Chicks Going At It

Last weekend we ventured into the ‘burbs for Fight Night at The Fox. We were Ron’s guests, and he had booked out several tables in the VIP section for a mishmash of new and old friends that night. We fell into the new category. While we weren’t entirely sure what to make of the plans for the night, we were excited to see our friend Ron again, after having enjoyed a party at his lush home in Redwood City last month. He had made living in the suburbs seem not such a dismal prospect. Trust an unattached single bachelor to make us feel ok about the settled lifestyle.

The Fox Theatre  is one of those old fashioned bioscopes that are going out of business these days, getting torn down, turned into gyms and Walgreens stores. It is a decadent and gracious grand dame. The icing roof on the sinside looked edible as it folded up and down elegantly. 

On the stage they had erected a large red fighting ring, around which tightly wound prancing men danced. They were mock fighting, dodging and swinging at pretend adversaries. We took our seats and I ordered a coke (more to come on this later), and the games began. Slowly the room filled as the men took one another on one after the other. Each game was punctuated with lively music that made me want to dance. They were brave and flabby. Some wiry and neat. But mostly it was out of shape amateurs who’s been coaxed into their first onstage fight. After an hour or so of this, the room became charged with energy, welcoming the professionals. These guys were padded by entourages of bucket-swinging large men, as they made their way through the auditorium to the stage. For them, coming in from the wings was just not good enough. Mostly, their faces were blank and composed, concentrating on some mantra or other going on inside their heads. It looked like they’d prepraed themselves for the guillotine. Maybe they had. I can’t imagine what shapes their brains must be in to 1. sign up for this antic, and 2. after all the swings they’ve taken to their heads. The club had three midriff-bearing ladies – ok, who am I kidding – they were halfnaked. They were young and untroubled.These helpful girls would climb through the ropes with large cutouts featuring the round number, to much cheering and applause. This was what most of the men were concentrating on.  It was a night of blood, guts and breasts. I was almost a convert.

As the fights continued and the night wore on, the bodies got leaner and more in shape. So did the pre-fight ceremony. Some practiced a Muay Thai wardance in traditional garb stamping at their glaring opponents in the blue corner. This took quite some time and everybody waited patiently. Alan started noting that those who did the ceremony always won. I would do the ceremony if it were me. I noted the devitaions form the program, as fighters lost the nerve and others gained some Dutch courage.

All in all, it was going well. Not nearly as gruesome as I’d expected. Then one guy kicked another between the legs. There was much in terms of dirty looks (and much ado about nothing in my book) as they brought him an icepack and cleared the stage. He went off with the medics and the title. I felt sorry for the other guy. I mean, surely bodyparts just get in the way?

So, as I was saying, everything was going  just swimmingly until the two girls fighting for the world bantamwight championship title came on, that is. While half of me wanted to be them, the other half was aching for them. Both wore plaits across their heads like a messy array of beaded necklaces. These hairstyles could come at you from nowhere and do just about as much damage as fists. Mostly, it was hard to watch the fighting between the girls as they fought on a different plane. Unlike the men, they went at each other’s faces, in a clawlike motion, without the nails (which were tightly embedded in the trappings of mutiple bandages and massive plastic gloves). It was a catfight of epic proportions. And it seemed terribly taboo, like eating ice-cream out of the container. I mean, were their mother’s watching?! Jenna Castillo was the firm favourite (Gina Reye’s having nominated herself at the last minute, poor thing) and she took the belt, after Reye’s corner ended the match in round 3. They hugged each other with tenderness, decency and sportwomanship.

Never say never. We skipped the afterparty.