I Cant Sing or Dance, and I Want People To Pay Attention to Me.

A Zak! Failla experience.

Pop! Pop! Bang! Pop! Pop! The sounds of weapons going off can be heard throughout the Lowell Memorial Auditorium in Massachusetts. The sound reverberates off the painted white walls and the sparkling tan tiles of the hallway making the quick sudden booms seem even larger, louder, and more frightening. Pop! Three men, each wearing different colored t-shirts with the same logo look on eagerly at the man wearing the pink shirt. He is the smallest of the group by far, his black warm-up pants might be more at home on a G.I. Joe, but right now he commands all the attention as he creates this ruckus in the hallway. Pop! The weapons that are creating all this calamity are not cannons. They are not pistols. They are not even paintball or BB guns. They are the fists of a trained fighter potentially even more dangerous than the primitive firearms as they collide with the pads being held in front of him by the man towering over him in the black shirt. Pop! Pink shirt rattles off one final strike before taking several paces to cool off and collect his nerves. Anxious energy floods his system as he continues to pace, gloved hands on hips, getting ready to put his life on the line. He pounds his pink-clad chest he is ready. Cheers and roars can be heard from his entourage, sporting the same shirt he is in brown and green. Lets go bud. All you. All you. This is yours. Pink shirt bounces on the toes of his bare feet eyes focused on the challenge that lay ahead of him knowing that for the next 25 minutes, there is going to be someone locked in a 30 foot steel cage with him, content to break every bone in his body. With some sweat dripping down his face, he is the definition of cool breathing deeply and keeping his head held high. Suddenly the lights go dark, and the 4,000 spectators in attendance rise to their feet to see the five and a half foot man in the pink shirt make his way toward Hell. Yeah, yeah, Ima up at Brooklyn, now Im down in Tribeca; right next to De Niro, but Ill be hood forever. Im the new Sinatra, and since I made it here I can make it anywhere, yeah, they love me everywhere. The song choice was a no-brainer. The Long Island product is proud of his roots, and even prouder to be representing not only his home state, but the state that has given him

an opportunity to pursue his dream. He and his entire entourage are wearing MMA New York shirts, complete with a silhouetted of the Statue of Liberty in the middle of the A. Pounding his fists and throwing quick mock punches, as he crosses the threshold, the fighter sees the rabid fans cheering hoping to see some blood, and one fighter on the ground seeing stars, within the next half hour. In New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of theres nothing you cant do now youre in New York. The fighter leads the way, continuing to bounce on his toes and shuffle his feet like he is doing an Irish jig. His head bobs up and down to the beat, ignoring the fans in the stands surrounding the cage who are roaring his name and wishing him luck. Not one of them is envious of what he is about to go do. Seemingly immune to the noise, and the flashing green, purple and blue strobe lights that are signaling his impending arrival to the cage he continues his way down the black rubber walkway toward the ring, and his fate. These streets will make you feel brand new, big lights will inspire you lets hear it for New York, New York. Pink shirt walks with a swagger in his step. He is confident, but not cocky anxious, but not scared. Behind him, his entourage of fellow fighters follows, nodding their heads in anticipation of the big event that is almost eight weeks in the making. This isnt just a night for the fighter it is a night for each one of them, who have exhausted themselves for nearly two months to make this night a success training alongside him to get him both mentally and physically prepared for this fight. Black shirt, his trainer walks closely behind him, as if to protect his fighter from any hecklers, and knowing that he will be powerless to protect his 22-year-old fighter in a matter of mere minutes. The trainers face is expressionless as he too ignores the lights and sounds around him focused solely on making sure his fighter gets out of there safely, and without a blemish on his undefeated record. The rest of the entourage trails a few paces back used to the atmosphere, but still taking in all that they can and enjoying the moment both for themselves and their teammate. Green shirt rubs his thick red beard, almost in awe, and brown shirt adjusts his hat as he nears closer to the ring, unable to contain a grin that reveals a few missing teeth. Theyve both been here before, as a fighter and as a teammate, but the mixture of excitement and foreboding floating through the air is what sustains their love for the sport. I made the Yankee hat more famous than a Yankee can. You should know I bleed blue, but I aint a Crip though but I got a gang walking with my clique, though. The cage is now close enough to touch. From the top row of the audience, it seems a tame and tiny box in the middle of a mass of people. As one steps closer; however, they find an imposing octagon with six-foot high black chain link fences just waiting to get introduced to someones flesh. In each corner there is a black pad with the label XCFL Extreme Cage Fighting League and on the white canvas floor there are eight sponsors logos that will soon be covered by two men wrestling, squirming and trying to decapitate

each other. Inside of the cage, there is the man announcing the fighters entrances, his hair slowly disappearing, but otherwise looking fit for his age, dressed in a black suit complete with matching bowtie. There is a bald official dressed in a plain black collared shirt and black pants with blue surgical gloves on in case there is any bloodshed. The final man in the ring is more imposing than the two older men. He is a 24-year-old Asian fighter with spiked hair, and he too is bouncing to the beat of the music. He is sporting a white shirt that reads: VIGILENCE, a virtue he will need if he hopes to succeed in this profession. Barely visible under his long shirt are black tight shorts. He is staring at pink shirt with a combination of hatred and angst. Reciprocating his glare, pink shirt continues to leer at the Asian as a second official pats him down looking for any abnormalities in his ring attire. He passes his pink MMA New York t-shirt and the pants he has just stripped off to his trainer and allows the official to pat down his grey wrestling spandex. With the referees approval, he turns to his entourage for last minute preparation. His manager offers some quick words of advice as his teammates yell some encouragement over the crowd, which is now growing restless with anticipation of the fight that is about to begin. He has Vaseline copiously piled onto his face to avoid any bruising or tearing of his skin, and water is dumped into his mouth out of a label-less bottle. With one final deep breath, he raises his arms three times in salute to the crowd, which roars its approval, and climbs the stairs and through the entrance of Hell, which is quickly closed and locked leaving the sanctity of his multi-colored entourage on the outside. There are now just three people in the ring: a man trying to maintain peace and order and two men trying to destroy it. And his opponent for this 135 pound Bantamweight Championship match, now entering the cage From Team Bombsquad Anthony Leone! -For Anthony Leone and his teammates at Team Bombsquad, the road to get to this championship fight was paved with broken bones, bloody faces, and hours of tireless work each day, both in the gym and out of it. The life of a mixed martial arts fighter is not a glorious one and it takes a rare individual to make a successful lifestyle out of this unique sport. Mixed martial arts (MMA) is the fastest growing sport in America. It combines the exactness of Karate and Jiu-Jitsu, the brute power of boxing, the technique of amateur wrestling and the showmanship of the WWF, to create the ultimate fighting hybrid all of which takes place in an enclosed octagon-shaped steel cage. A fighter cannot survive in MMA only being good at any one of these abilities they need to adapt their skill-set to include multiple fighting disciplines if they hope to have any chance of success. The sport has not even been around for two decades, debuting in 1993 with the creation of the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC), which is the equivalent of the major leagues in baseball for heavyweights. Countless other MMA promotions quickly began surfacing in the decade following the UFCs popularity explosion, including the WEC - which is the highest level for most lightweight fighters, and the M-1 Global promotion, which is where most fighters begin their professional careers. A fighter can claim victory by

knocking his opponent unconscious, forcing him to admit defeat, or by pummeling his opponent into oblivion and putting him in what the referee deems as mortal danger. -It is the height of winter in central New York, and McGraw, New York, on the outskirts of Cortland, looks like it would be right at home inside of a snow globe. McGraw is a tiny town where the number of trees outnumber the amount of people living there tenfold, and you are more likely to see your neighbors cows than their children. With the recent snowfall, McGraw has begun to resemble a Bob Ross painting: scenic, beautiful, but strangely devoid of human life. Smack in the heart of McGraw, down the highway from the central New York Tractor Store and surrounded by two farms, stands a three story house that would be considered a palace by McGraw standards. From the front it appears like any other central New York house. It has a large front yard that is punctuated by three sets of footsteps two large and one small that clearly came from the boots of people running and playing. In front of the auburn stained wooden front door of the house is a mid-sized black truck and navy blue car, desperate for a car wash, wearing a tattered coat of sand, dirt and salt from the surrounding roads. There are several bald oak trees leading up the driveway, and two thick, full pine trees growing on either side of the house. However, when one heads towards the back, they see what sets this particular house apart from the rest of McGraw. -Anthony Leone heads from the side door in the back of the house and trudges through the snow. With each step, the snow crunches and compacts under his white sneakers. Despite the frigid temperatures, he is wearing only red shorts with a white and black stripe down either side, and a form-fitting, white Oklahoma Wrestling shirt that reveals every contour and muscle of his five foot, six inch frame. He is walking toward what looks like an ordinary tool shed. The unassuming building has nothing more than plain white siding, and a steely grey double door with a spot light above it. To the untrained eye, this would seem like a ridiculous outfit to be wearing to walk 30 yards to a shed, but the minute Leone swings open the double door, he reveals Mecca. This is no shed. Instead, it is a pristine gym, spotless from front to back. The walls are all padded with blue cushions if they were white it would resemble the padded walls of an asylum. The floor is covered by several blue wrestling mats, which encompass all but a two-foot strip of the gym. On either end of the mats, the words HOME OF THE BOMBSQUAD are stretched across in foot-wide gold letters. Adorning the walls, above the pads, there are several banners hung. Some of these banners had motivational slogans: Last Round, Best Round. Some of these banners had sponsors on them: Full Contact Fighter, Cole Blooded, Knucklehead Fight Wear. And some of them had religious slogans: Jesus Didnt Tap. The only constant in each of the banners is one particular logo a white bomb that has already been lit, with the name Team Bombsquad in black inside of it. There are two punching bags in the far corners hanging from an elaborate series of chains. Opposite the punching bags sits a dirty, tattered red grappling

dummy that looks as if it has taken several beatings throughout its long life with tape across its midsection and its left arm. The four frameless windows provide the light in the room along with ten fluorescent lights on the ceiling two of which are haplessly flickering with their final breaths of life. There are four sets of beige lockers neatly lined up alongside a series of six foot high plastic shelves that hold everything from boxing gloves to mouth guards to sneakers to tape and even a boom box that looks like it once played Vanilla Ice cassettes. As Anthony sits on the floor, he begins to get himself ready. First he straps on his cup to ensure that he will be able to produce little Leones one day. He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks and places them inside of his locker. He gets his gloves and mouthpiece out, and gently places them next to him as he begins to wrap his hands in yellow tape. Staring intently at the tape, Leone wraps his hands and wrists with precision that would make a chemist blush. As Leone is finishing his tape job and putting the finishing touches on his wardrobe, his two housemates step through the double doors and into the promise land. Kenny The Tooth Fairy Foster earned his nickname based on his bizarre ability to knock out peoples teeth. The irony of this nickname is not lost on him, seeing as the tooth fairy has had to visit Kenny twice to collect teeth under his pillow that were lost during fights. He takes off his winter hat to reveal what his fellow fighters call his Dumbo ears, sticking out to the side awkwardly with his black hair already matted to his head before he even starts sweating. He smirks at his teammate, showing two gaps on either side of his smile where his teeth have been knocked out. After getting himself situated, he changes his t-shirt to a blue t-shirt with an ornate silhouette of a gold figure throwing a punch on top of the word Foster. The figure on the shirt is actually Kenny throwing a punch, though due to a mix-up he was given triple the amount of Foster Specials from the t-shirt company and has been giving them out like Halloween candy since then. Though he too is a Long Island product, he spent a lot of his childhood in Georgia and when he greets his fellow fighters with a howdy guys!, he does so with a twang that is unmistakably from the south. Pat Bennett is the only member of Team Bombsquad who is labeled a heavyweight, weighing in at 235 pounds, just 45 pounds less than Leone and Foster combined. He looks more the part of an Irish lumberjack than MMA fighter, with a thick beard that covers most of his face and broad upper body that would make Paul Bunyan proud. Hes lived in upstate New York his whole life he was raised in Syracuse, was a two time Division-I All American Wrestler at SUNY Brockport, and decided over a year ago to move south to Cortland to pursue his MMA dreams. Despite his foreboding appearance, Pat is quick to smile and quicker to make a joke. Hes been known to call Kenny a predator in reference to Fosters taste in women who are too young, and once masterminded a training session in the front yard with the sole intention of working alongside a teammates friends who were in a sorority. The warm, fresh gym is a refreshing contrast from the bitter cold outside of the double

doors, but as the rest of the fighters begin filing in, it starts to resemble a high school locker room. Bags are haphazardly thrown everywhere, their contents being strewn about the two feet of floor not covered by the Bombsquad mats. Pants lay idle on the floor, useless in this setting, and shirts and jackets are hanging from the corners of open lockers, swaying after they are thrown off their owners muscular arms. The floor begins to resemble that of a discount shoe store; a pair of size 10 Adidas sneakers over here, a size 12 pair of Nike high tops over there, a pair of socks stuffed hastily in the size 8 Timberland boots that trekked through the snow. The windows that were empty minutes ago are now housing various water bottles, filled with yellow or red sports drinks, thick protein shakes, and occasionally, water. Finally, the Godfather walks in. Ryan Ciotoli is the architect of Team Bombsquad. He contrived the idea almost a decade ago, and opened his first gym in 2002. He was a three time All-American wrestler and two-time NCAA champion runner-up. He is an unassuming man who tried his hand at participating in the sport, but found his true passion in training the young fighters of upstate New York. He has built his team, literally from his back yard into the preeminent MMA training center in the Northeast. Once practice begins, it is clear who the regulars are and who is just beginning their MMA experience. The newer guys are less talkative, stick to themselves and are constantly waiting for instructions, apprehensive about what theyre about to get themselves into. The more experienced souls in the group began their workout before Ryan entered the room and are more apt to horse around. Troy Sterling, a freshman wrestler at Cortland quickly jumped on Leones back and rode him like a mechanical bull holding his chin with one hand wrapping his legs around his waste and throwing an imaginary lasso at his teammates while Leone ran like a bull around the gym trying unsuccessfully buck him off. The fighters begin their practice running around the gym in circles, and following Ryans instructions as he shouts to them from the middle of the circle throwing a tennis ball at them to keep their hand-eye-coordination sharp, and to make sure their focus remains. Skip! As the fighters begin to skip the sounds of chains can be heard clanging and colliding from the far corner. Pat had picked up Leone and threw him into the punching bag. Sidestep! Raising his voice slightly to refocus his team he begins running with them warming himself up for the day ahead, crossing his feet alongside his team as they laterally ran around the gym. He will likely have to show some of the new guys the drills they will be participating in today. Bear crawl!

Soon the sounds of laughter and amusement evaporate into the increasingly hot room and are replaced instead by the sounds of hands and feet dully colliding with the wrestling mats as they crawl around the gym, looking more like sick hyenas than bears. Jumping Jacks, then Lunges! Despite the teams overall imposing nature and impressive physical skills, they all still surreptitiously glance over to the Godfather to see if he is watching them put their work in, desperately seeking his approval. With their warm-up complete, it is time to begin the workout for that session. Ryan puts the fighters in weight order, and breaks them off into groups of four similarly sized competitors, and instructs them to put on sparring gear which includes protective headgear and shin guards to ensure that two teammates dont sustain any injuries. Team Bombsquad believes in sparring fighting against each other during practice - at full speed, whereas most teams will go at only half pace or less. Ciotoli has seen some of his fighters get knocked out during practice, but believes that by going at each other full bore, it will help mentally prepare them by taking the fear out of getting hurt during an actual fight. This has the benefit of preparing the fighters for the speed and impact of their official fights, but fighters also run the risk of injury. Leone has torn cartilage in his ribs after getting kicked during a spar, had his labrum torn during a submission attempt and had his nose broken once. Pat Audinwood, another Bombsquad fighter, had his face fractured, and missed out on an opportunity to fight in both the UFC and WEC the two largest promotions in America. Once the sparring begins, it is impossible to tell that just minutes ago these men were smiling and laughing and joking with each other. Once Ryan yells Go! all bets are off and the men are charging at each other like lionesses protecting their cubs. With three tandems fighting at once, the practice has turned into semi-organized chaos, but remarkably, Ciotoli manages to keep his eyes on all three spars commenting on certain things that he believes need to be worked on. He notices the most minute things, from an elbow being three inches too far out, or that one-foot was slightly tilted the wrong way. His experience affords him this unparalleled knowledge, and his attention to detail gives him the opportunity to correct the smallest imperfections in his fighters as he turns them into machines of fury. Dig your fingers under the elbow, and get from the under hook to the over hook! Bump your elbows out, and get your own hands in there so you have some position! It is the basics that will win you fights! Work the body a lot of guys are head hunters and you wont win in this sport that way! The sounds of bodies slamming to the mat begins to create an almost rhythmic tune. The dull thud of sparring gloves hitting opponents gloves is more and more prevalent as fatigue sets in and fighters are easier to take down. Some of the men tackle like linebackers, others punch like Rocky Balboa. A few of the fighters kick like theyre taking a penalty shot in soccer and others use wrestling tactics: a double leg takedown or a firemans carry. Bodies are flying everywhere, and limbs are flailing like tree branches in a hurricane. One particular newcomer, a student at SUNY Cortland just down the

road, was having a difficult time in his first spar against Foster, an accomplished opponent. Leone did his best to motivate and help the rookie learn, while still keeping the pressure on. Dont feel bad for yourself! No one is going to help you. Stop looking away! Youre in the shark tank now and youre the goldfish! You have to fight back, Leone said while pounding on a punching bag. You cant be afraid to hurt or hit someone because they arent worried, and they arent your friend in this minute. Youll feel bad after each practice if you dont work hard. Just keep working. At this point, when the round was over, despite his seemingly harsh words, he picked the rookie up off the ground, gave him a hug, and took him aside to give him some advice about what to do in that situation. Camaraderie is a vital aspect in a sport with the physical and violent nature of this one without it, no one can survive. Contrary to what some believe, MMA fighters are not just goons looking for a legal way to beat people up, and they arent WWF rejects. There is a precision and artwork that goes into each and every move that the untrained eye might struggle to see. Every inch of the body is used and each body part is a methodical part of a much bigger plan. They are constantly trying to be one step ahead of each other. Both know that there could be nothing exciting going on, but with one well placed punch or kick the fight could be over in five seconds. These men are engaging in a chess match against each other at NASCAR speeds. The room begins to become thick with the scent of sticky sweat and hard work. From inside the gym, it is impossible to tell that it is 20 degrees outside with snow on the ground. Some fighters choose to take their shirts off others just try to regain their stamina by laying face up and staring at the ceiling, almost willing God to help them. Soon the room becomes sauna-like and ceases to resemble an MMA gym and begins looking more like the Degobah system in Star Wars as windows and mirrors fog up. Sweat is flying off of the fighters more than it used to fly off of Patrick Ewing during his two-year retirement tour with the Supersonics and Orlando Magic. Dark shirts now appear a different shade as perspiration permeates the fabric, and white shirts have become translucent. Each time one of the fighters goes down and gets back up, there is a sweat outline on the mat where he landed. It is easy to track the fighters movements; with each step they all leave a footprint of sweat where they previously stood. Chests are heaving, rising up and down trying to suck life into their beaten bodies. The sounds of breathing can be heard over music, and the sound of skin slapping skin as bodies are colliding with each other. Finally, almost mercifully, the practice is declared complete. The sound of Velcro being undone and tape being ripped fills the air. Bodies begin crumpling to the ground in exhaustion with dramatic thumps. The group went from being a young, energetic bunch to a poor wounded mass, resembling soldiers after battle. Everyones faces have gone from white and smiling to red and exhausted. Those who have any energy left are trying to rally the troops. Good practice! Leone yelled as he slapped hands with

everyone in the gym. Good job.. Good job.. Good job.. Foster said as he went around patting everyone on the back and seeing how they were doing. One by one, the huddled masses slowly begin to rise, say their goodbyes and stumble with their backs hunched to their cars to leave, until all that is left are the three most dedicated fighters, Pat, Anthony and Kenny. The three of them need not run to their cars to go relax, they simply have to make their way 33 steps from the gym to the side door in the backyard, which leads to where they are living: in Ryans basement, or as they affectionately call it, The Dungeon. For beginning MMA fighters, the pay scale is not exceptionally high, so for three young fighters to have the opportunity to live rent free, just yards away from where they train, is a tremendous opportunity, especially when they work out twice a day, six days a week, on top of their normally scheduled cardio workouts. The opportunity to stay with their trainer allows them to focus entirely on their careers in the sport. The isolation gives them the opportunity to shut out the world and concentrate solely on their training and advancing their careers. They simply have to walk the 30 yards to the gym, where they train two or three times a day, and prepare themselves mentally and physically for their team workouts later in the day. In essence, all the fighters do is eat, sleep, workout and train. If you look out of our window, you can see our neighbors, the cows, and when the bulls come out there, we wear red for our workout, Bennett adds with a sheepish grin. In sports they often compare teams to families, but in this instance, Team Bombsquad truly is a family. Ciotolis wife, Melanie, cooks them all dinner occasionally, and his young son Anthony, has come to regard the fighters, who have lived there almost nine months, as older brother figures. The accommodations are quaint, the three of them live in between the baby toys the Godfather stored in the basement, and two of them sleep on pullout beds, but it is an opportunity that not many fighters are afforded. By taking one look at the living space provided for the three fighters, it is clear that three men live there who have no energy left to clean by the end of the day. Fosters bed is shoved in a corner behind a few support beams and next to several boxes that have been stored. Only half of the white sheets are on the mattress, revealing the green and yellow mattress underneath. On top of the half-made bed, there is laundry and several gallon bottles of water piled up atop an unmade blanket. Bennetts bed, a futon, has the sheets hanging off of either side, blankets hanging off of every edge of the bed, and features two pillows with no pillow cases. Leone was not even afforded a bed, instead he removes the cushion on the brown leather couch - that sits in front of the television where they watch tapes of their past fights - and pulls out his mattress. The trios kitchen consists of a small table, bearing a microwave, a hot plate and a foreman grill. The table that holds all of their supplements and workout enhancing products is actually an old poker table that is no longer in use. The only other piece of furniture in their room is a treadmill that has never been used, and instead hangs some of the boys clothes. Their basement home has the feel of a 12-year-olds first time at sleep away camp. The beds are unmade, the rooms a mess, but theyre having the time of their lives doing it. Living in one area, under the supervision of their manager and trainer also has certain

advantages others do not have. The fighters get to watch fight film under the well-trained eye of Ciotoli. While his child was spinning around one of the support beams playing, Ciotoli was making small observations while crowding around the couch with his fighters. Youve gotten in much better shape, but instead of pushing off try to bump off and strike him. If you could knock his elbows out when he clinches, side step and youll have a clear shot to finish him. Moving away from home into less than stellar living conditions is only one small sacrifice compared to the ones made by some of the members of Team Bombsquad. Shortly after linking up with the team, Pat Bennett realized that he couldnt continue his job in Syracuse and pursue his fighting career at the same time. I had a full-time job that I quit after I graduated college. I gave it up to give this a shot and see what I can do with it, he said. I train six days a week we train here six days a week and Im going to the gym six days a week. This is my complete life, and Im going to give it my best shot. Pat Audinwood, another Bombsquad member who is trying to make it to the WEC, and his cousin, John Franchi an accomplished fighter who has already competed in the WEC, travel from Elmira to Cortland to train with Team Bombsquad and have made sacrifices constantly throughout their careers, specifically with their diets and social lives. While most 23 year olds are beginning their careers, going out every weekend, drinking excessively and eating bad food in their impaired state, the cousins are working out, cutting weight and training to become the next great MMA fighter. You have to be really healthy and watch what you put in or take out of yourself, Audinwood said. I really hate sucking weight I really hate it but I cant complain too much. I also dont get to go out as much as Id like, being only 23 but Ill make up for them eventually. I really just have to focus on not eating too much food. I have to cut 25 pounds for each fight to make my division, Franchi added. Everyone fights for their own reasons. Some, like Kenny Foster are Just so passionate about it. Its been a dream of mine, and I want to live it out take it to the limit. This is life its worth it. Live it. Others, like Franchi, enjoy entertaining people and the lifestyle that an MMA fighter lives. You beat the Hell out of each other for five rounds, and then afterwards its nothing but praise on both sides. The respect shared amongst fighters is incredible, because were both doing the same things everyday to get there. Its a life experience for me. Everyday I learn something, I get to meet a lot of great people. Competing and entertaining is the easiest thing for me. I went to college, but who wants to sit at a desk when you can fight all day? Leone has his own reasoning for why he competes. I love it, and I have a passion for it its something Ive wanted to

do for awhile. Ive been on this journey for three years now, and its really cool to see how its developing and Im going to continue my goal of trying to be a world champion. Finally, Don Carlo-Clauss, one of the elder statesmen of the team added his version. I cant sing or dance, and I want people to pay attention to me. We have to do what were good at. We have to do what God put us here to do. Everyone has something theyre good at you just have to figure out what it is. -Twenty-five grueling minutes werent enough. Neither pink shirt, nor his counterpart could finish the other off to claim the vacant Bantamweight title belt. It was going to be up to the judges to decide who was crowned the champion. With his right eye visibly swollen and bruised, his trainer helped get his seven-ounce sparring gloves off and handed him his pink MMA New York shirt to put on as they waited for the decision. Filing in behind the fighter, his trainer and his entourage stand alongside the cage that just witnessed a true test of stamina, and a war of wills. Lets hear it one more time for Anthony Leone and his opponent, Tateki Matsuda! The referee, still in monochromatic black with blue surgical gloves holds each of their arms, waiting to raise the winners hand and send the loser home disappointed. Pink shirt shows his appreciation to the crowd by raising his fist, still taped from the fight, in the air twice as a salute, while his opponent flexed his muscle signaling that he thought he had won the battle. Judge Mike Wall scored the bout, 48 to 47 for Matsuda! From the other side of the ring, several brawny members of the Asians team celebrated happily, while the competitor himself barely acknowledged that he was within one judges ruling in his favor to winning the title. Pink shirt had no reaction, other than to close his eyes for a second. With his heart pounding in his chest, he got ready to hear the rest of the judges scorecards. David Ginsburg scored the bout, 48 to 47 for Leone! Boos chorused through the crowd for the first time as the previously impartial crowd disagreed with the judges decision while both entourages applauded lightly. With both competitors breathing deeply and nervously, they both prepared themselves for the worst, but hoped for the best. Mark Alberi scores the bout 48 to 47 to your winner by split decision, and the new XCFL Bantamweight champion Anthony Leone! After weeks of preparing for this moment, Anthony Leone could finally relax, and let his emotions overcome him. With a grin that could rival a little boy whose fish somehow came back to life after passing away several hours earlier, Leone raised his left arm as the

referee lifted his right arm in victory proclaiming him the new champion. Even the boos that rang down through the rafters into the steel cage could not dampen the spirits of Leone and Team Bombsquad. After a congratulatory embrace by the losing fighter, Leone was free to celebrate with his team that had got him here, and was mobbed by his team in the ring. With the title belt draped over his shoulder, Leone walked back toward his locker room, calm, cool and collected. Only when he was out of sight of the crowd, and of any opponents did he show his real giddiness. Jumping up and down like a little boy on Christmas he couldnt contain the euphoria and adrenaline he felt coursing through his system. No matter how much his head, hands, legs, body and feet hurt from the beating that was just unleashed on him defying the odds and bringing a title back to New York was the perfect medicine. And the handful of aspirin helped too.