On Saturday night, I barely made it in time to sink into a massive couch with an awesome BBQ dinner and a cute boy to watch the fights. (Orange Country traffuck – I shake my fist at you.) A few years ago I was that person bitching about crazy bloodsport and testosterone bullshit and then without warning, I went nuts for the stuff. These two Brazilians matching up for the title promised to be fucking insane. They define the term martial artist and I was really excited to see them together*, not really pushing for either one to win so much as staring wide-eyed and wishing I had their conditioning. They are unlike many other fighters, namely American fighters, in their skill set and their dedication to the art. (Machida was a black belt at thirteen, after training since he was three. He also drinks his urine every morning, which has to say something, though I have no idea what.)
*Although not a whole lot happened in five rounds but I am PUMPED for the rematch!
I’ve fancied a kick boxing lesson or a muay thai spar in my head but never gotten around to trying either. Watching the fights on Saturday I really understood how far off limits something even sort of kind of resembling this sport if you squint and cock your head to the left side is for me.
If someone so much as tried a foot stomp on me, I’d be out. If they looked at me with the gleaming intention of hyperextending any one of my precious limbs, I’d call it quits and check the fuck out immediately. If my skin was ever smashed so hard against my orbital bone that it split open from sheer blunt force, I’d crumble and cry and wonder who in the fuck ever talked me into this and why my real friends hadn’t yet stepped in to save my life, which is clearly at stake, as I’m bleeding from the face, you fuckers, HELP ME. I want badly to say I’m tough and I’d train with the determination I usually reserve for beating my six-year-old at Jenga but I would absolutely, positively puss out of any sort of organized combat, where I’d have the time to freak out before hand and watch my own demise in slow motion over and over before the bell rang. I would be, hands down, the scardest little pansy shit that ever set foot in an octogon and I had no idea until this weekend.
So that’s fun.
-CJ
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