A night at the amateur fights

         Seeing it live is the best, much better than pay-per-view, although pay-per-view is great `cause it's the pros, the big time, the UFC, the Chuck Liddells, the Randy Coutures, the Josh Koscheks, Andrei Arlovskys, Matt Serras, Rich Franklins, Anderson Silvas, BJ Penns...but there's something about the amateur fights that really get me off--unpolished, raw-boned, gritty and frighteningly real, realer than real--when you're up so close to the action that you can see the guys with fear in their eyes and the guys with hate in their eyes and the guys all fired-up and just ready to jack somebody and the sweat and the blood and the spit and snot flying and the jailhouse tattoos and the sound of bone smacking against bone and some of those cats who make you think, Fuck, I could get in there and kick somebody's ass....  And so you leave that night walking to your car shadowboxing a little, throwing a few punches here and there, hoping no one's looking, thinking about submissions, contemplating spinning leg kicks.  The amateurs.  Damn.  Although with most amateur MMA venues I've come in contact with, they don't allow elbows, as opposed to the UFC, who, like the traditional Muay Thai fights, do....  Elbows.  You just gotta love the elbows.  You can use them one of two ways:  one is to use it like a forearm and it becomes a sledgehammer, beating your opponent's head to a pulp; the other way is to swing it fast and sharp and connect with the pointy bone and it becomes a razor and cuts your opponent's face to shreds. Instant knock-out.  And it all becomes surreal.  And bizarre.  And horrifically wonderful.
    So I'm driving down 36 to Broomfield tonight `cause tonight the fight's in Broomfield at the Events Center, which tells me that this night's fights is one of the upper echelon's of amateur/regional mixed-martial arts fighting, which means the food at the concession stand'll be pricey (I'll eat a calzone for $8.50, but they'll take credit cards) and a lot of pretty people will be going there (`cause the MMA is now kinda fashionable), as opposed to some of the Muay Thai fights put on by that Vietnamese gangster down in Denver where it's all rather dark and dirty and dingy and cut-throat--which does add a rather delicious element to the whole evening--and it means they'll have the big screens up above the ring where if you get bored with watching it live you can always lift your neck up a little and pretend you're at home watching it on the boob tube; but no matter where it's at, there'll still be enough in the crowd soused and throwing their beers near the end of the night at the poor sons-of-bitches who are so exhausted from slugging it out that they're clinging to each other holding on for dear life as the drunks start booing and screaming and hollering at the two fucking pussies in the ring to stop fucking each other and goddamn fight--blood is the name of the game.  
    So I finally get to the parking lot and it's now cold as hell out and of course I didn't bring a jacket so I'm standing beside my car now freezing and digging into my pocket for five bucks while the parking attendant lady is standing in front of me with her hand out smiling and saying "five bucks" and I'm just thankful I find five bucks and hand it to her so I don't have to back back out and go park across the way about a half-mile out in the field and then have to trudge all that way back in a short-sleeved shirt across the frozen mud; and as I'm walking away I can already hear this homer who just pulled up in the absolutely biggest pick-up truck I've ever seen in my life start bitching and whining at the poor attendant lady about how this is just breaking him up, this five bucks...whatever.  I walk fast, my heart now beginning to race a bit, through the parking lot to the center.  The fights are starting.  
    I get to my seat next to some woman who smiles nicely at me and so I smile back, kind of relieved that she's not one of those drunks who by the end of the night (or by the middle) will be throwing her beer and cursing wildly.  Of course, looks can be deceiving.  But at least she's drinking a coke, leaning over every so often and whispering to the girlfriend on the other side of her.  Good.  For now.
    And then a few minutes later the lights dim and the music starts--it's that poplular hybrid metal/rap stuff that sounds like shit but seems to be the flavor of the day.  Anyway.  The emcee comes out and he's not Bruce Boffer but still not bad and he gets the crowd going and now here comes the smoke and whirling neon and the fighters come out one at a time each to their own choice of popular hybrid metal/rap crap and then they're in the ring, dancing and bobbing and weaving trying to psyche the other one out.  And then the bell rings and they begin.
    The good thing--hell, the great thing--about MMA fights is that they usually don't last very long.  The ones that do are usually barn-burners, except every once in a while when you have two excellent, technically proficient guys who really know their stuff and also have enough ring-savvy to know that they're opponent knows their stuff too, so then it becoms a chess match--all of which I really enjoy, but what many fans seem to abhor becausee it's boring ie., not a lot of blood and no spectacular knock-outs.  These are usually few and far between at the amateur level, which means that the amateur fight card can have twelve or thirteen fights on it.  Sweet.  A lot of action.
    So the first four or five or six or seven or eight fights go by in a blur, with arm bars and rear naked chokes and single-punch overhand right knock-outs; and all these cats are just your regular guys, helping you buy into the dream--guys with names like Omar and Butch and Gabe and Ricky, just regular guys you'd see everyday on the street--and at the end of it all one of them has their hand raised in victory and the other one, if he's lucky enough to be able to stand, walks slowly out of the ring, definitely having nothing to be ashamed of, but still with their heads down, disappointed, thinking about the next one, always the next one, thinking about what they'd do different, if they could do it again.  
    I think it's fight number eight or nine that really jumps out at me--this kind of long lean pretty-boy type from Hawaii (looks like he should be surfing or the kind of guy who's holding hands with some chick on the beach late at night with tears in his eyes telling her about his feelings when he probably should just be fucking her) against this guy who looks like he just walked out of county lock-up from Texas--this cat's got a shaved head and a beard and scabs all over his scalp like he'd been in the bathroom just an hour before with a rusty razor in his hand and said fuck-it why the hell not and looks like he'd just as soon crush your nuts as acknowledge you.  The Bruce Boffer guy gets out there and says in the mike during introductions that Texas is out of some Brazilian jiu-jitsu school in Houston and Hawaii trains out of a kick-boxing academy in Maui, and now I know definitely that Houston's gonna win--he's gonna go out there as soon as the bell rings and take pretty boy down hard with a single-leg takedown, establish side control, then go for the mount and just ground and pound this mother into submission.  
And I know this even more when, after intoductions and they step to the center to listen to the referee's final instructions, Texas is blowing smoke and staring hard right into Hawaii's soul and Hawaii can't even make eye-contact back.  The fight's over.
    Then the fight starts.  Texas goes for a takedown and Hawaii, surprisingly, sprawls and stays up.  And I start to notice, as they're circling and punching, that Hawaii's pretty quick, pretty quick and lithe and relaxed in the ring, light on his feet, moving comfortable and starting to tag Texas with some jabs, peppering his face little by little, moving in, now moving out, eluding Texas' takedowns.  And soon Texas starts to bleed a little bit from his nose.  And soon Hawaii is catching Texas with front low kicks, striking just above Texas' knee on his front leg.  Then Texas catches Hawaii with a few big overhand rights, backing him right up, but goes back to catching Hawaii's front low kicks on his lead leg.  The round's over.  
    Throughout the second round, Hawaii keeps kicking Texas right above the knee with those front leg kicks, and now he's warmed up and hitting so hard that when his shin catches Texas' knee, it smacks so hard the sound echoes throughout the arena.  And now Texas is beginning to wobble, to move a little funny, gingerly, almost falling over, at times, as Hawaii zeroes in and keeps kicking, hitting that tender spot above Texas' knee.  And the crowd keeps cheering with every thud of the shin.  And when the bell rings to end the round, Texas needs helped back to his corner, stumbling, almost falling over.  
During the break, Texas is confused and hurting, you can see it in his eyes; his trainer's screaming something at him but you can tell he's no longer listening, too busy thinking about how he's ever going to get through this final round.  In Hawaii's corner, he still looks the same, breathing a little heavy but relaxed and sucking in the air, closing his eyes a few times.  Probably thinking about that girl he left on the beach.  Maybe he did bang her.
    Then the bell rings for the final round and the crowd's now screaming, cheering, loving this fight.  And Texas can barely hobble out to fight, his leg already swelling above the knee and his face twisting into a wince every time he puts pressure on his foot.  And Hawaii goes right back to kicking, going right in for the kill.  And I'm sitting there wondering why Texas just doesn't block the kick--this is a stock Muay Thai kick, this front kick to the knee, and to block it, all one has to do is lift their leg a little and turn their knee slightly out, making the kicker strike the thick part of the shin right below the knee, which hurts like hell for the one doing the kicking.  Or he could at least change his stance, go to southpaw, anything to save his leg.  But he doesn't.  Of course, it's easy for me to say all this--up in my cushy seat, stuffing a calzone down my throat, talking to the guy on the other side of me who's asking the same damn thing, taking it all in as the very  polite woman leans over every once in a while and says something to her girlfriend.  
Soon Texas falls, but Hawaii doesn't even rush in--he wants no part of the jiu-jitsu game--smart fighter, he knows where his strengths are--only waits for Texas to struggle to his feet.  Then he puts him down again.
    Thirty seconds later, Texas stays down.  Hawaii calmly raises his hands and walks back to his corner, where he's congratulated by his guys.  What do I know.
    Then it's intermission.  The emcee gets back out and tells us all a proud sponsor of this event is Bob's Barbecue or something like that, and before I can even blink there's all these girls up there who look like they all just stepped out of Club Med in pasties and g-strings gliding up the cracks of their tanned asses with this big sweaty guy in a white shirt--probably Bob, I'm guessing--and they're taking out these brown bags of barbecue sandwiches Bob's handing them and they start throwing them into the crowd and the crowd's going crazy holding up their hands wanting a bag of barbecue or maybe just turned on by the scantily clad chicks and then I hear the guy sitting next to me say, "Jesus fuckin' Christ it's my dream come true--naked women and barbecue."
    Most of the chicks throwing the barbecue throw, well, like girls--if they can get the bags to the front couple of rows they're doing well; although a couple of them can really wing it, sometimes getting the bags to the second section.  And Bob himself is starting to throw them too--but this hoss is heaving those suckers like his life depended on it, hauling off and lifting his leg like Nolan Ryan and firing them all the way up into the top sections, much to the delight of the people there, at least the ones who are wanting barbecue.  And all the while, the crappy hybrid metal/rap is playing in the background.  And all I wanna do now is take a quick piss.
    I piss and move back to my seat and the fights start again.  And I'm not even sure how many more fights I sit through till I'm absolutely fried and know it's time to go home.  I don't even make it to the main event, but I'm spent, happy, exhausted.  I say goodbye to the polite lady on the one side of me and goodbye to the guy who now looks like he might be playing with his pecker while he's wondering out loud when the chicks with the barbecue are coming back out.  And the people sitting in the section directly above us are starting to throw their beer and scream even louder for someone to get their ass kicked.
    And then I find myself out into the night, walking to my car, glad I had the five bucks for parking, shivering a little, thinking about going down to Denver and maybe fighting in one of that Vietnamese gangster's Muay Thai fights.  And thinking maybe I ought to do that soon.  I had a blast.