Decadence and Brooding at King of the Cage
Mr. McDojo
Joe Hall Mar 11, 2005
The arena turned black, and a jumbo screen high above the fighters’
entrance lit up with an informational video on KOTC. It ran too
long, according to the people near me. They started booing and
shouting obscenities and, forgetting all journalistic standards, I
slung a few curses at the screen myself. Whoops.
As the video faded away I pulled a crinkled green notebook out of my computer bag. Across the arena, far to my left, over the heads of people sitting on the floor, around the shoulders of kneeling cornermen and through the dark fencing, I could see the first two fighters moving around in the cage. I opened the notebook in a big dramatic sweeping movement, just in case anyone nearby was watching and wondering if someone was present to record history. There was only one problem … I couldn’t see the pages.
The lights were out. And why not, Josh? I was sitting in the
stands, like some idiot in a movie theater. Far away the cage was
illuminated magnificently. The people around it looked like human
light bulbs. I identified a couple MMA photojournalists, one of
which was so close he had his fingers intertwined in the fence. I
knew then that I hadn’t been bumped to the periphery because of
mainstream attention. Nope. If multiple MMA photographers were
cage-side, then the mainstream boys hadn’t bothered showing.
Upon that realization it became clear that as a lowly print journalist, I was sitting right where KOTC wanted me. For three fights I contemplated that while I sat in the dark. Then I closed my notebook and headed toward the light. Which is where I am now, Josh, in a row at the top of the arena, sitting directly under a “Mr. Hero: Steaks, Burgers & Salads” sign that’s emitting a fuzzy white glow just bright enough to write on this napkin. (As it turns out, my notebook only had two sheets of paper in it.)
After I was done, I thought it was a fine time to get a few quotes on why people came to the fight tonight. Just outside the bathroom, I saw a group of three or four men who looked like low-rent steakhouse owners that dabbled in martial arts on the side just to tell everyone about it. They were telling dirty jokes when I approached them.
“So who you fellas here to see tonight?” I asked, figuring they would mention the monumental Westbrook fight or possibly Butterbean, or maybe they’d be genuine fans of the sport.
A big sleazy character with a gaudy gold watch pinching the skin around his wrist stepped forward and essentially claimed he was a scout. “My cousin won a tournament in Akron a couple weeks ago, and he’ll be fighting the winner of tonight’s tournament in the regionals next month.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep.” He paused and took in a big breath. “Train a little myself. I was supposed to fight tonight, but I injured this here knuckle breakin’ ice during a demonstration at an elementary school last week.” He held up a meaty fist and frowned at it.
“What’s your style?” I asked, unknowingly immersing myself in their bullshit subculture.
“UFC,” he said, and a friend beside him muttered, “Uh-huh,” then took a long drag on his cigarette. I realized then, Josh, that this man with the gaudy gold watch was the King Bullshitter—the one you run into at the gym, in the office, at the gas station, and, most often, in the stands of a fighting event. He was surrounded by cronies who would soon be dumping their own bullshit into the pile growing rapidly at my feet.
All I had wanted was a quick survey, and there I was, stuck right in the middle of a bullshit fest. How far would they push it? How long would I have to listen? Would I get a quote on the Westbrook fight?
In a desperate move, I tried to curtail their lies with my own. “Yeah,” I said, “my buddy was supposed to fight tonight, too.”
“That right,” the King said. “He get hurt too?”
“You could say that. He combusted.”
“Combusted?” several of the cronies said at once.
“Spontaneously,” I responded as if such things happen from time to time. “Just burst into flames. They call it SHC—spontaneous human combustion.”
“God!” one of them said. “How’d it happen?”
“We think his chi exploded. Probably ignited somewhere around his pelvis. Last day of his training camp, and he had nailed the first 52 moves of a 55-move kata. He started huffing and puffing on 53 … and just caught fire, fellas. Damnedest thing I’d ever seen. One minute he was flowing something beautiful—the horse, the crane, the mantis—and the next he’s a pile of ashes and there’s a charred hole in the mat.”
Most of them were glaring at me as if they should uproot the nearest toilet and bludgeon me with it, but I was pleased that a disturbed look was painted on the face of one of the cronies.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiitttttt,” an eavesdropper behind me said. “You traditional guys are crazier that shithouse rats.” Embarrassed, I quietly swore it was true and slipped out of the bathroom.
As the video faded away I pulled a crinkled green notebook out of my computer bag. Across the arena, far to my left, over the heads of people sitting on the floor, around the shoulders of kneeling cornermen and through the dark fencing, I could see the first two fighters moving around in the cage. I opened the notebook in a big dramatic sweeping movement, just in case anyone nearby was watching and wondering if someone was present to record history. There was only one problem … I couldn’t see the pages.
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Upon that realization it became clear that as a lowly print journalist, I was sitting right where KOTC wanted me. For three fights I contemplated that while I sat in the dark. Then I closed my notebook and headed toward the light. Which is where I am now, Josh, in a row at the top of the arena, sitting directly under a “Mr. Hero: Steaks, Burgers & Salads” sign that’s emitting a fuzzy white glow just bright enough to write on this napkin. (As it turns out, my notebook only had two sheets of paper in it.)
I missed a couple bouts on my way up here because I stopped by the
bathroom, the entrance to which was jammed by smokers and
bullshitters. I heard one of them say, “Look out, guys, this one
here’s gonna piss his pants,” as I used my computer bag as a
battering ram to get to the urinal.
After I was done, I thought it was a fine time to get a few quotes on why people came to the fight tonight. Just outside the bathroom, I saw a group of three or four men who looked like low-rent steakhouse owners that dabbled in martial arts on the side just to tell everyone about it. They were telling dirty jokes when I approached them.
“So who you fellas here to see tonight?” I asked, figuring they would mention the monumental Westbrook fight or possibly Butterbean, or maybe they’d be genuine fans of the sport.
A big sleazy character with a gaudy gold watch pinching the skin around his wrist stepped forward and essentially claimed he was a scout. “My cousin won a tournament in Akron a couple weeks ago, and he’ll be fighting the winner of tonight’s tournament in the regionals next month.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep.” He paused and took in a big breath. “Train a little myself. I was supposed to fight tonight, but I injured this here knuckle breakin’ ice during a demonstration at an elementary school last week.” He held up a meaty fist and frowned at it.
“What’s your style?” I asked, unknowingly immersing myself in their bullshit subculture.
“UFC,” he said, and a friend beside him muttered, “Uh-huh,” then took a long drag on his cigarette. I realized then, Josh, that this man with the gaudy gold watch was the King Bullshitter—the one you run into at the gym, in the office, at the gas station, and, most often, in the stands of a fighting event. He was surrounded by cronies who would soon be dumping their own bullshit into the pile growing rapidly at my feet.
All I had wanted was a quick survey, and there I was, stuck right in the middle of a bullshit fest. How far would they push it? How long would I have to listen? Would I get a quote on the Westbrook fight?
In a desperate move, I tried to curtail their lies with my own. “Yeah,” I said, “my buddy was supposed to fight tonight, too.”
“That right,” the King said. “He get hurt too?”
“You could say that. He combusted.”
“Combusted?” several of the cronies said at once.
“Spontaneously,” I responded as if such things happen from time to time. “Just burst into flames. They call it SHC—spontaneous human combustion.”
“God!” one of them said. “How’d it happen?”
“We think his chi exploded. Probably ignited somewhere around his pelvis. Last day of his training camp, and he had nailed the first 52 moves of a 55-move kata. He started huffing and puffing on 53 … and just caught fire, fellas. Damnedest thing I’d ever seen. One minute he was flowing something beautiful—the horse, the crane, the mantis—and the next he’s a pile of ashes and there’s a charred hole in the mat.”
Most of them were glaring at me as if they should uproot the nearest toilet and bludgeon me with it, but I was pleased that a disturbed look was painted on the face of one of the cronies.
“Shiiiiiiiiiiitttttt,” an eavesdropper behind me said. “You traditional guys are crazier that shithouse rats.” Embarrassed, I quietly swore it was true and slipped out of the bathroom.
