Believe me, I know that underground fight clubs are illegal. I also know that I could still get a large chunk of my frustrations out on any at-home punching bags. But nothing gives me a rush as satisfactory as knocking someone unconscious with your bare hands. As a cop, and as the son of a man who believes I should have accomplished everything under the sun before I hit my 40’s, I’ve got a lot of rage building up inside of me. The way I see it, this is a healthy and controlled way of getting all of that out of my system.

If I told my dad I want to go back to boxing — or do anything but police work — it’d kill him.

I walk into the ring and accept the gloves from the referee, shaking my arms to prepare them for the upcoming physical exertion. I nod upwards as a greeting to my newest opponent. I haven’t seen them here before.

“You ready?” I ask them, politeness being my deathly virtue.