for an instant.  I posted and fought back toward my feet in an effort to stand back up while the struggled to keep me down.

It turned into a wild scramble peppered with punches, elbows, and submission attempts.  We were scrapping like two cats in a garbage can, transitioning between positions and escapes at a grueling pace.  He was putting me in real danger, but I had counters to his attempts.  I was putting him in real danger, but he had answers to my counters.

Amid the hurricane of movement, I once again found myself in position for the triangle choke.  He had nearly secured an omoplata, forcing me to shoulder-roll onto my back before he could fully set it.  As I rotated I—almost accidentally—managed to capture one of his arms on the inside of my thigh.  It was a perfect triangle setup.  I drove my hips upward, knowing that the window of opportunity for this moment was closing quickly.

My shin and knee locked the submission in place—I had practiced this movement thousands of times.  And, as I set the trap, I rotated my body in such a way as to scoop behind and underneath his leg—angles win fights.

I knew that choke was close, but he was a savvy fighter.  He arched his core to maintain posture and began to grab at my knee with one of his hands for the escape.  That left his face undefended.  This wasn’t a submission grappling tournament.  This was MMA, where strikes are legal.

I cracked a hard right hand to his face and saw the effect.  I liked what it did, so I punched him again.  Then I punched him a couple more times for good measure.  He was given a choice:  defend his choke or defend his face.  He chose his face.

I got the choke.

I’m a terrible student.  I’m hard to teach.  I’m riddled with pride, arrogance, insecurity, anxiety, fear, and all kinds of other defects.  I want to be rid of those defects—at least, I think I do.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve found myself in the middle of a challenge—a trial—begging for God to simply take it away.  He could do that.  He could perform that miracle.  He could speak words with the same voice that spoke the universe into existence.  He could speak it and it would be done.  My fight would be over.

But there would be no victory in that, I think.  The value would be diminished because the fight would be ended before I fought it.  God knows that.  On some level, I’ll admit that I do, too.

Maybe God could show me the destination we are striving for, or the timeline for where it ends.  That feels a lot like cheating.  Instead of information it would become distraction and become my focus.  I would start looking at the end of the round rather than the fight I was in.  I might start worshiping the conclusion before I earned it.

I want to earn my victories…at least, I think I do. 

A fight has no value if there’s no challenge to it.  If I had that knowledge I would rely on the timeline rather than learning to rely on my God and Savior.

Now to Him who is able to do above and beyond all that we ask or think according to the power that works in us—to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen. (Ephesians 3:20-21) 

I can’t learn in theory.  I can’t rely on cliches or platitudes—no matter how eloquent they might sound.  In order to learn and grow I am going to have to experience the fight.  I’m going to have to be in the middle of where it is happening.  Even when it’s tough, that’s still where I have to be.  Maybe that’s where I have to be because it’s tough.

So I must humble myself under the mighty hand of God.  I know this is going to hurt.  I know it’s going to be hard.  Maybe there’s a spiritual equivalent of biting down on my mouthguard—that thing I used to do when I knew the punches were coming.  I’m not good at humility.  It’s not natural to me, but it’s the only thing left.  The only thing that remains is nothing, and that might just be the place God has in mind for me.

Because when I rise from this fight I will be ready to go to war.  The fight is different then. My understanding is deeper.  I conceive something about my God and about myself that I didn’t before.  I’m a different fighter than I was before.

I hear the Spirit again, speaking into my heart, “this is going to be a good fight for us.  We are going to do so much together.  When we’re done with this, you’re going to own this victory and you’ll have something to share with those around you.”

It’s been a minute since my last trip to a cage, but I’m still pretty active on the mats.  It’s still my happy place.

I’m working with a couple of my teammates because they asked me to.  They have fights on the horizon, and they want to be prepared.  We’re working some submission and submission defense.

“Good,” I nod as one of those fighters maneuvers into a triangle choke position, “let’s get the angle right away—scoop under that leg.  And, as long as we’re here, we might as well throw some punches.  Remember, this isn’t a grappling match.  This is MMA.”

I am at rest in God alone; my salvation comes from Him.  He alone is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold; I will never be shaken. (Psalms 62:1-2)