I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. This is a true warrior, a champion. I stare him down, nervous to the bone. 

Charles, my opponent, relaxed and smiling, runs around the octagon shaking hands with me and my coaches. As respectful as Oliveira can be, he is a killer and is always ready for war. I’m going to give it to him. The cool octagon breeze passes by, making me even more anxious. I wait for it to start, antsy as ever. I’m prepared to die just to win this belt. 

The bell buzzes loud and clear. The fight is on, and I feel the pressure. I stare him down, as we mutually decide who the striking victor will be. Oliveira’s résumé is better than mine. He’s dangerous. 

He advances, and I throw a leg kick, fast and not oblique. Out of the corner of my eye I see a right inbound. I’m helpless, so I shut my eyes hoping for the strike to vanish. But it was very real. I feel the impact, and I lose balance. I stay composed but he advances closer and closer. He grabs me. 

Jiu Jitsu won’t work on me in this fight. I back up but he continues to clinch me. My right uppercut lands, and in exchange I get a knee straight to my liver. Pretty fair exchange, but I get bombarded with another knee and a right hook. The belt won’t be easy to get. I clench my jaw and focus. 

I can almost taste the leather as the gloves hit my lips. I hit him with an indirect right hook, which only seems to fuel his aggression. I don’t know the word: I’m not scared, I’m excited, I’m worried, I’m happy, I’m focused. My second fight being backed up against the cage. First being Khabib who utterly dominated me. The pressure was worse. I was certain Khabib was more elite than Charles but the pressure was unbearable. 

Front kicks to my solar plexus were terrorizing. I kick, and he checks it. My leg and head are battered and beaten. He runs up to me and I get hit with a right cross. I return with my own hard right cross, another hard uppercut, and then a left hook. He’s hurt, and I think this is my chance. Charles sits down and lays on his back hoping to trick me. Very foolish in terms of the scorecards, but I wasn’t going to fall for his trap. I’m a fish out of water if Oliveira’s on the ground with me. 

He gets up, knowing I have no interest in coming to the ground with him. As entertaining a fighter as he is, Charles is still very coordinated. He rushes to me, throwing a knee then calibrating his punches. In the moment, I throw a right overhand which lands clean. He throws a hook of his own, but I beat him to the draw. There goes a left and a right hook. By the time he throws one, two hard hooks land flush with the momentum of his movements. As he turns right, his jaw meets my left hook, and as he throws a hook of his own, his chin meets my right hook. I feel relieved, but confused and dazed. The fight’s not over yet.

He’s hurt but not stunned. I’m careful with my approach, but he fakes being hurt and falls to the floor again. It’s extremely annoying. There’s no way to finish this fight and there’s no way in hell it’s going to go to a decision. Oliveira’s face is gushing blood, and I’m extremely fatigued. The fight won’t make it out of this round. There’s nothing I can do, and it gives Charles enough time to recover. 

He gets back up after recovering and continues his approach. His vision obscured by the flowing blood, he continues to clinch and throw knees. His uppercut lands flush, and he clinches. Annoyed, and antsy, I throw the hardest hook of the fight which lands. He’s bleeding, but continues the pace. We are tired and wobble. The whole fight has been punches in bunches. He just won’t surrender, and keeps the pace going.

I smell the sweat and his body odor as he keeps his body extremely tight. He pulls guard on me, trying to get me into his sweet spot. I can feel my insides scorching as I try to get up. He lets go of the full guard, letting me free, but upkicks me. The referee stands us up. 

This is my final stand. I’m annoyed and battered. I want to hold the gleaming, gold belt. Sweat drips down my neck as I face my bloodied up opponent. My opponent clinches me once again. A knee, and then a guillotine attempt. The smell of the cold, frigid arena is overwhelming the sweaty aroma. 

I’m still in the game and up on the scorecards. Those repetitive front kicks are pestering me. I go for a body jab but get hit with a devastating left hook. I’m dazed, trying to stabilize. Irritated, I throw a right hand which hits his guard but he moves out of the way of my left hook. My arm feels scorched, followed by Charles’ repetitive clinches again. Another uppercut lands, and I’m dazed, even with just the tap of his glove. 

He jumps, and I move back, expecting a flying knee but a front kick comes flying  fast, and oblique kicks are being thrown at me. I evade. He clinches again, and I’m done with it. I throw fast and powerful hooks, but mid punch, I get hit with a cross. It’s flush on the chin, and everything turns to slow motion. 

I collapse to the floor. The arena turns blurry. This is it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have the strength to grapple or to stand up. The crowd cheering, and hearing my corner yell, makes it troublesome. I hear a buzzing noise as I see my opponent rushing at me. Then my senses come back, right when Charles has taken my back. 

’m still dazed, and I’m not sure where I am. He tries to reverse triangle choke, as I regain my consciousness. I’m back. I feel relieved as he continues to try and lock it in. I grab his leg preventing the lock, and I swiftly move to the back. Charles, like a boa constrictor, follows me as I turn and pulls me back down. I’m helpless as he locks the choke in. 

We’re both on the floor, worn out, hoping for the round to end. The choke sinks in. As fatigued as I am, I know it can’t end this way. He pulls me back, and we’re fighting for the grip. Oliveira completely locks it in. My vision again goes blurry, and the lights are dimming. My ears buzz, interrupted by the loud cheering of the crowd. My eyes blurred and my throat tightening, I manage to remove his support arm. 

My vision goes back to normal, and my throat is relieved. But swiftly, the support arm is placed back. I can smell the blood and sweat dropping onto my forehead. My corner yells at me to move but I can’t. It’s locked in, and it’s too tight. This can’t be it. I tap, and the asphyxiation dissipates immediately. I lay on my back exhausted, not sure what to do or think. My team rushes in, and I just feel disappointed. I go to congratulate Charles, but I just feel empty. I’m void, and feel dismayed.