The Way of the Fight

Dedication In memory of Jean Couture, my first karate teacher, who opened my eyes to the world of martial arts Epigraph It’s the repetition of affirmations that leads to belief. And once that belief becomes a deep conviction, things begin to happen. —MUHAMMAD ALI Contents Dedication Epigraph INTRODUCTION Every Single Morning Takes Root the Night Before The Idea for This Book In Case You Don’t Have Time to Read How I Structured This Book BOOK 1: MOTHER (MAMAN) BOOK 2: MENTOR—THE GROUND BOOK with Kristof Midoux, Sensei Photo Section BOOK 3: MASTER—THE TRANSITION BOOK with John Danaher, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu Teacher Photo Section BOOK 4: MAVEN—THE STANDING BOOK with Firas Zahabi, Coach BOOK 5: CONSCIENCE with Rodolphe Beaulieu, Manager/Friend Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author Credits Copyright About the Publisher Every Single Morning Takes Root the Night Before In the calm and quiet of darkness, I move across my apartment—through the living room, before windows that look over the river and into the city. The dark gray and blue waters flow toward me and past, but only if I pause to look. I rarely ever do. It disrupts the routine. I part the blinds and reach for the curtain rods, hung low beneath an eight-foot ceiling, and check that my hand wraps are drying. I run my fingers up and down, flattening the fabric. I set and reset them along the rod so they’ll hang down perfectly; so they’ll hang flat and creaseless; so the day’s efforts will evaporate. I move to the washing machine. I empty the contents of my workout bag. Another load off. Back by the balcony, I crouch down and place my gloves before the electric fan, which spins and rotates, left and right, doomed to starting over. They’re lined up perfectly, my gloves, like soldiers at attention, like pieces from a puzzle waiting to be placed, like someone wants to take their picture, like geometry that matters. I stand and turn back to the entrance to gather my carryall bag and fill it for tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Workout shorts, two pairs. Training shirts, three, sometimes four of them. Workout shoes. Gloves for the octagon, and then another pair for the ring. Shin guards. An athletic support, more hand wraps and athletic tape. That usually does it. From the desperately barren kitchen cupboards I choose an empty water bottle. From the refrigerator I select a protein powder, lots of it. Then I exit, having little other use for this part of the home. I leave the bag by the door—aligned with the console table, near my keys, wallet and phone— and head to the bedroom. I walk into the closet and glimpse at the clothes I own. Most of these items are gifts—sneakers and a few suits I keep for public appearances and special events. I recognize myself in the same jeans and the same plain T-shirts I rotate from day to day. A black one, sometimes a white one. I kneel down to gather a shoe. I catch the glimmer of my first championship belt. It’s lying across the ground, in the corner, gathering time. I pick it up—the shoe—and take him and his brother over to the clothes I’ve folded and placed on a bench, waiting for the morning. Then I brush my teeth and walk over to my bed. Now I pray. There’s a spirit there, a presence I can feel, and we have these nightly conversations. I know exactly what I want and what I’m asking for. What I’m hoping for. Then I lie there, just another shape in the dark. Sometimes, depending on the position of the moon, I see shadows of these other shapes cutting across the wall and ceiling. The outline of a prehistoric shark’s tooth, sitting on my dresser. A T. rex statue, growing when pressed against a beam of light. Japanese cutting swords, two of them, hopelessly waiting to be handled. And I lie there, at least an hour and often two, as implacable thoughts bounce from the shadows into my head and reverberate against my skull. The torment of night. Out of the corner of my eye there appears the only meaningful physical object in my life: a unicorn. A porcelain myth, a twisted horn, a symbol of purity left to me by my godmother when she died. A statuette and a few looping scribbles—words she composed about a boy who’ll turn into a man, and how she wished she could be there, how she imagines the life he’ll live and the girls and dreams he’ll chase. Eventually, rest comes and, finally, sleep. With light comes movement. Before the alarm has an opportunity to scream, my eyes open, searching aimlessly before my mind awakes. The first thoughts inside my head are that day’s training. Where I must go, what time I must be there, with whom I’ll be training, my goals for the day. Life is a program now, a schedule, a balancing act etched into my brain. The written schedule I used to refer to is redundant now. I don’t even know where it is. I rise, I brush and I leave—all within five minutes. Sometimes, with a few minutes to spare, I’ll eat a bowl of gruel. A holdover from earlier days when nutrition was subject to meager finances. I’m out. I take the elevator down to the basement. My big black truck pulls out of the lot on its own. Windows down or up, the sound of hip-hop is surely loud enough to charm my neighbors. Breakfast—lots of eggs with training partners/friends—and then directly to the first workout of the day. It can consist of wrestling, boxing, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, gymnastics, sprinting, Muay Thai, karate or a combination of any of the above. It can last an hour or two. In slow motion or at top speed. Then a shower, and another round of food, then rest, including a nap for forty-five minutes to an hour. Then comes the second workout of the day. It can also take the form of wrestling, boxing, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, gymnastics, sprinting, Muay Thai, karate or a combination, and can take an hour or two, in slow motion or at top speed. And then a shower, and more food with friends—always with friends. Then the truck takes me home via the same route as the night before. I park and ride the elevator from the garage up to the ground floor. I walk through the lobby and salute the doorman, the only constant hello I get in what otherwise feels like an anonymous building. I walk to the next elevator bank, punch in my floor number, and head up to my little place that’s barely halfway to the penthouses. I walk into the apartment, head straight to the washing machine and remove the objects from my bag. I begin to prepare for tomorrow. Always tomorrow. The Idea for This Book . first came to me on the day I realized I was going to need major surgery. I chose that day for a reason, and it’s a really simple one: because from that day onward I would be inventing the rest of my life. In eight months of surgery, recovery, therapy and training, I would define the new version of me and leave my old shell behind. I would put into practice everything I’d learned in the past three decades, and incorporate new knowledge from the people and the world around me. In other words, I would be attempting to prove everything I say in this book. What this means is that I’m laying the groundwork for guaranteed success even before I know the outcome of my return to the octagon. How? By facing my own fears, by setting a clear goal, by working toward it with all the mental and physical effort possible, and by accepting the result no matter what happens. You see, the outcome of my next fight is not determined in the octagon. It’s determined in the weeks and months before the fight, when I’m getting ready for it. In my loss to Matt Serra, my pride hurt me. When he connected with a good head shot, I should have backed off and got my wits about me, but I didn’t. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. My ego didn’t like it. Instead, all I could think was, Wow, I’ve been rattled by this little guy. Wow, I can’t let that happen. I need to get him out RIGHT NOW! So the real mistake was pride. Getting hit with a good shot should not have been a surprise, and it wouldn’t have been if I had prepared for it. As Aristotle wrote a long, long time ago, and I’m paraphrasing here, the goal is to avoid mediocrity by being prepared to try something and either failing miserably or triumphing grandly. Mediocrity is not about failing, and it’s the opposite of doing. Mediocrity, in other words, is about not trying. The reason is achingly simple, and I know you’ve heard it a thousand times before: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. My goal here is to write the greatest book ever written, including these words about fear. It doesn’t make any difference that this happens to be the first book I’ve ever written.

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