MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Collin struggled beneath Mateusz Garmrond's crushing pressure, his back pressed against the mat as the Polish fighter worked to secure control.

He wasn't making it easy.

Every time Garmrond tried to adjust his grip, Collin would create just enough space to disrupt the transition.

He wasn't a complete novice on the ground, his natural athleticism, balance, and instincts kept him alive.

But survival wasn't winning.

And Garmrond knew it.

Slowly, the Polish fighter shifted his weight, flattening Collin out, inching toward a more dominant position.

Collin's corner erupted with yells.

"Move your hips! Don't let him settle!"

"Turn into him! Frame! Frame!"

The grappling coaches were losing their minds, but it didn't matter, Collin was fighting off instincts, not technique. And instincts alone weren't going to save him for long.

Garmrond attempted to shift to full mount, but Collin buckled his hips, twisting his torso just in time to stop it.

He used his left arm to frame against Garmrond's neck, pushing, resisting.

But resistance wasn't control.

Garmrond kept working.

Kept grinding.

Kept chipping away at Collin's defenses, waiting for the mistake that would come sooner or later.

In the corner, Tommy Hughes was getting restless.

He rubbed his bald head, exhaling through his nose before snapping his head toward Damon.

His hand shot out, gripping Damon's arm.

"Oi, Cross, tell 'im what to do! He's drownin' out there!"

Damon, who had been watching silently, sighed through his nose.

He knew exactly what was happening.

Collin was stalling, not escaping.

If he didn't act soon, Garmrond would either take his back, mount him fully, or wear him down until there was no fight left.

Damon leaned forward, voice sharp.

"He's letting him dictate everything. Tell him to stop reacting and start disrupting, use the damn cage, create a wall, don't just frame, POST and move."

Tommy waved at the grappling coach to relay the message.

But the question was…

Would Collin be able to execute it in time?

The coaches shouted instructions from the corner, their voices frantic.

"POST AND MOVE, COLLIN! USE THE CAGE!"

"STOP REACTING, DISRUPT HIM!"

Collin gritted his teeth, his breath heavy as he processed the instructions. His arms burned from holding off Garmrond's constant weight, but he still had a chance, if he moved now.

He shifted his back closer to the cage, using his feet to inch himself toward it. Garmrond felt the movement and tried to flatten him out again, but Collin finally posted his left arm against the mat, pushing his weight upward.

The difference was immediate.

For the first time, Garmrond's control slipped.

Collin framed against Garmrond's chest, pushing his body up just enough to shift his hips. With his back against the fence, he bent his knee and planted his foot against the cage, creating an angle.

Garmrond felt the shift and adjusted, but Collin used the brief moment of freedom to explode off the cage, twisting to his side.

The crowd roared as Collin suddenly had space.

Irish Commentator: "There it is! That's what he needed, he's getting up!"

Polish Commentator: "Not yet! Garmrond is still locked onto him, he's not letting go easy!"

Collin got to one knee, trying to push all the way up, but Garmrond clamped onto his waist.

The Polish fighter adjusted quickly, hooking Collin's leg and dragging him back down.

Collin barked out in frustration.

The struggle was real.

Every inch Collin gained, Garmrond took half of it back.

The Irishman managed to get one foot under him again, wall-walking up the cage. This time, he kept his elbows in, not letting Garmrond settle.

He turned his body, trying to break free, but then came the punches.

BAM. BAM. BAM.

Garmrond unloaded short, brutal shots to Collin's ribs, his knuckles digging into the flesh like a hammer.

Collin winced, absorbing the damage.

But he kept moving.

He finally got his back fully to the cage, one knee still planted. His arms wrapped around Garmrond's wrists, trying to peel the grip off.

Garmrond responded by throwing another hard knee to the thigh.

Irish Commentator: "Jesus, he's just punishing him now."

Polish Commentator: "That's what top-level grappling looks like, constant pressure, constant attacks."

Collin finally broke one of the grips and used his other hand to push against Garmrond's chin.

That slight adjustment was enough.

He twisted, shoving Garmrond's head away, finally breaking free!

The moment his back was clear, Collin took two quick steps away from the cage.

The Irish fans erupted.

Collin exhaled sharply, shaking his arms loose. His ribs were throbbing, and his leg felt sore from the knees. But he was back on his feet.

Across from him, Garmrond stayed calm.

He didn't chase.

Didn't rush.

He had already done damage.

Collin wiped his nose, rolling his shoulders. He had gotten up, but it had cost him.

Tommy Hughes cupped his hands over his mouth, yelling from the corner.

"KEEP YOUR DISTANCE! DON'T LET 'IM SHOOT AGAIN!"

Collin nodded.

Now, it was time to see if he could turn this fight around.

Collin shook out his arms, exhaled sharply, and reset his stance. He had finally escaped, but the damage had been done, his ribs ached, his legs felt heavy, and the fight was slipping further from his grasp.

Across from him, Mateusz Garmrond didn't rush.

He didn't need to.

He had already made Collin second-guess himself.

Garmrond stepped forward, his footwork precise, his eyes locked on Collin's every movement.

Then, he threw a right straight.

Collin instinctively moved his head to the left, avoiding the shot, but that was exactly what Garmrond wanted.

The moment Collin dodged, Garmrond's left hand twitched forward, feinting another punch.

Collin reacted instantly, trying to lean away, expecting the follow-up strike—

But it never came.

Instead, Garmrond suddenly dropped his level.

It was perfectly disguised.

It looked like a takedown.

It felt like a takedown.

And in Collin's mind, after everything he had just been through, it was a takedown.

He sprawled instinctively, lowering his hips, reaching to underhook—

And that's when it happened.

Garmrond exploded up.

His right hand, a thunderous uppercut—

Connected clean.

CRACK.
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Collin's head snapped back violently. His knees buckled, his body collapsed like a folding chair.

The entire arena gasped.

Irish Commentator: "OH SHITE! HE'S OUT, HE'S OUT!"

Polish Commentator: "ABSOLUTE PERFECTION FROM GARMROND!"

Collin hit the canvas, eyes glazed, arms limp.

But Garmrond wasn't done.

He rushed forward, dropping his weight, and began to rain down hammerfists.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Collin's head bounced against the mat, his body barely reacting.

The referee dove in, waving his arms frantically.

"STOP! STOP!"

Garmrond immediately backed off, standing tall, his chest heaving from adrenaline.

Collin?

Motionless.

The fight was over.

Garmrond walked away calmly, his face expressionless. He had set the trap.

And Collin had walked straight into it.