Josh Samman var både en professionell fighter och skribent. I en öppenhjärtig memoar kallad ’The Housekeeper: Love, Death, & Prizefighting’ berättar Samman om sitt turbulenta liv som fick ett abrupt slut den 5 oktober.
UFC-fightern och skribenten Josh Samman blev endast 28 år gammal. Han vaknade aldrig upp ur den koma han hamnade i den 29 september och det är ännu inte klart vad som orsakade dödsfallet för Samman och hans vän Troy Kirkingburg.
Samman bidrog med både artiklar, krönikör och intervjuer för UFC.com och BloodyElbow.com.
Han skrev även en memoar där han delade med sig av ett liv fullt av missbruk och tragiska dödsfall. Sammans flickvän Hailey Bevis dog exempelvis i en bilkrasch medan hon och Samma textade till varandra, en händelse som kom att prägla Samman hårt.
BloodyElbow publicerade det första kapitlet ur hans bok som du kan läsa här nedan.
Hela boken finns att köpa på Amazon.
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”I just want to scream, ‘Hello! My God, it’s been so long. Never dreamed you’d return.’ Now here you are, and here I am.”
-Eddie Vedder
”Crack!”
I woke from my daydream by the sound of a cue ball breaking a rack on the table behind me. It wasn’t so much of a daydream as it was an evening one, awake but my mind somewhere other than Pockets, the shitty pool hall we were in.
The cigarette smoke was thick, and I wondered why we were still there. I hated the stuff, cigarette smoke. It aggravated my asthma and left me smelling like an ashtray. My bar stool was wobbling slightly, and every so often the same loud crack would send a soundwave through the building. My drinking companion for the night sat next to me as we ordered another round from the minimal beer selection.
Matt was my roommate, and had been my closest friend for years. He was an outdoorsman, a meat and potatoes kind of guy who made his living doing tree removal. We’d both grown up in Tallahassee our whole lives, and per usual, the topic of conversation was the plot of our escape; when we would leave our beloved hometown, and where we’d go when we finally got out. We were always discussing ambitions of bigger and better things, and I tried to convince him that the time was past due. I was 24 years old, and beginning to finally get a grasp on how vast the world was, what it had to offer.
If there was one city I loved more than any, it was Tallahassee, but I felt stunted. The roots of my plant had outgrown the pot, and I yearned for more than the golden handcuffs that a cushy hometown provides. Too long I’d been inside my comfort zone, and I wanted change.
Tallahassee had its perks. It was by many accounts a young adult’s playground. Leon County, where we lived, was named after Ponce de Leon, one of many Spanish explorers searching for the Fountain of Youth. If Ponce could see his county now, I think he’d agree it was a fitting title for the area. Nearly half the city’s population were students, 18-24 years old, and the town was well known for its nightlife. A majority of the student body at the local university, FSU, hailed from around Miami, and much of the party atmosphere on the college side of town was influenced by sexy, but materialistic South Florida culture.
Often we saw friends get stuck spinning their wheels there. Either they were trying too hard to stick around and remain relevant with the rotation of young people coming in, or they were hanging with the same locals at the run-down hangouts like the one we were at.
That wasn’t the case for everyone. Many stayed behind and began a nice life for themselves. Some were already starting families and settling into salaried nine to five careers. I felt destined for a different path though, and was determined to find out what it was.
”Corona with lime please,” I called to my buddy behind the bar. ”We’re heading out after this one. What do I owe you?”
”You know you don’t owe anything. Why out so soon? It’s only midnight!” In Tallahassee, there is always time for one more.
”I have a client in the morning.” I was doing personal training and private lessons at a gym I coached at, called Capital City Combat Club. I was a professional Mixed Martial Artist, ”UFC fighting” as it was known to a casual fan, and I’d built a decent membership base of other fighters and clients looking to get in shape.
That’s how Matt and I became attached in the first place, after he wandered in the gym one day seeking to learn how to fight. He was more of a friend now than he was a student, one of the few from the gym that I’d let seep into my personal life. We made an unlikely duo, having grown up hanging out with groups of friends that were much different. His rode pickup trucks, mine on skateboards. He was a year older than me, but I liked to big brother him.
I’m not sure why we decided to go to Pockets that evening. It wasn’t a place we went often or enjoyed much. As a kid, it was the place my mom took me to play my first games of pool. Now it was a quick nightcap spot with cigarette-smoking locals, loose and worn out girls serving bad food and worse drinks. It was the side of town and sort of people that I was anxious to escape. It wasn’t the type of place I expected anything life changing to happen.
I squeezed the lime in my cerveza before taking my first sip. Right as I set my bottle back on the bar I felt a pair of cold, small hands, wet with the froth of a beer, cover my eyes from behind.
A familiar voice whispered in my ear…
”Guess who?”
Vila i frid Josh Samman
Omslagsbild via FoxSports
