Get "Mad"

“Mad” Max Metzgar stretched in the locker room before his first ever amateur fight. Sweat beaded down his forehead as he rushed through an abbreviated warm-up. His body pulsed with adrenaline as he folded his legs and torso into pigeon pose. With one leg underneath his body and the other flayed out behind him, Metzgar pushed. A pop filled the room and his body sank an inch closer to the ground. Pain coursed through his knee.

“What was that? Are you okay?” a stranger asked from across the room. 

Metzgar set his eyes on the man. In shock and fear, he stared blankly.

“I’m not giving up now,” Metzgar thought, ending his warm-up.

He emerged from the locker room and locked his eyes on the cage. The Cherry Valley Hotel’s Grand Ballroom was lit only by the lights of the octagon. His all black, unbranded outfit blended into the dimly lit room. Metzgar’s heart pounded with adrenaline, almost enough to block out the pain in his knee.

“I’m gonna throw a spinning back kick,” Metzgar said to his teammate, Mark, beside him.

“What ... are you talking about? Don’t try that shit,” said Andre, another one of Metzgar’s teammates and seasoned fighter. Metzgar fell quiet. His eyes returned to the cage. 

“Maybe this guy knows what he’s talking about. He’s actually fought before,” Metzgar thought to himself. 

His name was announced. 

“Go get ‘em Max!” shouted his friends from the crowd.

He danced, which prevented his limp, all the way up to the cage. He emerged from the darkness and entered the ring, careful to keep his weight on one leg. Clinton “Smiley” Ewing, Metzgar’s first opponent, stood across from him. He felt his rage swell. The pain in his knee faded and the round began. Metzgar threw a spinning back kick, which hit Ewing in the gut and knocked him back.

“It felt like my leg was being held together by dental floss,” Metzgar recounted. 

That was the only kick he threw that night. For three rounds Metzgar and Ewing battled — a mess of twisted limbs, split skin, and blurry strikes. Metzgar was not hit once. His hand was raised to applause. He bathed in his victory, letting it wash over him. The pain in his knee flared. He felt it for the first time in over 15 minutes. It crippled him. He stumbled out of the cage. Pain spread across his face.

“I [messed] up my knee in the locker room,” he told his coach. 

His coach’s questions were drowned out by the crowd. Metzgar stumbled into the darkness.

“Bro! You’re next up!” a fan shouted from the crowd as applause faded. 

Metzgar smiled.

Now with a record of 7 and 0, Metzgar was beginning to make a name for himself as an amateur fighter. He reclined on an inflatable mattress in the dry air of Las Vegas. His body ached. For one month, he spent his days training at Xtreme Couture MMA with some of the top Ultimate Fighting Championship fighters in the world. He felt lucky.

“A friend of a friend – some lawyer or something — sent a video of my last knockout to Ronda Rousey. She invited me to train there for free,” Metzgar told me. 

He worked his hardest against his new competition. He lined up across from a tall, Mexican fighter who had been on a five-time knockout streak in the UFC. They danced around the mat until Metzgar was able to grab him. They dropped to the ground and Metzgar took control. Twisting his limbs around his opponent’s like a snake, he pinned him into the ground and pound. 

“That was a huge confidence booster for me,” Metzgar said. “This guy isn’t working at Target and training Jiu-Jitsu on the weekends, ya know? He was the real deal and I was able to impose my presence on him.”

Metzgar’s feet pressed into the floor of his Airbnb as he sat up. His phone buzzed and illuminated his face. Tears pooled in his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. They dropped on his phone and blocked a message from Nicole, his contact for Bellator MMA – a professional fighting promotion. They wanted to sign him. Metzgar’s fingers flew through the DocuSign link until he reached the end. He signed. The tears continued.

“It wasn’t all for nothing,” he thought to himself as he threw his weight back into the air mattress. Months upon months of an unhealthy obsession over his training had led him to this moment. He was going pro. The hours he had spent working in factories and bussing tables so he could afford to train twice a day were over. He’d made it, but his work was far from finished.

He packed his bags in his Columbus apartment. He searched over every piece of clothing and gear to make sure it was all there. His head pounded. Days of no carbohydrates and sodium wore on him. Metzgar, ready to leave on his plane to Chicago in the morning, stopped by his friend Sean’s work. Sean, who owns an IV bar, had prepared IVs for Metzgar to replenish himself immediately after he made weight. They stood together. Sean, carefully placed the bags of clear liquid into each suitcase. Metzgar’s phone buzzed. Sean explained to Metzgar how to use the IVs, but the instructions fell on deaf ears. Metzgar held his phone, staring at the message he’d received from Nicole. 

His opponent had dropped out of the fight.

“No,” Metzgar typed into his phone.

He stared at the black letters on the screen, his thumb hovered over the send button.

“I wanted to send it so bad,” he said. “It felt like I had switched universes. I was about to have my pro debut in my hometown in front of 200,000 people —” he paused. “And my opponent dropped out.”

His eyes turned to Sean, who remained oblivious.

“Bro — they called it off,” Metzgar sighed.

“What do you mean they called it off?” Sean asked in confusion. 

Metzgar set his phone back in his pocket. His hands wrapped around the nape of his neck. His mind ran wild.