Feature Story

By Alyson Sheppard

Lagniappe intern

he American flag hung from the metal rafters overhead, a motionless, cheesy backdrop to the hazy stadium. As soon as we walked into the humid crowd of tattoo parlor and tanning bed regulars, my sister, Ashley, and I began dripping sweat and questions. Why did we decide a Saturday night of watching freestyle cage matches would be entertaining? What good could possibly come from a boxing ring lined with a chain-linked fence?

We climbed over rows of empty beer cans to the top of the metal bleachers and sat next to a pack of guys in pastel polo shirts who looked like they had just gotten off work from the JCREW Outlet.

The Mobile Roller Derby girls started their pre-game entertainment. Sporting adorable black tennis skirts, torn nylons and t-shirts ripped into midrifts, they skated around the building and wrapped their arms around whistling men double-fisting Bud Light cans.

“Oh, that’s cute,” Ashley said. “How can people watch this crap?” We laughed uncomfortably as the emcee took the microphone and read the rules of the fight.

“No headbutting, hitting in the throat, back of the head or below the belt, and no eye gouging.”

“Oh dear Lord,” I whispered, as not to alert the people around us that I had never considered eye gouging in real life circumstances. I mean, television has successfully desensitized me to violence, but eye gouging? Why didn’t they also just make a rule for no curbing or no teabagging? I cringed.

“Let’s get ready to rumble!” the emcee shouted. The theme song to “Rocky” blared and a pair of fighters, escorted by friends, trotted into the cage to meet “Big John” the referee. Big John pointed them to opposing corners to await the bell. Bare-chested and barefoot, one stocky guy and one muscular guy faced each other like two pit bulls eyeing a sirloin.

Ding.

The men jumped up. The audience screamed. The fighters reached across the canvas floor, tapped gloves and then lunged at each other. Punches and kicks to the face flew. The stocky guy was shoved backward into the cage. Then he threw the muscular guy to the ground, straddled him and began pummeling him in the head. “Muscles” wrapped his ankles around Stocky’s neck and yanked him off.

The rest was a blur, but I do remember guys wearing NASCAR caps to doo-rags jumping onto their folding chairs and screaming. I remember the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the building. I remember onlookers wincing and cheering simultaneously. It lasted two excruciating two-minute rounds.

Big John grabbed one of the fighter’s gloves and shoved his arm up into the air in triumph. Then he handed him his prize, a wide title belt. The fighters hugged, climbed out of the ring, and were tackled by waiting friends. After directing them offstage, Big John, who wore latex gloves throughout all of the fights, toweled blood off the ring.

“That did not just happen,” I said. Ashley looked at me wide-eyed and pulled out her camera to document the blood slinging and our corresponding crumbling dignity. We eventually stopped covering our eyes, started standing up with the guys next to us to get a better view and even rooted for the girls in the intermission’s bikini contest.

Three hours and twenty matches later, we collected our purses and cardigans and walked out into the cool air of the parking lot.

“That was the most horrifying experience of my life,” I said.

“Um, yeah,” Ashley said. “Let’s find out when the next fight is and bring more people.”

“Duh.”

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