But here’s what I think about now: In 2009, Mark Kerr was 40 years old. His knees were shot. His back was a roadmap of surgeries. The painkillers that once helped him train had nearly killed him. And yet he still stepped into rings—small ones, in front of small crowds—because fighting was the only language he spoke fluently.
Mark Kerr didn’t owe us a highlight-reel exit. He owed himself another morning without a bottle of OxyContin. And by 2009, I hope—I really hope—he was winning that fight, even if he lost the others. mark kerr 2009
— J.