First Fight

At this point I had been training traditional martial arts and tying it into the patchwork MMA training in my older brothers garage for sometime. We had little equipment other than a Bob dummy, one set of cheap focus mits and multiple layers of 10x10 carpet scraps stacked on top of each other. This was our grappling surface and as you can image it kept our feet and knees with deep rug burns. Even the occasional rug burned face. It did build the habit of never dragging my legs while transitioning though.

So Sam and I drilled what we could by watching old UFC fights on VHS and mimicking the positions and submissions the best we could.

There was also a lot of sparring, more grappling and sparring than anything else really. It is in our nature to want to fight and this habit of sparring over drilling is a little touch of proof.

Occasionally we would get a guest, someone wanting to try it out but this never lasted long. We didn't really know how to teach them so it usually ended up in beat up egos and heavy carpet burn.

After signing up for my first fight and it falling through last minute, I fell off of training for a few months and resorted to a lot of drinking, partying, and bar fighting. Something that I never quite let go of, no matter how long I was in the fight game. As you can imagine, this lead to a lot of trouble, or as I like to call it "adventures."

Sam, my elder brother, Found a small group of guys training for mma at a local karate school and started working with them. Several months in he convinced me to get back into training and luckily it didn't take much convincing.

We had a base camp.

After working with Shannon, one of the few pro fighters in the state at the time, for about 6 months I got my first fight.

Everything I had dreamed of was becoming reality. I had done some traditional martial arts tournaments, won some metals and a trophy or three. This was different though. This was in a cage. 16x16 square to be exact. In front of people. Two hundred crazy coonasses in Houma, Louisiana.

Imagine a night club off a highway in the middle of the swamp. A small cage in the middle of the dance floor. Cigarette smoke so thick in the air it was hard to breath. The small locker room was a storage closet where all of the fighters had to squeeze in. We were literally watching my opponent warm up, a few feet away from us. Almost a scene from Fight Club, if everyone ignored the first two rules.

The entire ride to Houma was frightening. Every bad possible outcome played through my head. Followed by one or two good outcomes. Then all of the bad possible outcomes came marching right back though.

I remember sitting in a chair, starring at the Exit sign, thinking "I can just walk out of here. I can walk out and run away." All I could think about was not fighting. Quitting what I had spent my entire life fantasizing about.

I use to stand in the shower and play announcer. Calling out my name, including whatever nickname I had created. Shadow Stalker, Berserker Warrior, Match, Malaki were a few of my favorites.

Where I was from. I always used "Parts Unknown" just like my favorite wrestler, The Ultimate Warrior. A made up height and weight. Way bigger than I will ever get.

In my head, I would walk through the lights and smoke and into a dominate performance. Winning the championship belt.

The fight right before mine was with my friend and a guy that will later become not only a teammate but a brother.

He goes out and fights, from what I will later hear, is a very gritty and tough fight. Later on I found out he, my friend, got his jaw broken in the fight.

I am sitting, waiting, scared to death, still staring at the exit sign. My friends opponent, an obvious roided out monster, is being carried into the locker room. A corner man under each arm and his feet are dragging behind him. Both fighters bloody.

I am even more scared now than before. But at least it's time. Time to make my dreams a reality. And then the announcer says that there will be a 15 minute intermission before the next fight. Seriously though, the exit sign is calling my name now.

15 minutes seems longer than the last 3 days. I'm getting warmed up, trying to take my mind off the fight. Trying to not think about the potential danger. Trying to convince myself I was not scared. I will be a fighter. I will be a champion.

Finally, it's our time. I am called out first. He was the hometown boy so he gets called out second. A common thing. And it's time.

"Fighting out of the red corner. Weighing 170lbs. A submission fighter from Slidell, louisiana. J.C. Pennington!"

My song begins. I walk toward the cage, putting on my toughest face. Mainly trying to convince myself I was ready. Every moment of my life has been building up to this moment. I hug my older brother and coach. I step into the cage. It is time. My time.

The referee calls us to the center of the cage and gives the usual pre fight rules talk, then sends us back to our corners. "Are you ready? Are you ready? Fight!!!"

This is where things get a little fuzzy. I know we threw some sloppy punches and then BAM!!! He hit me with a solid overhand right that put me flat on my ass. Not a knockout. Definitely the hardest I had ever been hit in my life.

This is still one of the most defining moments in my career. A thought I remember, clear as day. I remember thinking "should I just stay here and quit? No, get up. Fight" I got to my feet. Got back in the fight. I am a fighter.

The first of 3x3 min rounds ended. I don't remember much of this. Some water, a little pep talk, I'm sure. 1 minute in between rounds does not leave much time to say or do much. The ref calls for seconds out and we are ready to start the second round.

My opponent was a short guy, 5'6 maybe. And cut weight to make 170 lbs. another obvious user of anabolic steroids. Carrying all that muscle around has a serious affect on cardio and athletic conditioning.

We come out and he is clenching and obviously exhausted. We are fighting against the cage when I begin to throw knees to the body and inner thigh. After he takes a few solid shots he decides to fake like I hit him with a knee in the groin and drops to the ground clutching his crotch like someone shot hit. Taking a page right out of the soccer players drama book.

Now days a fighter gets 5 minutes to recover, if he can not then he loses the fight. He quits. Let's remember this is the Wild West days of the sport with no commission or real rules. Things are a little different.

So he refuses to keep fighting. The commission decides to go to the "score cards" after only going 1.30 into the second round. And as you can guess I'm sure, they give the decision to the hometown guy.

I later learn that this decision should have been argued. My coach should have defended me in the debacle that was the whole situation. At least have it turned into a no contest. But life goes on.

I lost my first mma fight but I found out my dream was going to be a reality. Even then I had no real idea that it would be more than a dream. That martial arts would define me. That the strength and bravery I was able to find within would change my life and give direction to a lost kid. That through martial arts I am able to touch and change lives.