the honesty and the umbrage of mixed martial arts

You may have heard whispers in dark corners about a terrible new enterprise, full of blood, crushed tracheas and torn ligaments, marching into mainstream acceptance under the banner of legitimate sport. Mixed Martial Arts. The name itself conjures nightmare images of dizzying attacks from Lee, Chiba, Van Damme and perhaps even Seagal. It’s not just one deadly Art you must fear, but a MIX (possibly with lethal ponytails). Doesn’t sound familiar? A ring, or more often a cage, contains the contest. The gloves have the fingers cut off for grappling grip and barefoot is the only permitted footwear. Some of traditional Boxing’s basic rules for victory apply; you win by knocking your opponent out or by landing enough punches for the ringside judges to determine you the winner; or the ringside doctor (or your own team throws in the proverbial towel) steps in and “calls” a finish to the fight due to a fighter’s face taking on the consistency of hamburger meat. MMA also has the unique submission rule, where (put politely) a contestant is placed in such an uncomfortable position, he “taps out” or in schoolyard terms, cries Uncle. Not ringing bells? What about UFC? Or its synergistic reality show, The Ultimate Fighter?
To borrow a baseball term, Ultimate Fighting Championship is “The Show”, the Big Rodeo, a Fighter’s Firmament, and the biggest game in town with regard to MMA. But it certainly didn’t start out that way, and its infancy struggled with bankruptcy, outright banning and name-calling from a former Republican Presidential candidate. The early days of the UFC were a fairly rancid sandwich to swallow, with no-holds-barred, “What if a Kung Fu fighter fought a Sumo Wrestler?”, barely-regulated slugfests. Today there are doctors, regulations, referees and safety concerns. Oh and a shit tonne of endorsement deals, pay-per-view revenues and pissing contests. King Pisser is one Dana White, former cardio kickboxing instructor and current MMA Buck-Stopper. While a savvy businessman with a natural ability to effectively market his white-hot product, he has never been scared to speak his mind, on any subject, often to the detriment of what one might call his “professionalism”.

The recent announcement of MMA fighter Quinton “Rampage” Jackson’s decision to not only withdraw from his December 12th headlining fight against Rashad “Sugar” Evans but retire entirely from fighting to pursue an acting career (starting with filling Mr. T’s sizeable shoes in the role of “B.A. Baracus” in the A-Team remake) sparked several water-cooler debates about sports stars as actors and the legitimacy of even calling MMA a “sport.” If the word “honesty” in the title of this article provoked any kind of curled lip, scornfully raised eyebrow or audible *pshaw*, let me say: I was like you once.
I railed against MMA as a signifier of the fall of civilized society. The celebration of two crude men in a literal cage with the intent and encouragement to beat each other both bloody and senseless, was wholly repugnant to my modern, “violence is never the answer”, kindergarten-containment mentality. I saw no grace or beauty or laudable skill in one man’s ability to cut off another man’s oxygen supply. Or hyper-extend his arm. Or tenderize his face. I watched two half-naked men sweat and struggle and strain, roiling around on a sanguinary canvas and couldn’t help but wonder if the true motivations of these combatants were, perhaps, kept hidden in the locker room. Boxing had its gentlemanly nickname of “The Sweet Science” but for me, MMA could claim no lofty position of intelligence or saccharine paradigm of athleticism. It was brutality with beer sponsorship. Pugilism without the panache, or fancy mustaches.

Then I watched a good MMA fight. In its entirety, not simply a highlight reel of jaw-destroying kicks, hemorrhage-inducing elbows and torturous limb-locks. Not a one-sided beating or a boring staring match; a Fight. This is what all sports commentators are alluding to in their sensational headlines. “Beating” the competition, “pummeling” ones’ opponent, “offence”, “defense”, “battling back” this is all violent language that, when used in sports contexts, sell relatively innocuous results on the playing field. No one in mainstream athletics is physically “beaten”, perhaps unceremoniously bumped around but not stood over and literally pounded into the ground. No one dies despite the entire team getting “killed.” And all players retained their respective large intestines, despite their defense suffering multiple “eviscerations.” Sports writers co-opt this talk to create the same energy and enthusiasm of a war-hungry mob in the club’s fans, but since it’s on the field, such words are acceptable exaggerations. What are sports teams but facile proxies for conquering armies?

In mainstream athleticism, the basic animal appeal of violence is regulated, penalized and often expelled, but it’s what the (admittedly mostly male) fans want. NASCAR would have no viewership if there were no possibility of crash. A big hit in football gets a proportionate cheer from the crowd. Bad hockey is lamented for its lack of scoring but a saving grace can be a “good fight” or a shuddering check. Soccer, despite stringent attention paid to the contact players can visit on one another, has inspired some of the most reprehensible instances of mob violence in western society. You can give the competitors pads, helmets or poles with which to vault, but every punter in the stands cranes their neck if a fight breaks out. Be it on the field, in the ring or in the bleachers.

Violence is many things, but it isn’t civilized. It’s hard and it is terrible. Though, like a great many dangerous feats, when done by professionals, it can be beautiful. And incredibly entertaining. In my watershed moment, I witnessed two cerebral tacticians constantly size and re-size each other up, varying their attacks, switching their stances, relying more on technique than power, waiting for an opening, and constantly adjusting their defense. At the onset, they touched gloves (a sign of respect) at the insistence of the referee and then again of their own volition at the beginning of each round. At the onset of the final round, there was such respect between the fighters that they forewent a simple high-five and quickly embraced. When defeat finally came for one fighter, they shared a prolonged congratulatory clinch, speaking hurriedly and passionately, commending each other on a fine performance. Mutual respect, along with blood and sweat, dripped from their exhausted bodies. They had been trying to “kill” each other not fifteen seconds previously, and now they looked ready to carry each others’ luggage. How could such dedication to the destruction of your fellow human elicit such a humane and civilized conclusion? To those wondering, the fight in question was Jon Fitch vs. Montreal’s favourite son, Georges St. Pierre, during UFC 87.

To those that would refute a cage fighter’s label as an athlete as opposed to a “thug,” I would put the top flight mixed martial artists (names withheld to discourage flame wars) up against any other athlete. Period. They all train for the exertion, pushing the absolute limit of sustained effort. The mixed martial artist must also, if worth their mouth guards, train for the absorption of direct damage to virtually any part of their body (hits to the groin are still officially illegal, thank Ganesh). Like any culture, the fight world is lousy with jargon: good or bad “chin” describe the effusive ability to take a punch, generally measured by one to the face. That’s tough. It might be a stiff slap hitting the water from the high board; or a minor earthquake sticking the landing from a triple back-tuck, and it feels like a freight train taking a haymaker in austere old Boxing. But an MM artist will receive unpadded knees, elbows and “flying” versions of both, throughout their career. They will have their arms and legs placed in stress positions, typically reserved for enhanced interrogation techniques, to the point of sunder. They will be literally choked. And they train for that. What could be more athletic than training to exert and absorb force?

Now, if boxing turns your stomach, then it’s a safe bet MMA won’t keep your boat afloat. But it’s wrong to assume these men (and a growing number of women) are mindless brawlers with no regard for their well being. Their bodies are their instruments and livelihood. Street fighters don’t make it past the door, generally because they’re too tired to push it open. But if you’ve been wondering what all the hubbub is about, while concerned that folks will think you sadistic (what’s a contemporary word for “postal”?) or worse yet, a “meathead,” just tell those rubes that people watching other people knock each other silly is about as genetically hardwired as people watching other people make nasty. And very occasionally, it’s prettier.