In my time drifting through this industry, its become pretty much commonplace for me to hear people basically vomiting nonsense and hypocrisy on the air. After all, this is a sport built on ego. You have to sell your hype and if people aren't buying it you aren't working much longer. 

So those without the substance to back up their claims need to exaggerate and elaborate with half-truths and un-truths. I suppose that's why this week as I set myself to return to competition I'm pleasantly surprised that Ronald Gay has taken the road less traveled: He made a completely factual statement and then backed it up accordingly. Which was that?

Well, he said he doesn't know anything about me. 

Footsteps in the distance. There's an echo in the air that's been hovering just above the surface. Where his words echo purity, others descend further into disgust. 

And I'll be god damned if he didn't do everything in his power to prove that's exactly the case. From the moment he pretended to forget my name it was quite obvious he finds happiness in self-ordained ignorance. But that's not even the half of it. He compares my athletic prowess and overall talent to the guys he's faced lately. Who? Namely Deacon Frost and Kyle Stevenson.

Lord have mercy.

Listen up, sport. You want to stack me up and measure my prowess against guys like that? Go ahead. Its bad comedy. Like when Matthew Engel wears aviator sunglasses. Sure, we all laugh. But we're laughing on the inside, and most importantly, we're laughing in disgust. 

Its not an encouraging sight to behold at all as you cast me to the wayside and dive into a pool of naiveté. To think that a cretin like you managed to catch Jacob Seldon off guard and pick up a win, its almost an embarrassment to every three-count I've ever laid claim to. But instead of riding some kind of momentum off a victory like that, you've pacified yourself with a crippled, dimwitted manager and squandered a title contendership opportunity. Then, you stare right into the heart of a golden opportunity. Jamie Flynn, the name you either pretend to be ignorant to or maybe you were just terrified and forgot. Jamie Flynn stares you down this week and you don't just blink.. You shrug your shoulders and roll your eyes and brand yourself a pathetic, lackadaisical little bitch who obviously doesn't give two shits about putting in any amount of time or effort to better himself and his career.

Hell, why put forth the work, right? You can just pay a cripple whose career never took off to "manage" you in the right direction? Heaven forbid you objectively assess yourself and your paltry technical skills yourself. 

I told you point blank how hard I work on this and any other given week. Marathon training sessions. Hours of tape. I keep balance with a vivid social life. I live this fucking sport. You want to downplay who I am and pretend this match means nothing to you? Do you remember what I said about how hard I was going to break you in half if you did that? If you came with anything less than your best?

Fine, bitch. Ask god to save you when you're pulled back in sheer agony and my knee presses down on your vertebrae.

I've got anywhere from four to seven seconds of leeway after you tap before the ref will disqualify. I plan on using every last fucking one of them.

Look for god in those seven seconds and let me know what he tells you. Let me know what you find.

You want to be skeptical of me? Tell me why. Break down my mannerisms and my behavior. Do you honestly see anything but the tenacity of a man who has broken down countless men and women in this sport to attain his ambitions? Deny me whatever you want, it doesn't make a difference. I don't need vindication from people like you who can't think or act for themselves. What I do want is to believe if even for a moment that everything I do is worth it in some form. That the tirelessly hours I grind away to better myself and raise the bar aren't being squandered on some piss-ant who can't even respect himself; let alone the man standing across from me.

You deny me that? I'll end your miserable career before you have a chance to desecrate yourself or this sport any further. Believe in that my friend.

You're still fading away.