The Dirty Dollar

The last four years of my life in a New England MMA gym are the ones that will shape my next forty, I think. The names of the individuals most closely involved are inked in Sharpie on a dirty dollar bill on the right side corner of a dive bar in the middle of Orlando, Florida. This dollar is as close as I’ve ever come to etching my name into the bark of a tree or scraping it into the wall of a high school bathroom stall. This is more fitting, and, in some ways, more permanent.

First, there’s The Russian, a strong but noodle-limbed black belt whose command of English, I’m told, has improved in his last decade in the country. His accent is endearing and his salesmanship at the front desk of the gym is unparalleled. The Russian is the embodiment of the industriousness and brutal romance of the immigrant experience: hustle, tenacity, vision, and hunger. I always got the impression that The Russian was a frugal guy, which is why, when I was newer to the gym, his gesture of buying me a pair of wrestling shoes stood out to me. He was a believer in paying it forward, he told me, to those newer to the sport. He could have given those shoes to the many stronger, more gifted, more talented athletes than myself who walked through those doors, but he bet on me and whatever promise of fighting spirit I’d shown at the time. When it comes to his own fighting abilities, this is a man, even with a broken hand or foot, you would not ever want to cross. With over a decade of fight sports in his bones, he can punch you, choke you, or throw you — whichever you prefer — and do it all with a sheepish…