My Foray into an (Il)Legal? Underground Fighting Ring

Surprising as this may be, I've never actually been in a dead-to-rights fight, even being from North Jersey and all. Sure, I pick up plenty of street words and sound like I may be from the suburbs around the block, but that's just Jersey big talk. But fights? I'm not sure alot of people have gotten into a serious one- maybe the classic being shoved into lockers or lashing out blindly in the general direction of the punk who just called you tubby (let's be honest, he's not fooling anyone about his size either). Misguided imaginary youthful anger aside, let me sprawl out a roll of word-canvas... paper, they may call it, these days... and paint a night of fun,eternity, and pain, with words. Writing! That's what it's called. So, enjoy.

My Foray into an (Il)Legal? Underground Fighting Ring

Veering towards the treacherous, rocky, and frankly quite boring highway that is semantics, let me be the first to admit the need to clear up any misconceptions about that racy title: everything here is exaggerated waaaaaaay out of proportion, just like those earrings make your nose look like an angry hippo- knurly and garguantuan!

'Your mom joke' here.

Getting Involved
Much like switching career choices from a garbageman to a trash collector, becoming involved in a fighting ring was a scarily passive experience. There was no special training involved, no diploma mill to attend, no faux fighting instructor who never actually set foot in a dojo but saw oodles of sweet 90's Bruce Lee action flicks. A good friend simply looked over at me, sized me up real quick and asked casually, "Hey, wanna fight someone?" Of course, being the incredibly tough and hardcore guy I am, I responded, "Uh... sure, I guess, I mean, when?" He got the hint. I wasn't someone to be trifled with. If I was in, I was in it for real. Pink slips or nothing. Boxing gloves with glass shards in them. Spectators armed with cattle prods and dart guns. Or whatever a real underground boxing ring looks like. Thing is, I was in it to win it- "Except I have a dope BBQ earlier that day, so it'll have to be late."

Turns out the (il)legal? underground fighting rings happen late, and I was out a fairly truthful excuse.

The Preparation
When you're gearing up for your first fight, you want to make sure you do things right. Rigorous preparation, carefully planned smack talk, and a randomly chosen gang sign shaved into your chest hair. Also, calling your big brother to beat the other guy into a pulp. Unfortunately, I don't have an electric shaver and didn't want to alarm any friends with my sudden LA Kings (Either that's a dangerous gang or a basketball team made up entirely of retired gang members) membership, and I skipped right to trying to get my brothers here. Again, in the most inopportune of circumstances, I live thousands of miles away from them, and to be frank here, if one of them suddenly called me asking to venture out to the wasteland-y cornfields of Ohio to beat some punk up to get 'em out of a fight- well, I'd turn them down unless some delicious and rich dessert was involved. Seriously, Ohio blows, 'much as I'd love to help a brotha out, literall, there'd have to be some kind of compensation, like a trip to Cheesecake Factory.

"Get me some carrot cake cheesecake and I'll gladly see to it that he goes sleepin' with the fishies."

Instead, I ended up tiring myself out endlessly before the fight- a draining physical fitness test then going nuts in a weight room the day before, and then an hour of ruthless cardio a few hours before the fight, with some brownie/peanut butter chip cupcakes to boot. Needless to say, I was readier for a beating than a seal with a flat skull heading towards a shore filled with men waving clubs. On the other hand, I did google "beginner boxing tips" and browse for nearly 10 minutes, so call me a full-blown amateur if you will.

The Night of the Fight
For the sake of some semblance of confidentiality, I'll omit describing the venue other than saying it was outdoors and near a cornfield at night, surrounded with some tailgatin', blaring speakers and beaming spotlights... that is to say, I could've been just about anywhere in the American Midwest.

Literally anywhere in this picture could've been the spot where we fought.

My opponent got colder feet than me and was stuck in terribly suspicious traffic, although in Ohio that could mean following a single tractor for hundreds of miles on a dirt road. Anyway, between rounds of others ruthlessly beating each other, I'd be announced as they searched for a challenger. I was excited. I wanted to fight. Also, I wanted to go to sleep, but the preworkout I took earlier was shaking my vascular system like an earthquake shakes a pool full of jello and fat people; also, there's a good chance a train could've passed through my pupils from all the caffeine in my system.

Anyway, they found an opponent- he was someone's cousin from out of town and claimed to be 170lbs, though he looked more like 200- you'd swear he was a woman from the way he lied about his weight, and said he'd never trained for this (someone later said he was training a little over 2 weeks... dirty out-of-towners.) However, the two of us scrambled looking for someone who could tell us literally anything- when were we fighting? How many other people are we sharing a mouthguard with? Can I wipe my own blood with a towel and frame the towel? That'd be a great table centerpiece.
We received a few answers, some more satisfying than others, and had our hands wrapped while we heard the crowd cheering with bloodlust at some other chumps knocking the snot out of each other.

The Fight
Our names, hometowns and walk-on songs were hastily jotted down earlier and a fellow ran the paper with all that info out to the tailgate DJ. We were called on, respectively taking our hoodies off and showing the crowds what kind of fight it was going to be. "Fun fun fun," I thought, failing to see the crazed glare of whom I'll go ahead and designate Captain Meth at this point. Called to the center, we listened to the ref tell us no more than two rules, one of which I believe was, "Don't get too much blood on the gloves, we need those clean for the next fights." The disjointed sound of a fighting bell went off as we entered our edges of the circular wall of what can only be described from my perspective as short shorts, snapbacks, and brotanks. The three judges, jotting down notes on lined notebooks, nodded expectantly.

"Are we really rating the fight, or taking notes, or what? This is much better than class."

Captain Meth lunged towards me and began pummeling me like a farmer presses a hardy grape. I was backing away slightly, attempting to keep my gloves up. A frenetic punch nailed my jaw, jolting my head to the side. Another one slammed into my nose, knocking one of my contact lenses into the grass below. "This isn't what I imagined it like," I thought to myself. "Things were supposed to be muuuuch slower, and he wasn't supposed to be hopped up on what I can only assume is pure Colombian snow." The novelty of being shirtless in front of an admiring crowd was quickly eclipsed by the pain of another flailing attack on my front, where I eventually found the wisdom to keep my gloves up. The round ended and I stumbled into my corner, slamming down into my resting throne (aka plastic lawn chair). Spitting out my mouthguard, I muttered to my loyal pit team, "Oh my god, I'm actually going to die. I lost a contact. Let's get some pain, baby!" Or maybe probably not that third one, who remembers for sure? They ignored me, sprayed my general mouth area with cold water, and watched me pant as feardrenaline pumped throughout my body and I tried to focus with my one good eye.

Footage from the scene, add a bloody nose and raring crowd and it's just like you were there!

Second round. I'll be honest, at this point, I don't remember much except I flexed my traps and made eye contact with Captain Meth at the beginning of the round, seeing from his pronounced heaving that flailing at me was apparently more exhausting than being flailed at. Still living up to his name this round, Captain Meth was running himself into the ground as the cheers of the crowd broke out whenever a half-solid punch landed and I began catching the rhythm of the fight, contributing weakly to a barrage of fists. It was sometime during this round I distinctly remember thinking through the haze of a mild concussion, "These are the longest seconds of my entire life, and I've watched old Arnold movies for fun."

Third round! I was ready. This was my time to shine. Captain Meth was exhausted, and I spent this round pushing him back into the crowd and flailing away, though whenever he turned his head, I'd throw my gloves up so the judges could see I wasn't hammering the back of his head. This was the 2nd rule we were told. I don't even remember why I cared so much about this rule- he had no qualms about punching me when I stumbled backwards earlier; perhaps the fact that both of us were exhausted beyond words contributed. Still, I felt a tinge of superiority- I may have been deflated, trucked, and cracked during these rounds, but at least I fought fair, though I might've gotten some blood (my own, of course) on the glove from wiping my nose... well, at least I kept half the rules. Anyway, eyeing Captain Meth with my one contact I had left, I feinted and landed a solid blow on his jaw. That's all I wanted, and I got a few more good ones in as the seconds crawled by. As the end of the round was counted down, Captain Meth and I stepped closer menacingly to the middle of the circle and the crowd got quiet, then we both backed away, seeing that one more punch either way probably would've just left us both on the ground. Collapsing into my corner, I was congratulated for surviving my first boxing match, had more water sprayed generally towards my face, and some blood wiped from my nose. The pair of us were called in for the decision of the ramshackle judges, and Captain Meth was declared the unanimous winner.

'Captain Meth' according to google. I'd say this is a stunningly accurate picture of my opponent.

I was tired. Also, my head hurt. Most of my face did, actually, along with most of my body. But I survived my first real fight- and I was only a contact and a bit of pride out. I slothfully trundled inside to congratulate Captain Meth on a good fight and try to figure out why I could hear a train coming towards me out of my left ear and not my right.