Fight Day: One Fan's Battle With Insanity

I'm not a violent person.

Yet, for one or two Saturdays a month I'm hit with an undeniable urge to watch grown men punch, kick, and grapple each other into submission.  I feel the urge as far out as a week prior to the fights, and by Saturday it rapidly builds to a crescendo as fight time nears.

If left to my own devices, it becomes imperative to get out of my apartment to escape the frustration of the wait.  Even then, I often find myself shadow boxing while lounging in the mall, shopping at the grocery store, or browsing in the library.  I can't shake the urge; I can only try to distract myself for minutes at a time.

A healthy fear of being late has me back at the apartment by 6 PM.  We've now entered the-longest-hour-of-my-entire-life.  Like a junkie who's gone too long without his fix, I'm a wreck.  Wide awake daydreams of the fights have encompassed my entire thought process.  I'm restless, pacing around my apartment in a desparate attempt to find something, anything to take the edge of.  Beer becomes my most intimate companion.

After my fourth cycle through the countdown show, I curse myself as I realize there's still ten minutes to go and I'll be subjected to another viewing.  I've memorized most of the lines at this point.  Those fighters who I've back with rooting or monetary interests have become beacons for truth and honor.  The others must be lying cowards, unashamed of their immoral ways.

I'm questioning my sanity as the final pay-per-view promo fades.  Is this what I've really become?  A blood-thirsty, beer-swilling fight addict?  What would my parents think?  What should they think?

A sense of clarity falls upon me when gladiator montage rolls on screen.  The anxieties of the past 24 hours, of my daily life float away, and for the next three hours I'm lost in some sort of chaotic nirvana of combat.  Life is good.