Enough about death. This weekend is Fight Night II. It’s the night I had hoped that I would have been training for over the last 12 weeks. I agonised over the decision for months and I was never happy with the outcome, but I have learned to live with it. In some ways I guess I should be grateful. The fact that I haven’t been sparring every week has meant that I’ve had time to take up kickboxing. It was my trainer’s idea (on the right, above). He’s a kickboxer at heart and he’s turning me into one.
I know that on Saturday night, when the lights are on, the music is playing and the contenders are walking down the ramp, I’m going to be gutted. I’ll be standing there in a dress wishing I was in my wraps and gloves. I’m hoping that all of the people that don’t want me to do it will see how amazing the experience is and change their minds.
It is interesting talking to people about why they don’t want me to fight. They talk about not wanting to see me get hit. I don’t think about it like that. I only think about doing the hitting. They might as well tell me they don’t want to see me lose. They know how hard I train, and no fighter steps into the ring without knowing the risks, but if you’re scared to take the hits then you’re in the wrong game. I’m not precious about my body. I never have been. It works hard for me and I only need it until I die.
So Saturday night is going to be bittersweet. I guess that’s life though, and I am grateful that there are people that love me enough to think I’m precious.