The Voice of Reason: A V.I.P. Pass to Enlightenment Read Free Page A

source of torture as possible. Not only does this do wonders to stiffen my neck, but it also forces my head precariously into the aisle, so that it becomes an easy target for every oversized, stretched-out-pant-wearing mega-ass who thunders past. I chose the aisle seat in case I need to get up to stretch, or pace around, or go to the bathroom. But with the mini-monster-truck beverage cart, full of booze and snacks that I can’t eat or drink, rumbling back and forth, and people getting up and down every two seconds to burp babies or reach above me to get only God knows what out of the overhead compartment, it’s hard to find an opportunity to dive out into traffic. And even if I could, the line for the bathroom is longer than the two-dollar-bet line at the dog track. I see the bathroom in my mind’s eye, and it is not pretty. Even though we just got on the plane, the blue-slimed, air-sucking commode will most likely have already been completely fouled by the tourists, crackpots, and frequent flyers who made it out of their seats, into the aisle, and into the bathroom before me. In my current state, I doubt I would make it through the door. Suffering from my weight-cut, my roiling, cramping guts would simply rebel at the stench, and I can’t risk losing any more fluids. I already feel like a piece of beef jerky in the Sahara Desert.
    So I sit. Heavy Metal Boy rocks on next to me, oblivious to all and everything except the flight attendants and the lukewarm beers they hand him one after another. He’s guzzling bottom-shelf brews like he has a bushfire in his stomach. And the right cross to my chin is that I’m paying for that awful-smelling swill he’s chugging. Yeah, Jim Morrison over here is one of my cornermen, and it’s industry standard for fighters to pay for cornermen. I have a pretty good hunch which members of the industry conjured up that standard. The same guys who’s Patton-esque mid-fight game plan is to “win this round because I’m not sure we won the last one.”
    Starving. Can’t eat. Have to make weight. Nothing to look at except a little bag of peanuts on my fold-down tray. Right now it looks like a twenty-four-ounce, free-range rib eye. I take a sip from the little bottle of water the flight attendant gave me. It tastes like it came out of someone’s pool. I have a headache.
    An eternity of misery, and then the plane lands.
    Time to get going. My guys have jammed their carry-on bags so tightly into the overhead compartments that we may need the Jaws of Life to remove them. I don’t know for certain what is in those bags, but I see the very distinct shape of a focus mitt protruding from the side of one. Passengers behind us wait semi-patiently as my merry little entourage of cauliflower-eared miscreants take longer to dislodge their luggage than they would to dislocate an opponent’s hip.
    Finally, we’re off the plane and headed toward baggage claim. I barely resist the urge to jump onto the moving luggage carousel, lie down, close my eyes, and allow myself to be loaded into the cargo hold of a plane going anywhere. But, no. I’ve got work to do. As we fight for standing room near the conveyer belt with the same people who beat me to the bathroom and made my life miserable during the flight, the bags full of stuff we really didn’t need to bring chug past us. We chase them down and eventually snatch them up.
    Outside, the UFC driver is already there, waiting. UFC drivers always are. They’re like the Green Berets. I’ve never waited for a single one of them—and bless them, they’ve waited for me plenty … and found lost luggage … and been incredible problem-solvers and good friends over the years.
    This time we have a fifteen-passenger van. There is a mad scramble for the front seat, which someone else gets, as usual. Other fighters, cornermen, and officials pack in. Collectively, the van is hauling more luggage than the Saudi royal family would bring on a monthlong assault of