The Crucifix: A First-Hand Account

So there I was, taken down again.

Over and over this man had handled me in the clinch, a far better wrestler was he.

Bigger, stronger, he had taken me down repeatedly. Over and over slamming me to the mat. Ripping the muscles from my sternum like so much paper. Cochondritus was mine

Now, at the end of the second round I was incapacitated. Starring into his hateful glazed stare, feeling his legs wrap around my right arm in side control. This was it, this was the end.

The pounding began. All I could do was turn my head from side to side. Thirty seconds left...or 60 blows, depending on how you kept time.

For me, the world stood still. I could hear the echo of the drunken fat crowd as they waited for the blood they craved. The pounding intensified. Pound, pound, pound. I could feel my ear pop, the blood trickle down onto my neck as the seconds passed like a glacier over a mountain.

Desperately I struggled to no avail.

"Thanks, Ivan," I thought to myself, somehow blaming the man who pioneered this move for me falling into it.

Striking—I can do that, Submissions—sure. Wrestling—always my Achilles heel—was rearing its ugly head in a very violent and personal way.

Pound, pound, pound.

Blood poured from the side of my face. "Ill stop it!" said the ref, but I knew he was lying. Too much fun for the bloodthirsty mortals that surrounded my place of death.

My life flashed before my eyes, but I could not enjoy it—my enemy made sure of that. More strikes to the head. I turned my face from side to side to avoid a direct strike to my nose. Laughably thinking about how angry my wife would be should it get broken again.

Pound, pound, pound.

More blood, this time from a popped vein on the other side of my head. Bathed in blood I could only see red. Time after time he struck me and as I finally gained my senses and began to think about tapping, the bell...

Ding freaking ding.

I had had enough. I knew I was done for, but to my astonishment my corner felt otherwise.

"Look at his eyes man," they said. "He thinks he owns you!"

...Leave them to state the obvious.

I grasped at my chest, pain lurching through my body.

Splash! Water in my face, in my eyes, on my head. The cold was pure delight.

I can't win, I thought to myself. He's too good a wrestler for me. Too strong, too big.

DING! The final bell rang out like a chorus of doom.

I could see the mouths of my corner moving but no words could I hear. Only the pounding of my heart as I stood up, nearly falling over.

I looked into the eyes of my opponent. He owned me. He knew it. He knew it even more than I.

That pissed me off.

No one "owns" me. Suddenly I knew what to do. Like a flash of inspiration, it came to me. I don't know if it was my corner that spoke it or my soul. Either way, I listened.

BAM!

One knee, one fall. And it wasn't me.

My opponent lay motionless on the canvas. A victim of his own superiority, as it were.

Yes, it was better to be lucky than good.

—Marco Yanitelli "The Italian Scallion"