Brandon Ecoffey
Getting clobbered by a six-year-old
By Brandon Ecoffey After graduating from Dartmouth College in 2006, I returned home to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in southwest South Dakota. At the time I was an unemployed dreamer who, like many post-college young adults, was extremely out of shape. Four straight years of beer pong, all night study sessions, cafeteria food, and a once a week sloppy game of basketball had left my body in a sad state of affairs. So I told myself I would find a way to get more physically fit. In 2006, the sport of Mixed Martial Arts had begun to gain a significant following across the U.S. and with that came the swarm of former athletes and tough guys to gyms across the country, all equipped with the hope of being the next Chuck Liddell or BJ Penn. Pine Ridge, like many other small towns in the Midwest, was witnessing this phenomenon firsthand. The difference between most other towns and Pine Ridge, though, is that people in Pine Ridge really are tough. Generations upon generations of experiencing poverty, oppression, alcohol abuse, survival and perseverance will do that to a community. This reality I conveniently chose to ignore when I allowed my best friend to convince me to train with him at Dave Michaud Sr.’s MMA/High School wrestling gym in Pine Ridge. The gym, where Michaud donates countless pay-free hours of his time, was one of the few sober havens on my reservation where anyone could come and work towards a healthy lifestyle while receiving world class training and coaching. The first day I walked in, I realized that my size (6’3” 240) and athleticism were not really going to do me any good in this world. The room was filled with state champion wrestlers: all of the Jacobs brothers, David “Bull Dawg” Michaud, Tyler Eagle Bull, Arnie Rowland, Sam Bravo; these guys were no joke and were all highly skilled in their craft. When I looked to the other side of the room, it got worse. I saw the boxers: Brandon Kills Small, Harry John Steele, and Rod Janis; all of whom could be included in the debate as to who possessed the best boxing hands on the reservation. I couldn’t help feeling like I was recruited to be the chum for the shark tank at sea world. Regardless, Dave Sr. equipped me with hand wraps that Rod Janis showed me how use, a mouthpiece that “Bull Dawg” Michaud helped me mold, and headgear for sparring that Harry John Steele quickly proved was only for show by dropping me on my butt mere seconds in to my first live session. After my first day of sparring, I had been knocked down by Steele, Michaud, and Eagle Bull, submitted by the Jacobs boys and Kills Small (while he laughed at me), and was left questioning if this lifelong “pumpkin pusher” should have even be there with these monsters. As I lay on the mat exhausted I thought I could hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet running towards me. During that time of my life, I probably thought I was hallucinating. Unfortunately, I wasn’t and before I could open my eyes I felt a tiny body assume full mount on top of me. The beating was not over. “Whap! Whap! Whap!” was all I heard over the giggles of a child who was totally lost in the joy of proving the efficacy of a well-delivered ground and pound. It was 6-year-old Trace Davis. “Tap out, Big Brand, tap out,” he said in between bouts of laughter and barrages of punches. The little guy managed to bloody my nose and bruise my forehead with his pink Women’s Ultimate Fighting Championship gloves that he wore because his tiny fists could not fill up the regular sized ones. After his cousin Teddy Pedregon pulled him off of me, he walked off triumphantly and told me, “I had you big guy.” I could not help but chuckle. When I got back to my locker, Trace was there waiting with a smile and an outstretched hand showing the he approved of my effort that day. He always had a way of making anyone feel better. Unlike me, Trace stuck with the gym and over the last 6 or so years became a highly skilled grappler, while being mentored and coached by David “Bull Dawg” Michaud. He qualified for the State tournament as a fifth grader and was on the path to becoming a state champion wrestler one day. During this time, he also became an ardent fan of MMA and would display his knowledge of the sport by joking with his father, Phil Davis, when the fighter Phil Davis (a black guy and national champion wrestler) would be featured on UFC cards. On Sunday, March 10, Trace was killed in an ATV accident. The tragedy of his death reached far and wide, as thousands attended his wake and funeral. It was a moment and a time where many of us felt like a part of what is good within us had been stolen. Trace signified what was good, not only our community, but in humanity in general. Within this child existed all that we aspire to be as human beings on this earth. He knew ceremonial songs as well as the most veteran singers, he was the first to reach out and show compassion for those in need, he made sure that his younger brother, Danny, was up and ready for school in the morning, and he carried with him a happiness each and every day that most of us are lucky to feel once in a great while. Before Trace left us, his coach and mentor Bull Dawg Michaud, a journalist and professional MMA fighter with a record of 4-0, had promised the young man that he could accompany him during his walk to the cage at his next fight in Rapid City on June 1. One could only imagine the excitement Trace felt when he was told that he could take part in his favorite sport by walking his favorite fighter to the cage. Next week, Michaud will be making his return to the cage after a long layoff due to injury. Bull Dawg told me recently that Trace’s younger brother Danny (6) would now be accompanying him on his walk to the cage (rumor has it in a Spiderman suit). I could not help but think that two brothers walking Bull Dawg out is better than one. (Contact Brandon Ecoffey at staffwriter2@nsweekly.com) Copyright permission by Native Sun News
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