Mean Ol' Number Nine

I've developed a goal since I made the move to middleweight at Averlast. It's a modest one, nothing like gaining the class championship, or scoring a sweet endorsement deal with the makers of my video card.

All I want is a win.

My record stands at nine wins, one loss, and one draw. That's not counting two exhibition matches I fought against Leafouur Smythe and snake5608 Boa, both lightweights at the time. The loss I owe to Derrick Cult, who took me down in my first middleweight match, and the draw is with Conan Horan (neither of those matches have a Friday Night Tournament entry; wtf, Abel?). The rest of the time I've been out of the fighting side of events, making new clothing for the store, helping with booking, or judging matches when Chak either couldn't make it or opted for the announcer job that night.

But still, that magical number nine stays in the back of my head, unchanged since the night I won the lightweight championship off of Alma Despres, back in October.

Don't get me wrong. Win or lose, I always have a good time on tournament night. Giving my best against a worthy opponent is a rush, one I wouldn't trade for nearly anything. I'll feel that way even if I never win another fight.

But, like a surprise guest that's kicked off his shoes, changed my VCR settings, and helped himself to my last soda, it's time for number nine to go.

So tomorrow's post will either be my celebrating my entry into double digits, or a Doctor Doom moment of me shaking my gauntleted fist at the uncaring heavens and screaming "CURSE YOU, RICHARRRRDS!"

Stay tuned.

P.S.: If any of the fine folks at nVidia are reading this, call me! Or my agent. As soon as I get an agent. Which I'll do if you call me. Recursive, isn't it?