Brian Stann - Heart for the Fight: A Marine Heros Journey from the Battlefields of Iraq to Mixed Martial Arts Champion

A Marine Heros Journey
from the Battlefields of Iraq
to Mixed Martial Arts Champion

Brian Stann with John R. Bruning

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

Theodore Roosevelt, speech at the Sorbonne,
Paris, France, April 23, 1910

Fear and I became acquainted very early in my life. As a kid, I went to South Scranton Intermediate School, a graffiti-scarred hell hole built sometime before the Second World War. With barred windows and shit-brown paint that gave the place a jailhouse sort of vibe, the gangs roaming the hallways seemed like the natural order of things. In those halls, you joined a gang for self-protection, became a perpetual victim, or tried to steer a path between the two. I chose the latter, mainly because I didnt want to lose my individuality. It was the only thing I had at that age, and I found, like almost everything in my life, I had to fight to hold onto it. Being an individual in a world of conformity and violence made me a target. I grew up fast and learned how to use my fists when I needed them.

The gang that ruled our school came from the nearby federal housing projects. Known as the Valley View Terrace boys, these pre-teen gangbangers grew up in a disjointed world of drugs, violence, and poverty. It united them, and they controlled our school through strength of numbers and liberal doses of terror.

I ran afoul of these guys in seventh grade. My best friend, Jake, was dating a girl from the projects, and wed all gone to a church dance one Friday night. Afterward, we walked home past Vince the Pizza Prince, a greasy joint that the Valley View boys used as their weekend hangout. Jake had the bad judgment to say goodnight to his date right in front of the place. Their goodnight peck turned into a thirty second eyeball-popping make out fest.

I knew we were in trouble as soon as we turned and left Jakes girl behind. A block up from the pizza place, I ventured a glance over my shoulder and saw that wed picked up a tail of almost a dozen Valley View Terrace boys. A few of their girls trailed along excitedly, smiling and whispering to each other.

Jake. Were about to get jumped, I said to my best friend.

What? No were not, Bro. Are we?

We walked another block. Another quick look behind us and I could see the Valley View boys had closed the distance. They were nonchalantly moving in for the kill, trying hard to look innocent and harmless as they did so.

Hey Jake! one of the girls called from behind us. Jake made the unforgivable mistake of turning around.

Huh? he asked as a lean, white girl with overdone makeup and bright red lipstick strutted his way.

Yo Jake? Whyd you go an grab ma ass? asked the girl. This befuddled both of us. We didnt know the girl, and hadnt seen her at the dance. Behind her, the Valley View Terrace boys started to laugh. A few made rude comments as they enjoyed the show.

What are you talking about? I didnt grab shit!

The girl answered with her fist. She punched Jake so hard he reeled backward, blood dripping from a split lip. Before he could get his hands up to protect himself, the street vixen landed two more solid punches.

Even the Valley View Terrace chicks liked to kick ass.

While Jake and I concentrated on the girl presently thrashing him, the rest of the gang fanned out around us. Her attack was a ploy to distract us, pure and simple. These guys knew how to deliver a beating, and they fought without rules. There was no escape. I knew we could either fight or beg for mercy. I was never one to beg, and mercy was not what the Valley View Terrace boys were about anyway.

There was no way to win this fight. Maybe in a Jackie Chan flick, wed be able to demolish these dead-enders with cool moves, flips, and kicks. But on the street, those celluloid heroics just dont work. So when you cant run, and you cant win, you can give up or fight for the sake of honor and pride. For respect.

Might as well go down fighting.

It was in moments like these that I gained my intimate knowledge of fear. Would I panic and try to run? Would I scream for help and get hysterical? If I tried to fight, would I even be able to defend us? Or would I feel those blocks of ice suddenly form on my nervous system, clogging all my brains commands and leaving me frozen and helpless.

The Valley View Terrace boys tightened the noose. The vixen kept landing blows. Jake covered his face, but her fists still connected. I watched it all unfold, each second ticking off like an hour, everything moving with interminable slowness.

One beefy proto-gangbanger came straight at me. The fight was on.

Fear. It starts in the pit of your stomach, then travels up and down your spine, making every movement an effort. Raising fists, dodging a punch. To do those things, first I had to break through those terror-spawned blocks of ice that jammed my nervous system.

Some kids never got through those ice floes. Theyd freeze up in a fight. Eyes wide, fists half-balled, they looked like deer caught on a back county road. Their terror rooted them in place. Unable to move, they were meat on the table. Id seen more than one kid get turned into a bloody pulp this way. Even worse, you freeze in a fight at South Scranton, and you became marked forever, punching bags for every bully, gangbanger, and skate punk with something to prove. With every fight, I saw their sense of self-worth slough away until they had nothing left. I swore I would not let this school and these people destroy who I was.

Thats what always broke the ice inside me. They werent going to own me, even if it meant taking a beating because I was outnumbered or overmatched. The fact that they would even try sent a surge of indignation into me. In a flash, that would morph into rage, and Id feel my fists clench and my muscles go taut. The fear would always remain, but I used it. It kept me alert and vigilant, sometimes almost paranoid.

On that night, I felt the ice melt before my rage. I charged the beefy kid and slammed into him with a linebackers embrace. I caught him in mid-stride. Off-balance, he staggered backward. I kept pumping my legs and drove him right through a nearby hedge. He tripped and we both went down, fists flailing. Moments later, Jake came flying over the hedge, four Valley View Terrace boys in his wake. Before he could get to his feet, they pounced on him. One kid kicked Jake in the face hard, and I saw more blood spew from his lip.

The beefy kid and I rolled, kicked, and punched. Another kid jumped in, and pretty soon, I had three on me while the others pounded on my best friend. Somehow, I managed to get up on my feet again. I pushed one of the Valley View Terrace boys through the hedge, then I slugged and kicked my way to Jake. Just as I reached him, a passing motorist stopped her car and shouted, Hey! Im callin the cops, like right now!