The Business of Fighting
By Dan Boudreau
I’ve been working too much lately and thinking I should get more of a life. Go forth, I urged myself, do things that do not smack of work.
When my buddy offered me a free ticket to an evening of fighting, I immediately accepted. Ah yes, a night of fights – a complete detour from my routine. “Count me in,” I said. And off we went to the fights.
I’ve never liked fighting. The Creator wisely equipped me with long legs and a skeleton strikingly unencumbered by excess muscle. When it came to fight or flight, it has always made more sense to run away from flailing feet and fists. The very thought of folks beating on each other has always seemed a bit barbaric. The idea of pitting oneself against another human in a tiny area encircled with ropes, well, it pretty much goes against every instinct I’ve cultivated for the past half century.
Situated in our ringside seats, staring up through the ropes, I couldn’t shake the notion that someone was about to get hurt.
Nonetheless, I was there for a change of pace. I did my best to relax, look cool, and not analyze the business model or estimate the amount garnered in ticket sales for the night… In fact, I pretty much held it together during the first couple of fights. I had worked up a bit of a sweat and experienced a bit of tension in my upper back and neck.
As the third fight got underway, I forgot about my surroundings and was completely engrossed in the fight. As the fighters tossed each other around the ring, I found myself heaving and ducking a bit. That roundhouse kick to the jaw hurt. I felt the full impact of that one!
I wouldn’t say I was caught up in the fervor, but after the fifth fight I noticed what appeared to be a tattoo of a smiling Devil on my right arm. Gad, I thought, this environment is leaving its mark on me already. Closer examination revealed it was the imprint of my own teeth, where I’d apparently chewed on my own arm in the heat of a grapple.
At one point during the sixth fight I noticed I was having trouble breathing and realized I had myself in a full chokehold. A couple of my buddies helped me get unraveled in time to regain my composure for the next round.
By the time the fights ended, I was a changed man. Well, sort of a man. I was certainly relieved to learn that I’m too old to become a fighter. Apparently I’m too far over the hill to sit in the audience without injuring myself. I was ready for a nap.
Leaving the facility, I realized one might only have to glance in the wrong direction or twitch an eyebrow to fetch a brawl. Holy testosterone, batman! I didn’t twitch or blink until I was safely at home.
Perhaps the biggest disappointment of the night was the crushing realization that I’m not in good enough shape to make it as an armchair athlete.
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