I’m a Lover of a Fighter

When HomeBoy takes an interest in something or takes to a new hobby, OMGoodness, he goes so hard.  Case and point, in our last apartment, when he was wrapped-knuckles deep in boxing, I came home one day to a speed bag on the living room wall.  (I was not happy about this, as our last place was a great loft with high ceilings and an open floor plan – so open that one could see said speed bag from any vantage point except the bathroom. But I digress…) So yes, HomeBoy takes an interest and then he’s relentless.  His latest love?  Jiu-Jistu and mixed martial arts.  To his credit, HomeBoy’s interest began before the hoopla of the Ultimate Fighter Competition reality series, and as an historian, he’s delved into the beginnings of the sport and learned much about its geography and evolution.  (He’s a veritable walking mass of Gracie, Jiu-Jitsu, MMA trivia, complete with bad Portuguese accent imitation.) 

I am sometimes swept up in the whirlwind of HomeBoy’s enthusiasm, and a couple weekends ago is a prime example.  His hobby took us to St. Louis on Saturday for an event sponsored by Strikeforce, the second largest promoter of MMA after the UFC.  When I decided to be a good sport and tag along for this event, I considered the sociological possibilities of such an immersion. I was not disappointed.  It was a soggy drive there and back, but the event was really rather cool.  I have a greater appreciation for MMA after seeing it live.  We watched several matches, none of which were boring.  I even recognized a fighter, and because the tickets were so affordable we had really good seats--close enough to watch the action in the cage and not depend on the jumbo monitor overhead, far enough away to avoid sweat or blood.  The physical disparity between the fighters and the fans was quite ironic. While the fighters all looked like extras from 300, most of the audience (as I described to a friend) looked like they were as enthusiastic about KFC as UFC.  There was an abundance of Affliction and Tap Out gear, a fair share of spiky hair and mullets, plus the overdressed ladies who were 1) with the fighters 2) with the promoters 3) trying to go home with a fighter or promoter.  Thankfully, nobody spilled beer on me and that pregnant lady didn't go into labor. (No, you didn't misread that.)

All jokes aside, I really did have a good time, and it made me thankful that HomeBoy and I are so different. I'd have never experienced something like that were it up to me alone.  Who knows? Maybe I'll hit the mats and train with him one of these days. (If he reads this, I'll never hear the end of that.)