Fight night

I am speaking, of course, about cage fighting, a sport quickly gaining popularity which is — as with all events that I wouldn’t normally attend aside from the offer of fancy tickets from people who know people — a good excuse to buy an overpriced adult beverage, dip one’s toes into a cultural experience far outside the comfort zone and impress co-workers who can’t possibly imagine you going to something involving the words extreme combat.

Actually, I don’t know why the idea of me giving into a little bloodlust with thousands of diehard fans struck the newsroom as so baffling. Just a glance at my photo in the column should be enough to proof just how hardcore I am.

As a side note, in full disclosure, I once attended a WWE Smackdown in San Jose with two close friends. Picture three women in post-work business suits, cheering as Hulk Hogan made his return, and wondering why those in the stands seemed a lot more bizarre than the men growling at each other in the ring. Certainly, I was only there because of the "Why not?” factor attached to free tickets but capturing the XXL "Big Evil” T-shirt catapulted into the stands remains a life high point, not to mention a great party story.

The point is, I’m usually game for most events, especially if it is something I would never take myself to voluntarily. And so, when the EliteXC mixed martial arts headed to my hometown last weekend, how could I turn down the chance to watch grown men (and women) beat each other into a bloody pulp? The appearance of Nick Diaz, a Stockton native, and two women fighters on the bill just made the experience that much more intriguing. After a season of watching the San Francisco Giants flounder on their home turf, I looked forward to seeing a hometown boy actually prevail. And women fighting? It would be like Million Dollar Baby come to life.

The first problem, though, is what to wear to such an event. The stereotype is somewhere between a Van Halen concert and a star billing at the local gentleman’s club. Needless to say, I opted for something quite far removed. And, also needless to say, within one step inside the arena I figured out my clothing covered too much, my heels (or lack thereof) were too short and my hair was way, way too small. Not short, mind you, but small.

The men at the event were all carbon copies of shaved head muscle men with tattoos, goatees and a penchant for screaming at their companions about how happy they were to finally see so-and-so in person or how the UFC is better. Their arm candy was undoubtedly clad in hot pants, five-inch heels and hair so lacquered with hairspray it was nearly as tall as the shoes. The only women, short of my party, that weren’t dressed for a different time and location than a sporting arena in mid-afternoon might have been the two female fighters — and even one of them wore a a pink skirt over her shorts.

Mixed martial arts it seems is not just a show to see but a show at which to be seen. And seen, people were. There were Sacramento Kings players, other fighters, even a female American Gladiator — and that was just the audience.

The real show, though, was in the ring. By the time I got settled, blood already smeared the mat from one of the earlier non-broadcast fights. The sight seemed fairly unhygienic for the following matches but, watching the fighters by turns pummel each other or cower in the corner trying to keep their heads from cracking, I think they had a few more pressing concerns than stepping on somebody else’s blood trail.

Cagefighting is unique; granted, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. One acquaintance knocked the annual hot dog eating contest at Coney Island by comparing it to cagefighting as an inane activity erroneously labeled a sport.

Watching the fight, though, one can’t help but appreciate the athleticism of the competitors and the sheer aggression contained in the cage. The reaction of the audience, surrounding the cage like screaming extras in the fight scenes of the infamous Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, is less admirable. At least at first. The noise level, beer splatters and borderline inappropriate outfits are an initial turnoff. Then again, it is refreshing to see that level of enthusiasm, particularly for a fighter who comes from their hometown.

In comparison, the Giants’ game on Sunday was a study in failure, disappointment and fair-weather fans who found better action in the restaurants across the street before the final inning. Maybe the crowds at the two events will never overlap — shy of an intrepid columnist — but that doesn’t necessarily mean one is better than the other.

At least in San Francisco, the weather pretty much rules out the hot pants and heels.

Michelle Durand’s column "Off the Beat” runs every Tuesday and Thursday. She can be reached by

e-mail: michelle@smdailyjournal.com or by phone: (650) 344-5200 ext. 102. What do you think of this

column? Send a letter to the editor: letters@smdailyjournal.com.