On the heels of two recent fight weeks that demanded round-the-clock attention, I originally viewed the job of Saturday’s UFC 216 card in Las Vegas to be something far less demanding.
That all changed Monday morning around 5 a.m. when I was awoken in my bed from the ping of a text message sent by my ex-wife: “I’m OK. Locked in my room.”
Below the text was a news alert: “Worst shooting massacre in U.S. history in Las Vegas … .”
I had our two boys while she attended the Route 91 Festival. She had gone Friday and Saturday and was supposed to be there Sunday night when a shooter sprayed bullets from the 32nd floor of the hotel at Mandalay Bay to the grounds where I sat six...