Farewell, my friend.

I still remember the very first person I ever saw breathe their last breath. Honestly, I think about it everyday. It keeps me “Centered” Or whatever that means. I guess it just keeps my mind focused on no matter how many times my wife asks me to take out the trash, or how many professional failures I have, it could always be worse. You see, I am a fatalist. I know no matter what, I’m going to die. You are going to die. What’s it all matter anyway? You’re destiny is 100% predetermined. So let’s enjoy.

It was early 2004. The Hawija district of Iraq. It was February. We had all just celebrated Valentine’s Day together. It’s weird when you’re overseas and holidays come about, you drop all stupid male pretenses and get each other chocolates or candy. It is all actually quite cute in retrospect. I had just made Private First Class and was sort of feeling my oats a bit as a soldier, my Squad leader, who was integral to my young career was the first to get hit. I’ll spare you the details of the war story and will not tell any here moving forward. Don’t need to. Been there. Done that. Have multiple sweat stained T-shirts.

His arm got blown off. Rocket propelled grenade. We were out about 30 minutes drive from the local “Roll 3” medical center. It was hot. Unbearably sticky, and it stunk. A special kind of stink. I know, I smell it everyday. In my dreams. In my waking hours. At the local Shaw’s and my kids kindergarten class. It’s stuck to me like a parasite. We couldn’t get the bleeding under control, he bled out quick. Takes about 7 minutes for someone to bleed out, felt like 7 seconds. It was over fast. Too fast.

We cleared out his gear gear that night. We debriefed with these fucking reports called 15-6 reports. I hate them. Takes all the humanity out of that god forsaken profession. I hated having to do that. It was necessary, I get all that, I just could not wrap my mind around a man waking up one morning going out for work and never seeing that bed again. I could not fathom him talking to his kids 2 nights prior, signing off not knowing this was the last conversation he would have with them in this life. Fifteen years later, still can’t. No sense to it. None.

Same thing happened to me again today. My uncle, One of the few true friends I have had in this life, went to bed last night and did not come back to earth this morning. 51 years old. I remember him introducing me to MMA. I must have been about 9. Pat Militech was fighting, I can’t be sure, but I think it was around UFC 16. I was hooked man, this newsletter would not exist, I would be a totally different man if not for that. How much more of a profound effect can you have on someone?

This newsletter is most Definitely about Combat Sports. It’s also about life. Combat Sports and my intersecting memories. One thing about me: I’m very “Carpe Diem” in my approach to life. My wife asked me recently about a vacation she has coming up in January. She asked if maybe we could plan something since she’s off work for a week. My response was I was really not sure, “I don’t know if I will even be alive then” I was not being morbid. Or even being a dick. I just really don’t know. None of us do. That’s sort of my approach to life.

I remember my uncle Johnny Mac bringing me to Peter Welch’s gym in south Boston when I was like 8. It was cool, I got to shadow box and mop up sweat. I felt like I was a part of the team. Peter was a Boston legend. He had an interesting business partner too. Some dude from Boston who was born in Maine, and was back in town by way of Vegas. That dude was Dana White.

I appreciated that. He taught me to love books too, and appreciate the written word. Every time I finished a book, I would ask my Mom to call him so I could tell him. We had our own little world together. In about I don’t know, 1995, he would grab me at night to take me to get ice cream. We would listen to this wild guy on the radio. That wild guy was Howard Stern. That wild guy influenced my sense of humor, and taught me to always say what was on my mind, when he wasn’t doing Anal ring toss. Good stuff to let an 11 year old listen too, Johnny Mac.

He also impressed upon me a love of sports. The Red Sox, the Bruins and the Patriots. We bonded over that. It was so cool for me to sit down and watch a big game, or a big fight. I wish that for every kid Man, to have someone there to watch along with you. The highs and lows. The thrill of the win. The agony of defeat. Invaluable experience. Especially for a kid like me. My father was a drunk, and when he wasn’t locked up, he was around and not pleasant. My mom? She worked 3 jobs. Me? I had Johnny Mac.

One thing I appreciate above all is the amount of time he spent refining my character. Boston is a weird town, blacks and whites didn’t always get along, the bussing issues of the 1970s left a stain on the city. Johnny Mac always taught me not to be a pig. To respect every man, regardless of color, or sexual preference or their lot in life. If a homeless person asked me for change, I said yes sir. Or no sir. Sir and Ma’am were musts. The penalty for any slip up was not worth the risk. To this day at age 33. I still call every man I see sir. If I had a quarter for every time a female said to me: “You make me feel old, with all that ma’am stuff” I would be able to buy a hotel in Dubai, full of gold. That was the Johnny Mac factor and influence on my life.

I watched Matt Serra stun Georges St. Pierre from his couch. I watched the underdog 2001 Patriots, with some rookie 199th overall pick at quarterback, stun the Rams from that couch. I made the decision, watching coverage of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, to join the military from that couch. I remember being in basic training in 2002. I would get box scores cut out from the Boston Herald in my mail every week. For a kid who had zero real-world experience, basic training hit me hard. Anyone who is reading this who was in, or who’s in now, knows how important it is to your psyche to hear your name called at mail time. Mine was called every week. Sometimes multiple times. That’s the Johnny Mac factor.

When I was about Twelve. I got taken away from my house. I bounced between group homes and like Juvenile Halls. I wasn’t in prison. I had done nothing wrong. I just didn’t have any adult that was capable of caring for me. These places were evil. I can’t begin to tell you the things I saw, and the things I had happen to me. Johnny Mac was my savior. He would visit me three times a week. He was young early 20s, a time when he could be boozing, or chasing tail. Instead, he trekked 30 miles to visit his nephew, it gave hope to the utterly fucking hopeless. I can’t explain how indebted I am to you for that man. I sincerely doubt I would be alive if it weren’t for that.

The Johnny Mac factor is alive and well in my own son. He’s only 5 but I still try to work on the finer points of his character already. Explaining that he needs to take care of the weak people in school, and always be kind. The verbatim script that my uncle read to me 28 years ago. The Johnny Mac factor is alive and well in 5 year old Gunnar McGrath.

One more story. I was injured bad enough in 2013 to have my own brush with the other side. No details needed, but I distinctly remember, sitting down and throwing up blood. The world turned Grey on me. I felt oddly freed. It was like I was walking and the hang-ups of this world shedded from me like a python losing it’s skin. Almost like it was okay. It’s okay to die. I can promise you nothing matters in that moment. How much money you made, or your lot in life. We all fall down. The same way. Guys, it’s ok to die.

John McGrath gave me so much. I can only hope that’s how he felt last night. When he breathed his last breath. I hope he felt freed. Like a wild buffalo, free to roam. I don’t know of any God. If you’re religious and are offended, accept my apologies. I’m proud of you and for you if that’s what you believe. Just not sure I am there yet, but If there is one, I am quite sure Johnny Mac was reunited sometime last night with his mom. My grandma that I never met, and his dad. My Grandfather that died Two weeks after I was born.

Hopefully him and my mom embraced. My dear old mom passed on to something better than this life two years ago. He would text me weekly about how he missed his sister. He always told me she did the best she could for me. I know she did, man. I am trying here, through some tears, to do the best I can for you too.

I don't like to finger- wag. It’s an annoying part of our society. The I told you so crew is annoying to me. Let me just say I am rooting for you to have an uncle Johnny in your life. I hope everyday, your uncle Johnny sleeps on a bed of roses. I hope he buys a scratch ticket everyday, and hits for 500 large. I hope he has the finest partner, and he eats the rarest of steaks. I really do.

God bless uncle Johnny. Fuck it. God bless you too.