“I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”
I am Sean McCorkle’s Bruised Ego.
Anymore, you learn about bruises in comic books — all heavy cross-hatching and lilac purple contrasting American Red and Cornflower Blue. Children today never get a chance to know hurt. The woods are clear-cut. Toys are shatter proof and non-toxic. The playgrounds are low. Rounded. Cushioned.
Twenty years ago, you cut your hand open on an axe and ran a mile back home, and maybe you got stitched up.
Twenty years ago, nobody knew anything about game-planning for a fight. Men who all knew little pieces of fighting tactics — what would they know of strategy? To plan past the third haymaker was beyond many of them.
Anymore, people fight like it’s some kind of job, like they’re trying to make money out of it. People who watch these fights, they talk like it’s some sort of highest form of competition with safety rules and scoring rules and “Octagon control”.
Not for nothing, but these guys don’t want to talk about how those early days were so special. How watching two walking slabs of beef hurl themselves at one another was like watching Wild Kingdom with people. Survival of the fittest. Kill or be killed. No one wants to talk about the boner they get for names like Paul Herrera, Steve Nelmark, Jeremy Bullock.