Sam's Boat is a nice, blue collar Bar and Grill in the Memorial Hill area of Houston. Though the bar held a capacity of several hundred, I had been the only bouncer working the entire evening. It had been a busy, yet uneventful night, which was just how I liked them.
I'm not a big guy. On a good day I stand 5'7¾”, and walk around at about 160 pounds... and that's with shit in my pockets. I was 34 years old and I had bounced in at least one bar or nightclub everywhere I had lived since I was 21. I learned young that I was not Patrick Swayze and that there is nothing romantic about getting smashed over the head with beer bottles in some shithole nightclub. (Ok. It can be a little romantic... but that's a story I'll tell another time) Nowadays, I was all smiles and mellowness. Which was good, because I was also a damn Shit Magnet.
On this particularly hot summer night, the crew and I had met at the nearby apartment of a co-worker. We had been there a few minutes when some more people arrived.
“Anyone here have a black pickup?” announced one of the new arrivals. My ears perked, and I rogered up that I had one.
“There was a tow truck sitting behind it, checking it out a second ago.”
When I asked what the the truck looked like, he said there were a bunch of stickers on the back window. He used two words to describe them: Military, and Pinup.
Well, hell, that was my truck.
I hustled out of the apartment and around the corner. There wasn't a towtruck in sight. Wait. Scratch that... I saw him.
He was parked several hundred meters away, at the other end of the parking lot. He must have seen me walking to my truck, because I heard his engine rev.
I sprinted. Reaching my truck, I swung my door open and vaulted myself into the driver's seat, starting the ignition as I shut the door. The towtruck driver pulled up perpendicular to me, behind me. I leaned out my passenger window, and politely asked the driver to move his truck, to which he responded with a nice, “Fuck You” punctuated by an extended middle finger that looked like it belonged on an Ogre.
With the, the tow truck maneuvered, and positioned itself so we were ass-to-ass. Not my personal position of choice, mind you. For a moment I was baffled, then I heard the sound of metal hitting concrete. At the time, I didn't know what, exactly, a Quick Pick Integrated Lift was... but I knew I was being screwed.
If he got my truck onto whatever contraption that was, I knew my cake was gonna get left out in the rain. I'd done two enlistments (One in the Army, one in the Marines), I'd been a Cop, and I had gone to Iraq with a Private Security Company. In short, I had been fucked enough by weenies both big, and green. I wasn't having it.
I threw my truck into 'drive', and pulled forward, onto the grass.
Leaping from my truck, I pranced around on the grass like an NFL running back that had just scored the game-game winning touch down.
“You like that shit?” I taunted, “What are you going to do now?”
His response was very simple. He stated:
“We'll see what happens when the Cops get here.”
It was then that I realized I had engaged a numerically superior enemy and that it was only a matter of time before I was outflanked and taken down.
Fuck that. Time to break contact.
I turned to my friends and thanked them for a wonderful night.
“You guys might not want to watch this.”
But I was kind of hoping they did.
There were only two points of entry large enough to allow my Tacoma Prerunner enough room to get back onto the parking lot, and one of them had a towtruck in it.
I was going to have to squeeze between a fire hydrant and some sporty car that looked more expensive than all the money I had made in my life.
Jumping onto the truck, I threw it into drive and gunned it forward. My adversary had planned ahead, he must have already been in drive. The gap between super-expensive-please-don't-hit-it car, and the Quick Pick was closing faster than the mouth of an exogorth. He couldn't get an angle sharp enough to block me with his engine block, so in a move of tactical brilliance he opened his driver's side door.
The Millenium Falcon tilts on her axis as the giant stalactite teeth close in....
Now I ask you... what woud my friend Jungle Recon do?
Right. Punch it, Chewy.
I was accelerating when I hit the driver's side door. I cut the angle, and made my escape leaving the door skidding on the pavement next to a puddle of truck-driver tears and failure.
A few days later I got a phone call from the wrecker company. They wanted compensation. They wanted to press charges. They wanted an apology!
I told them to pound sand, and that they're driver tried to trap me. They advised me that they had the entire incident on dash cam.
In January of 2003 the USS Tarawa set sail from her home port of San Diego with her sights set on the Middle East. Nestled among the thousands of Sailors and Marines aboard the ship was a small group of dedicated Mixed Martial Artists that had dubbed themselves The Tarawa Fight Club.
Every evening while at sea, the men of the Fight Club would haul two massive wrestling mats from a lower cargo hold, up several decks of stairs, through narrow passageways, and even through the mess hall, to set up the mats on the hangar deck.
For you wogs who have never been at sea, the Tarawa is essentially a miniature aircraft carrier. Carrying a squadron of Harrier attack aircraft, and helicopters of all sorts. In the hold, are giant hovercraft which carry light armored vehicles and artillery to the shore.
The hangar deck is the largest area on the ship, and where all the aircraft get stored during inclement weather.
Every night while underway, it also became the Tarawa Fight Club’s Dojo.
The mats got rolled out and cleaned… then class got started.
Six months before setting sail, the Marines and Sailors of the Tarawa began training together for the upcoming deployment. This period of time is called “work ups”. They begin the work up with joint training operations that last a day or two, and increase in duration and intensity over the course of the six month training.
It was on one of these initial training operations that I first saw the wrestling mats… rolled up and sitting on the side of the hangar deck. I can’t remember what I was doing, but in a daze I grabbed the sailor nearest to the mats.
“Who’s mats are those” I ask, pointing to the dual rolls. I get a puzzled look in return.
They were gone the next time I came through the hangar deck. And so the quest was on.
In 2001 I had done a WESTPAC deployment on the USS Cleveland in the grunt of 2/1. The Marine Corps had not yet unveiled it’s new MCMAP program, and I had spent the summer rolling infrequently on a small greasy, nasty section of mat in the cargo hold. Vehicles had been parked on it at one point. My Jits suffered greatly, as did my morale.
After that Float, I volunteered for Recon and began the selection and training pipeline. The Corps unveiled the Marine Corps Martial Arts program. While MCMAP is little more than a “Traditional Martial Art” it did indicate the willingness of the Marine Corps to train in ground fighting. Now, every unit would have wrestling mats so that every Marine could advance in MCMAP.
And I had just seen them.
My hunt took me all over the ship, and I had a lot of fun meeting people in all different areas of the boat. I Finally found them almost a month into work-ups, nestled deep in the Well deck.
Ski, a fellow Reconner, and I gathered a small group of guys and negotiated the ladderwells down in to the hull like a complex of narrow tunnels.
I had already recruited Bondo, a wrestler with impressive ears that had heard me preach the Gospel of Brazilian JiuJitsu. Everyone with cauliflower ear on the Tarawa probably got to hear my spiel at least twice.
Now, for the first time, the Tarawa Fight Club was meeting. We didn’t have a name, we didn’t have coaches… we were just a handful of warriors trying to roll. The well deck was cramped. We laid the mats out between vehicles that were chained to the deck. There wasn’t enough room to unroll them all the way, so they rolled over the chains securing the vehicles to the deck.
In the beginning we didn’t even have enough people. A man short one evening, I announced that I would be right back… I was going to go try and recruit someone.
I came out of the ladderwell and saw him in Green On Green Grunty Greatness. Dan was a big guy. He had a high and tight, regulation green sweatshirt, green PT shorts, and a green sweat towel. He was a freshly minted Corporal.
“You!” I point at Dan. I’m wearing board shorts, a Recon shirt, and a smile. “Where are you going?”
He looks at me, puzzled, “To the gym.”
I act impatience, “Yea… but to do what?”
“Lift.” He replies.
I step closer, looking to my left and to my right. “You don’t want to lift, “ I say, “You want to come down this ladder with me.”
He looks over my shoulder, at the open passageway behind me.
“What’s down there?” He asks.
“You ever study any Martial Arts?” I ask.
He doesn’t even know who I am, and I haven’t even asked him his name… but he plays along.
“I took a week of classes at the Y one summer when I was a kid.” He responds.
Oh my god. I’d found a virgin.
“You ever see the UFC?” I ask. He says he’s heard of it.
Editor’s Note: This was 2003. MMA was illegal in the majority of states in America. It was a sideshow, relegated strictly to obscure PPV channels and even more obscure sports bars. Guys would scour the internet trying to find a bar that would show the fights. The Ultimate Fighter was still two years away...
“Come on, Man, that’s what we’re doing.” I motion toward the passageway.
“I’ve got to lift.” He says, hesitantly, and I can see he’s almost hooked. As if on cue Jason Bond, a wrestler I had actually gone against two years earlier at the Las Vegas Invitational, stuck his head out the door.
“What gives?” He asks…. The guys are waiting.
I jerk a thumb over my shoulder as I walk past Bondo and into the ladderway.
“This Grunt would rather lift weights than be a Ninja.” I say.
Bondo, a Grunt himself, looks incredulous. He steps out into the passageway, and it’s obvious he lifts. A lot.
He points a finger at Dan, flexes, and says, “Come on, Beach Muscles, you can lift with me later.”
I hear Dan follow us down the ladderwell, shutting the hatch behind him. From behind, I hear Dan say gently,
“I’m not sure I want to lift with you.”
The rest of the guys could hear our laughter from the mats bellow.
