I'm BJ. I work the railroad, I've got a wife and four kids, and I'm three years sober.
Twenty years ago I got jumped outside a house party. Baseball bats. My ankle was smashed against a curb until it was hanging off my leg. Emergency surgery, a plate and twelve screws, and bone-on-bone arthritis that clocks in with me every morning since.
I was four months from my first MMA fight. That night killed the dream of fighting professionally. But hear this: they scattered, and I never went down.
A year later I had the metal pulled out so I could chase the dream again. Mid-training, I found out I had no pulse in my left arm. Thoracic outlet syndrome. Another surgery, this time at Vanderbilt — a rib removed, muscles cut out of my neck, nerves cleaned off.
I'm telling you this because you think your body is your excuse. Mine handed me better excuses than yours — and it still trains, still works the railroad, still posts its four hits on the board. And the transformation you'll see me talk about? No TRT, no peptides. I didn't touch either until a year and a half after the work was already done.
I never got to fight professionally. So now I fight for my people. I built Kings Kollective because the room I needed didn't exist. Now it does.