“I wouldn’t have killed him,” I scoff.
“Six punches,” he says. “In the time between when the match was called and they pulled you off, you’d thrown six punches and that guy looks like he got hit by a truck. You can’t tell me you were in control of anything.”
“Six?” I ask. “People always end up throwing a few after it’s called. It happens on reflex: The command hasn’t processed yet because you’re in fight mode. You know this stuff as much as I do.”
Logan just shakes his head and, getting within two inches of my face, he says, “That’s not what this was. Pray that he’s okay,” Logan says. “We’re not the damn UFC, Mason. We don’t have full-blown doctors or ambulances waiting around in case someone really gets damaged. We’ve got Tom. It’s a miracle something bad hasn’t happened by now without people trying to make it happen. Get the hell out of here and you pray that he’s all right, man. You do that and you get your head checked because you’re losing it, man.”
I look toward the ring where it’s still almost silent. “Let me know if he’s okay,” I tell Logan and I push him out of my way.
Most of the people there, they don’t look at me. The people who do are counting the seconds it takes for me to get the rest of the way out of there, and I don’t know when someone’s going to hit their digit and this all goes very, very bad.
Even with that in mind, I’m not going to leave Ash here in the middle of this. I take a couple steps toward the ring, though, and everyone in the room turns to face me. It would actually be a pretty amazing sight if it weren’t directed at me.
“Ash!” I call.
Nobody in the crowd is saying anything. I can’t see the guy I beat through the crowd, but a few people start turning back toward the center, then a few more.
Finally, everyone’s turned back toward the center of the ring and everyone’s cheering.
I’m moving around, trying to find an angle from which I can look without having to get any closer, but I can’t see through. I suck up my fear and start walking toward the group again, but Ash saves me the trouble as she comes through and starts walking toward me.
Once she’s close, I grab her hand. Once we’re far enough away from the abandoned shop I’m not worried someone’s going to come up and try to enact some vigilante justice for what just happened, I let go of her hand.
I keep walking.
“What happened in there?” she asks, catching up with me. “Do you know what you did?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her.
Has that phrase ever worked on anyone?
“It was… frightening,” she says.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask.
“He’s going to be fine,” Ash says. “You’re lucky those guys pulled you off when you did. They called the fight and tried to push you off, but you just kept going. Why?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I didn’t really know what was going on. I didn’t know the fight was over until they were dragging me out of there.”
She asks, “Did you black out or something?”
“I didn’t black out,” I answer. “It was different. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.”
I know I’m being short with her, but I don’t know how to stop.
For whatever it’s worth, I’m starting to think she was right about that whole “don’t bottle things up or you’ll explode” thing. I can’t answer the question as to why I let my anger take over and control me. In a match, anger can be a useful tool, but it has to have its limits.
At first, I was just in my zone. I was focused, I was clear. Then, when he took those swings at me, I just snapped.
“I think we should go home,” I tell Ash. “Me to mine, you to yours. I don’t think I’m going to be able to talk about this without the adrenaline wash right now.”
She almost stops walking for a moment, but continues, asking, “You don’t think it might be better to have some company?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “It’s nothing to do with you. I just need to clear my mind.”
“Yeah,” she responds quietly. “Give me a call tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I tell her.