JIMBORED KICKS SOME ASS IN THE MMA – HOUSTON 2002

Before I leave Texas, on my way into the lands of the forgotten. By that I mean retirement. I want to relate an opinion of something that changed many of my preconceived ideas of sports. Especially, the manly art of self defence. I know, I know, some of you will be mortified by the thought, of the spectacle, of two human beings banging away on each other. Ol’ Bubbaloo will be included in that list. She is absolutely disgusted at the thought of two people having violent physical conflict with each other. However, this is “my opinion”, and I hope I am allowed to voice it, before being shouted down.

I am reminded, that, Deysi doesn’t seem to mind kicking my ass every so often. In fact it became so frequent that some of us males had to bond together and form a club, named MAA. Or, MEN AGAINST ABUSE. It was formed so that myself and others in similar situations have a support group to call on. That, in the case of women physically abusing us. Funny thing is, we have enrolled almost everyone we have contacted to date. Especially those involved with Peruvian females.

However, that is not the purpose of this piece. Throughout my life I had always held an interest in the manly art of self defence. My father was a lightweight boxer of some renown, while serving in the Air Force. His nose had been shaped by many a’ punch in it. Dad, at least, had the ability to hit back. If you punched him, you were going to get one back, maybe even harder and more ferocious. My own, unfortunate combination of natural talents and coordination, meant that my boxing skills were much like my dancing or drum playing, while marching, skills. It seemed like, every time I thought I was a tough guy, someone would step up and break my nose. Seldom, was I quick enough to retaliate.

That fact did not dull my interest in and enjoyment of the sport of boxing. I must say, I come by this interest in bloodsports, naturally. Not only was my dad a good boxer, but my mom was a “rabid”, Professional Wrestling fan. Each Friday evening you could find her crouched in front of her TV set, ready for the fights. If you even dared try to explain to her, that this sport was staged, and not real, she would unleash a tirade about “blasphemy” in her house. She may have been one of the first, fanatics, to enlist in a wrestler fan club. Mom had her favourites, like “Whipper Billy Watson”, “Stu Hart”, and “Yukon Eric”. She also had a group she hated, that included “Gene Kiniski”, “Killer Kowalski” and would froth at the mouth whenever one of them appeared.

I remember my dad would sit by, patiently watching with her, while she yelled, screamed, shook her fist, cursed and foamed at the mouth. There was, inevitably, some form of underhanded or dirty trick, perpetrated on one of her heroes. But then they would rise and ultimately hand the bad guy, his due. That would send her into another round of hollering, much of it directed at the most hated ones. By the time I was a teen, I was spared the Friday night fights. I was, by then, far too fascinated with girls and frolicking on a Friday night, then to spend it at home, listening to my mom, cursing at her TV. So, you can see, it was a natural progression for me to enjoy the “fights”.

I was raised in the time of Cassius Clay and the like. One thing I remember was feeling such anxiety as the fight between Cassius Clay and Sonny Liston approached. I had a great fear the little scrawny guy, Clay would be torn asunder by the bigger, meaner looking Liston. I could not possibly see a good end to this fight. After all, in my youth, wasn’t it always the biggest, meanest kids that prevailed and ran the hood? You can imagine my surprise when Cassius Clay weaved and bobbed, and floated and stung, and laid a vicious “ass kicking” on the big mean Liston. My world had changed. I now saw hope for the small, weak and bullied teen. I now had a champion. In my mind I could float and sting with the best of them. In reality (not so much)………

Of course, In my usual manner, I have to “beat around the bush” before eventually coming to the point. So now, here it is. It just so happened that in the fall of 2002, with us now comfortably ensconced in Texas, my boss came up with one of his pronouncements. It went something like this, “Jimbo”, he says, “this coming Friday Night we are going to the fights.” You, I, Big Ol’ J, and Terry .” “Tell Deysi you will be busy that night, you hear?” He came off as a bit of a bully, however, was really somewhat of a kitty cat, inside. In any event, with that announcement we went. I must say, a whole new world of violence was laid at my feet. Part of my thinking was changed forever.

Friday came and we all made our way to the venue. It was not a sold out football stadium, or even a moderately full arena. Yet, it did have its appeal. We were herded into a small high school basketball size, space. There was loud “rap” type music blaring out of giant speakers mounted in the upper rows. Strobe lights were flashing out some kind of headache inducing patterns. The crowd was throbbing. I read the names of the headliners, but honestly did not know even one of them. I just figured they must be some lower ranked boxers that I had not seen before. The other thing that jumped out at me immediately, was that the ring was 8 sided (octagonal). It was also surrounded by 8 foot high steel chain link fencing.

While I’m gawking around, taking in the hoopla, my boss gets my ear and tells me, “Jimbo, you ain’t never gonna see the kinda shit, like you gonna see tonight.” He continues, “this stuff is gonna make those little sissies, jumping around with pillows strapped to their hands, look like little girls”. He tries to explain what this new sport, named MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) was all about. For me, nothing he could say was even 1/10th as descriptive, as the first few minutes, of this new sport, I witnessed. As I sit absorbing the pulsating music, the two first combatants come shuffling and dancing out, followed by their respective entourage of sycophants, trainers and gurus. Each one of them shaking and bopping to the punk rock, blasting out at us.

The first two contestants get up in the ring and jump around, all the time glaring and posturing at their opponent. A referee then got them together at centre and told then, “no biting, breaking huevos, pulling hair or spitting. Other than that get back to your corner and come out fighting. I am now starting to “buy into” the hype. I can feel my excitement level rising. I’m starting to “bop” along to the music, then I notice something. These guys were not wearing big ol’ boxing gloves. Rather they had little leather gloves which barely covered the knuckles. Anyway they are jumping up and down, bobbing and weaving. Then the referee’s arm comes chopping down.

These two guys charge right at each other. One of them jumps up and kicks the other one right in the head. The other poor soul goes down like he has been kicked by a mule, which he most likely thinks he has. I’m out of my seat yelling “cheater”, “coward”, “dirty fighter” and really working myself up. I had never seen anything so despicable in my life. I’m about to jump over the cage and “get into it” with the dirty kicker. I’m screaming and frothing. My boss grabs me and says “calm down Jimbo, that was not dirty, that was exactly what he was supposed to do.“ Then it dawned on me, I had just witnessed a new style of fighting that would change my focus on bloodsports forever.

I suddenly realized that there were few rules, other than to knock someone out or choke them until they said “uncle”. Short of biting or squeezing the nutsack, everything else was legal. Here was now a test of the various martial arts, Greco/Roman wrestling, judo, street fighting, karate, boxing, Muay Thai or sumo wrestling. There was no one style that prevailed. Just when you were pummelling your opponent into submission, he would grab onto your foot and try to rip your leg off. Many a time, I watched someone handing out a beating, when the other guy grabbed a foot, or an arm and completely changed his focus. Now he’s not trying to pound someone to death, he’s more focused in not crying as his captured appendix, gets twisted around backwards.

Oh my god, never in my life have I seen anything like this! I find myself jumping up and down, screaming, swearing and frothing from the mouth. The fights go on, one after another. The rounds last 5 minutes each, and there are three rounds, in each fight (five rounds for championship fights). However each round is 5 full minutes of combat. There is no jumping around, with pillows strapped on, nor shadow boxing your way thru 12 rounds of pure boredom. These guys come out and try to rip each other’s head off. By the end of the third match, I know that I will never watch boxing again.

I must say that by the end of it, I was a physical and emotional wreck. I had just seen every form of beat down know to man. What I witnessed were head kicks, punches in the mouth, judo chops, karate kicks to the legs, and squirming on the floor while both guys tried to get the other to say “I give up”, by tapping on the mat. I saw chokes to the neck, arms twisted to the point of dislocation, feet wrenched around backward and leg chokes. There was not a dull minute. The finale comes when they bring out the headliner to the show. Apparently he was going to wreak havoc on some poor “up and comer“. Well I guess the sacrificial lamb, never got the press clippings, detailing “how bad” his ass was going to be kicked.

Very early into the last fight, with the headliner bobbing and weaving and making scary kicks and chops, the underdog gets a hold of his neck. He then proceeds to climb up on the hero’s back, wrap his legs around him and chokes him until he collapses to the canvas and assumes the posture of a rag doll. I don’t believe, our hero, even had enough left, in him, to tap on the floor and signal, “I quit”. Once the referee got the other guy off; our champion, just kinda, laid there, twitching until his entourage dragged him off. I’m yelling and screaming and hollering like a banshee.

I had just had my introduction to the real world of contact sports. I could not imagine anything so exciting. Finally there was a “home” for those bullies and wanna-be tough guys, that previously had no place to display their talents, other than “bouncing” in the bars on Saturday nights, and beating up on the locals. Now they could get in a ring on Saturday and try to beat up guys, of their same mentality. How just, I thought. Let the bastards, beat the crap out of each other, and thereby make an “evening out” for normal people, at the pub, a little less risky. A whole new world of sport had just opened up, for those that fancied themselves, tough. They could, even, earn money, proving how tough they are.

Of course, I get home after the fights and am in the mood to try out some of the new moves I had learned on Bubbaloo. She just looks at me and says, “just try it buddy and you will find out how tough you are!” “Now go to bed and don’t say another word to me.” I puff up, posture a bit, and then slink sullenly to my bed. However, I had dreams of conquests I could have made and dog fights I would have won, had I been a younger man, when this new sport was introduced. Secretly, I know I could have taken ol’ Bubbaloo. It’s just that, if I had, I could never have slept, securely, ever again.