Ringo“And I remember thinking, holy shit please don’t be paralyzed.” Laughter rings out at the recounting. We all joke about almost dying. Someone gets us to show us the new dance they invented, arms out akimbo feet crossing as they shudder violently. “I call this poleaxe stumble.” It’s vaguely reminiscent of the movements you make after a blow steals your consciousness. It’s shockingly accurate to that time one our buddy’s took a blade to his bare skull, 3mm deep, and bled so much it turned the dirt to mud. I still remember thinking I was watching his death throws while he staggered up trying to take his armor off.
Every day I wake up in pain. I don’t have a joint that isn’t under strain and I’m either worried about re-injuring or currently trying not nurse back from an injury. I see a chiropractor and a massage therapist almost weekly. I don’t get DOMS anymore because I don’t stop feeling dome. I can’t turn my neck fully in both directions because it’s almost always jammed up from being yanked on. My back, calves, formarms, and hands all seize multiple times throughout the day.
“Sorry if I don’t remember your name, I get hit in the head alot.” Ah the fighters favorite excuse. Another fun one, “Eh don’t worry about liver disease, you can drink as much as you want, you’ll be eating a gun from CTE in 20 years anyway.” That one doesn’t always get the same reaction. Sometimes great laughs. Other times, “Ringo can you please change the subject?”
I’ve taken a quillion to the face no fewer than 1 dozen times. I’ve had it happen more than 4 times in one fight. My eyebrows are routinely bloodied after longsword fights, but hey, I haven’t lost an eye yet. Some teeth sure, but who needs those? And not even full teeth, just the tips.
That’s a fun story. We were in Poland and I had just gotten smoked in longsword and then watched our 16’s teams get wrecked by the home team and not getting played at all. Captain comes off and basically tells us we’re almost certainly not fighting again as the 16s, but we should act like we are, which means no fighting in the All V All that night. No fighting in the biggest battle, the just for fun fight, with nothing on the line but personal pride? Nah fuck you man, I didn’t pay 2k to fly to another country to sit on the sidelines and not fight.
So I go on and a fucking thunderstorm appears in the distance siloutting the castle. Rain begins to fall. All of sudden it feels real. Everyone is getting hype, calling insults and I’m like shit man, I’m back in the 15th century and those fuckers want my blood. Well they can come and try to take it.
Lay on is called. It’s a kill the king scenario. Punch through thier line, take down the “king” and victory is yours. I stand on the line with my guys, trade blows and then say fuck it, “LEEROY JENKINS” and jump through. I somehow pierce the line, I’m in the backfield. It’s ON MOTHA TRUCKA. I see the king, he’s on the other end, and he doesn’t know see me. Dudes mine, dead already and doesn’t know it.
I put my head down and sprint. Pick up speed, I’m basically full run know. I look up to adjust vector. Shit. A Pole. A bloody Massive one too. I swear I hear him giggle as he steps into me, cross check to the face. I feel my chinstrap slip. Metal hits my teeth. There’s an explosion of pain, then the taste of blood and the feeling of grit. My whole mouth is full of this sand shit as I’m lying there on my back trying to get my wits. I run my tongue over my teeth trying to see whats up.
I can’t feel them.
I can’t feel them at all. Just a tiny sharp point and spongey flesh where my front teeth are supposed to be. I’m fucked. I can’t beleive. My teeth are just broken, gone. Fuck. Holy shit this was stupid. I’m never gonna make the team again. I’m gonna have to drop who knows how many grand on dental surgery. FUCKK
I get back up, and walk dedjectively back to the line. I see Lane and wander up. “Dude I just broke my fucking teeth.” I yell through my helmet. I know he can’t see shit with that face plate in the way. “Shit man…that sucks. What are you gonna do?”
I look around, the fight ain’t over. We got a few more rounds before the lighting comes in and drives us off. And it just started hailing…does it get any more epic.
“I guess I’m gonna keep fighting. I mean, not like it can get fixed? And how much worse can it be?”
Turns out wasn’t that bad at all. My tongue was just numb, most of my teeth survived, but it’s just a minor chip. My point is if you do this…you do it with everything. You pay the iron price for every moment of glory. Or maybe it should be the flesh price? Well blood has iron, so I’ll keep it.
I’ve watched Mangler and Lane fight to the point where their left sides were literally just one purple bruise. I’ve strapped peoples arms into shield because their shoulders were out and they couldn’t use them. I’ve taken spine and neck shots that shut my body down only to walk back in. Concussions aren’t common but they aren’t rare. It’s a rough sport.
Not the roughest. Not the most dangerous by any means. This isn’t extreme skiing or squirrel suiting. In an average fight I get more beat up in a sparring match or an SCA fight, than I do in a steel fight. Lots of sports pay this price. Lots of players are partaking in time discounting, putting their bodies through hell for glory now, when in the future they may be barely able to function.
The truth is this sport is too new to know the cost of each fight. We don’t know what each year in kit will do or how bad each helm shot really is. But we do know the value of each win. We know the value of facing the fear. We know the reward of each well landed blow. And so this is the price we pay and for now we pay it gladly. I can’t say what future Ringo will think…but I bet he’ll look back and smile. Coin well spent.