Blood, Sweat and Beers

On a recent Saturday night, standing among the throngs at Avalon, I was watching semi-nude, muscular, sinewy men writhe about on the floor and I was loving every minute of it.

But instead of grinding to Paul Oakenfold, the semi-nude men in question were pummeling each other to the blood-thirsty cries of over a thousand guys, all devotees of mixed-martial arts, all looking for someone to be carried out on a stretcher. And I end up standing next to a dude in khakis and checked blue button-down. Sweet.

When my friend Slitt emailed me and told me that he was going to Mass Destruction 19 because one of his co-workers at Yahoo happened to be the ring announcer at the event, I took little convincing. After all, I’ve watched the Ultimate Fighting Championship in all its various incarnations. I’m a contact sports-type of guy. I eat steaks. I drink beer. I only occasionally tear up during Extreme Makeover- Home Edition. I’m down for a little professionally sanctioned mayhem on a Saturday night.

After 30-seconds of waiting in line on Landsdowne Street, I realized that I wasn’t quite so ready for a little professionally sanctioned mayhem. If there is a Guinness World Record for neck tattoos at one event, it was easily shattered at Mass Destruction 19. There were so many neck tattoos on display that I was worried that I wouldn’t get in without one. And after years of having dressed-up to fit into the social tableau at places in Boston, I couldn’t dress down enough to blend into this motley crew of fight fans. My jeans were too nice, my sneakers too expensive and for god’s sake did I really have on a Helly-Hansen jacket. I figured that the chances of me getting jumped before I even entered Avalon at close to 40%.

After securing a general admission ticket and grabbing a few drinks, I entered Avalon with the a buddy of mine and his Darien posse. As my friend Slitt said while debating our chances of survival among the crowd of guys’ infinitely tougher than us: “If anything happens, don’t look for any help from the Darien guys- they’ll be making sure they still have their wallets.” And this is coming from a kid who once leased a Ford Focus.

Making our way over to the bar, we ran into Marc Grabowski, Mass Destruction’s version of Michael Buffer, and the reason we were all there. A trainer and fighter in mixed martial arts and former wrestler at BU, Grabowski loves his sport. Loves it. If mixed martial arts ever goes big-time, Grabowski will be its Bob Ryan. Except with way better lines.

There is a moment during every guys’ night out that just gets everyone in the right frame of mind. Grabo provided that moment. I was playing journalist and asking him questions which led to this exchange:
Me: “Do the fighters get paid for this?”

Grabowski: “Yeah, from a few hundred to about a thousand. Hopefully, it’s enough to cover their medical bills from tonight.”

Bring on the f’ing mayhem.

With the beers flowing and moral high, we took up positions and waited for the first fight of the night. Basically, the rules of mixed martial arts usually allow you to do everything short of eye-gouging and tearing off someone’s testicles. But apparently, here in Massachusetts, we’re a little soft and don’t allow elbows or knees to the head. And you wonder why John Kerrey gets his ass kicked in the red states.

Nothing can really prepare you for watching a mixed martial arts fight in person for the first time. The rounds are five minutes long which is insane. Most fights you see in a bar take about 30-seconds. Professional boxers eek out three minute rounds. These guys kick the ever-loving crap out of each other for five minute intervals.

During the fights, the crowds are like something out of The Deer Hunter or Bloodsport. There is a constant tension in the room, each punch, kick or move brimming with gory potential and almost everyone is betting on the match with their friends. It’s like a human cockfight. Unless you are one of the 26-people in Massachusetts who really know the sport of mixed martial arts there is virtually no way to pick the winner. For example, the most lopsided fight of the night involved a guy named Eddie Knuckles, who got dominated. Anytime a guy whose body is nearly covered by tattoos and is named Eddie Knuckles fights anywhere, smart money has to be on him. And yet, he got beat convincingly.
Over the course of the nine matches, there were three TKO’s, one KO, one Draw and a bunch of fights ended by ridiculous choke holds with names like the Guillotine. I figured the matches would just involve some guys running around in their skivvies throwing haymakers. Instead, the fighters were skilled, tactical and measured.

Don’t get me wrong, there were some serious beatdowns. One of the more effective moves in mixed martial arts is what I call the “Big Brother.” If you have younger siblings, you intrinsically know how to do this move- straddling your opponents’ chest, holding down his arms with your knees and wailing on his head. Now imagine you’ve been working out for months in anticipation of that moment and you have a 1000-fans chanting your name. Looks like it hurts.
By the end of the night, I was enthralled. The crowd which had looked so menacing on the way in acted like a bunch of 2nd grade girls on their First Communion Day. In terms of bang for your buck, no event on the Boston sports calendar compares. I had a great view of the octagon, easy access to a bar, saw nine matches and paid a whopping $35 for my ticket. In this town, $35 usually doesn’t buy a round of drinks.

And I’ll be going back, without a doubt. Mass Destruction XX is April 23rd and right now I’m debating whether a bachelor party in Montreal that same weekend trumps sweaty, half-naked men rolling around at Avalon.
I have my doubts.

Jamie Chisholm