MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

It didn't take long for the team to dive into training.

As soon as the games were announced, the excitement increased.

The camp was serious business, every part of their planning was carefully organized.

For a country with no deep MMA history or roots, Ireland had gone all-in.

They had brought in specialists, world-class coaches, and an elite support team to maximize their fighters' potential.

To be honest, it was even better than the gym back home.

Damon had the utmost respect for Victor and everything he had built, but here?

The level of preparation was something else entirely.

Each class had a clear goal and was well-organized.

Strength and fitness were taken to the extreme.

Drills were customized to match their personal styles.

All weaknesses were found and fixed.

During these sessions, Damon learned more about his teammate, Demaien Ncguygan.

He was a great grappler and was skilled in both wrestling and judo.

He was very skilled at taking opponents down and keeping control of them, and his hard work was clear.

But his striking? Dog shit.

Damon didn't think it as an insult, it was just the truth.

Demaien came from a pure wrestling background, and it showed.

His punches lacked snap, his footwork was clunky, and his head movement was almost nonexistent.

It wasn't his fault.

He had never needed high-level striking before.

But against a fighter like Natuezs Garmrond, who could wrestle and strike? That was a problem.

Damon made a mental note to help Demaien where he could.

They weren't just individuals here.

They needed to win as a team, and if one of them fell short, it put the whole country's qualification at risk.

So as the days of training continued, Damon sharpened his own weapons while keeping a close eye on his teammates.

The battle ahead wasn't just his own. It belonged to all of them.

Throughout training, Damon impressed nearly everyone on the coaching staff.

Most fighters had limits, visible walls they hit during grueling sessions.

But with Damon, it was different.

His cardio wasn't just great; it was insane.

The man could push at a relentless pace and still look like he had another five rounds in him.

His striking?

Precise, devastating, calculated.

His grappling? Just as dangerous, with smooth transitions and a suffocating control that made training partners struggle to breathe.

It was hard to see where he could improve.

If there were flaws, they weren't obvious to anyone except Damon himself and maybe a handful of high-level minds.

The atmosphere around the team was clear, they felt optimistic about their chances.

With Damon leading the charge, their confidence soared.

As long as the team avoided elimination, they had a real shot at making a statement in this tournament.

Meanwhile, Collin NcGyver, despite skipping the team meeting, showed up on time for the first day of training.

Damon had watched him closely, assessing where he stood.

To put it lightly, Collin was rusty. And that was an understatement.

He hadn't fought in over four years, and it showed.

His movements weren't as crisp, his timing wasn't as sharp, and his reflexes, while still there, weren't firing like they used to.

But as the training progressed, something changed.

The rust began to wear off.

Everyone in the camp started to sharpen up, pushing themselves harder each day.

The coaches drilled them relentlessly, fine-tuning their skills and preparing them for war.

The Irish team might not have been the most historically dominant in MMA, but with each passing session, they looked more and more like a team that belonged here.

The fight against Poland was getting closer, and Damon could feel the energy shifting. They were almost ready.

Damon watched as Demaien fired off a jab-cross at the pads.

Technically, it was fine. But there was something missing.

"You're throwing like you're trying to hit something," Damon said, stepping closer.

Demaien looked at him, confused. "Isn't that the point?"

Damon smirked slightly. "Not exactly. You're stopping short. Your body's pulling back right before full impact."

Demaien wiped sweat off his forehead. "I mean, that's what everyone says. Strike and retract fast."

Damon nodded. "Yeah, but you're thinking too much about pulling back instead of driving through. Watch."

He squared up in his stance and threw a jab, except at the last second, his weight shifted slightly forward, and his knuckles landed just beyond where the imaginary chin would be.

Then he did the same with a cross, a hook.

It wasn't a massive change, but it made a difference.

The punches weren't just landing; they were cutting through.

"Small adjustment," Damon said, shaking out his arms. "But it changes everything. Instead of punching at the target, you punch through it. Your body stays committed, and your opponent feels the full shot."

Demaien frowned slightly, trying to process it.

"Think about it like this," Damon continued. "If you throw at my chin, I see it coming, and I brace for impact. But if you throw through my chin, I don't get that moment to absorb it. That's why some punches look like they shouldn't knock people out, but they do."

Demaien exhaled, nodding.

He squared up and threw a jab with the adjustment Damon showed him.

"Better," Damon said. "But don't just extend your arm, your whole body has to follow through. Step into it just a bit more."

Demaien threw another.

Damon nodded. "That's it. Keep drilling that in. You're strong, but the way you punch now, guys can brace for it. You clean this up, and it's gonna be harder for them to react."

Demaien exhaled sharply, nodding with determination. "Got it."

Damon gave a small smirk. "Good. You'll need it."

Damon laid back on the mat, exhaling as he took a sip from his water bottle.

The intensity of training had been relentless, but he wasn't worn down, just letting his body reset.

As he stared at the ceiling, he heard footsteps approaching.

Collin dropped down beside him with a smirk, wiping sweat from his face. "Well, feck me. Ye finally looks tired," he said, his voice carrying that unmistakable Irish lilt. "Thought ye were some machine or somethin'."

Damon let out a small chuckle, still staring up. "Nah, just human. Barely."

Collin snorted, stretching his arms out. "Could've fooled me. Watchin' ye train, I was startin' to think ye don't breathe like the rest of us."

Damon smirked but didn't respond immediately.

Damon couldn't help but reflect on how far he'd come.

Years ago, he had watched Collin NcGyver on TV, studying his fights, admiring his rise. Back then, Collin was the Irish MMA star, the first double champ, the face of the sport in their country.

Now, here they were. Training together. Chatting casually.

Sitting side by side after an exhausting session like it was just another day.

It felt surreal.

And then, a thought crept into his mind.

Is there a kid out there right now, watching me the way I used to watch them?

The idea lingered. Somewhere, was there a young fighter, sitting in front of a screen, analyzing his movements, dreaming of the day they'd make it to where he was?

He never thought of himself that way before.

Not as someone people looked up to.

But maybe… that's exactly who he had become.