Fight Night 1

Fight Night. The combination of the two words together has become some what of a verbal stimulant around here. It has the power to get people aggressive and feeling overly-masculine within seconds. Instantly, memories of fights come rushing back. Like the time Matt Rice got knocked out with one punch and laid there dazed. But, mysteriously, he had his hand raised, as if trying to subconsciously signal to us that he wasn’t dead. And like the time when Nassar got his nose broke by Roach, set it back and then tried to finish the fight. And like the time when I was paired up with a Sigma Nu alumnus slash kick-boxer and…well, here, let me tell you the story.

It was late winter quarter of my freshman year when the first Fight Night in several years was scheduled. We had an intramural basketball game the same night and I played pretty hard. I was worn out going into this already, but I couldn’t back down and be labeled as someone who was scared to fight. You would be amazed at the respect that is lost when some of the guys find out you can’t cover their backs if they happened to be in a fight.

This is how Fight Night works. The fights our broken up into three, one-minute rounds. That’s three minutes of pure fist-pounding, blood-dripping, and crowd pleasing time. And Mom, before you call me and tell me I can’t do this anymore, I just want you to know that we wear 16 oz. gloves (the most padded gloves we could find), mouthpieces and headgear. The JA’s (junior actives) all have to fight, unless you have good reason not to. Each person that fights is paired up with someone else of equal size. However, if there is tension between two guys already, then they automatically get paired up to settle the score in front of everyone. I was paired up with a guy named Casey Hough. It was an even match physically. We were the same age, height, and build, plus he was kind of athletic. I didn’t know what to expect from him. Wait, what am I talking about; I didn’t know what to expect from myself! I had never been in a fist fight before. I had never even hit anybody. Minus the time in middle school when I hit a kid in the eye, in the middle of math class, for repeatedly taking my mechanical pencil apart, giving it back to me in pieces, and laughing at me in a very annoying way. And, honestly, I didn’t even mean to hit the kid in the face. I was going for his shoulder, hit the very top of it and the momentum carried my knuckles in a direct path for his eye, seriously.

Trying to beat down my nervousness and sequester my confidence, I geared up and had some pep talk from a few guys. Then I went to the center of the room to begin the fight. The ref (one of the big guys in the fraternity) gave us the usual talk about no biting, no hitting below the belt, fight clean and tap gloves. We tapped and immediately I heard “Go!” “Okay,” I thought. So, I went. I did very boxer-esque hop backwards and then very similarly hopped and rocked forward to lean in for my first swing at someone’s face…

I saw red flowing from his nose and lips. I looked down and I had two guys holding me back. Instantly, I became concerned for Casey. I made it clear to the guys restraining me that I was not trying to fight anymore and started trying to help my friend. I don’t really remember anything that happened. I vaguely remember chasing him down and swinging at him as he was turning backwards, stumbling, and trying to dodge me. I had a true blackout. I noticed that I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t even winded. So, I asked somebody how long it lasted, “20 seconds.” Whoa, that was fast. I sat down next to Casey who had half of a napkin hanging from his nose. I apologized. I felt bad. I didn’t know I was going to turn like that. I became some kind of monster. My Mr. Hyde transformed in a matter of moments and unleashed itself on this poor guy.

We sat there and talked about what happened and I made sure there were no hard feelings while we watched the other fights unfold. It was getting near the end when a Sigma Nu alumnus grabbed the gloves and decided he wanted to fight Jim Roach, who at first, didn’t have anybody to fight. Jim quickly threw his gloves down and tore his head gear off and said he wasn’t fighting the 5’ 9”, 180 pounded Chris Hudson. They went around the room asking several people to challenge him. Then I heard, “Lockwood, your fight didn’t last very long. You fight him.” Not wanting to look too confident, I gave a look of “I don’t feel like it,” but hesitated long enough for them to see that I could be persuaded. Giving very little effort in protest, I strapped up. Jim, the sissy, literally ran up to me and said, “Luke, what are you doing? That’s Chris Hudson. He used to be a kick-boxer!” My jaw dropped. Suddenly Jim, the sissy, became Jim, the smart one. I gave a look of doubt (wide eyes and dropped jaw) to the guys who were trying to get me revved up for the fight. “I can’t fight this guy,” I told one of them. “Yes you can, Lockwood. Just keep your gloves up and keep moving.” Oh, ok, that makes sense, I thought. You guys just want to see how good Chris is at swinging and hitting a moving target, all at my brain-damaging expense. They motioned us to move to the center of the room. The ref gave his usual spill. As we dabbed gloves I begged him, “Please don’t kill me.” He grunted and the ref yelled “Go!” In an instant Mr. Hyde emerged once again and took hold of the reigns.

According to the inexperienced Sigma Nu judges, I won the first round. I don’t remember what happened, I don’t care what happened. I somehow survived. I looked across the room at my opponent and he had a bloody nose. I asked if I was bleeding and I was told that I wasn’t. I got some water and then headed back to the center to meet my opponent, again.

The second round ended. I sat down. The judges gave that round to Chris. I remembered something from the fight, though. I remembered Chris hitting me. This was different though. It wasn’t a normal punch. It had force. It had power. He rocked me with a right hook across the temple. I remembered losing my vision for a second and stepping back to regain my level headedness. I remembered thinking if this guy gets many more opportunities like that, I might end up in the hospital. That thought verbalized into, “I can’t do this anymore…I don’t think I can give anymore.” The older active told me I looked good out there and that they gave Hudson the win because the match would be over if they had given it to me. He convinced me to give it one more round and to take this one for the win. I stood up to once again meet my opponent in the middle of the room. But, when I did, my legs began to shake in protest and they almost gave out from under me. Round three had started.

I took my first swing and landed a blow. But, wait…I was still conscious. Where did Mr. Hyde go? Why am I suddenly aware of every move and every thought? Evidently, Mr. Hyde had met his match and decided to take a nap during the last round while I was hung out to dry. With my instincts gone, I settled in for the longest one minute of my life. I didn’t know what to do. I was flopping around out there. I could barely stand, I could barely swing, and worst of all, I was so tired, I could barely dodge. However, to my surprise, Hudson wasn’t much better. We began to fall into a strange sequence of swings. It was a simple pattern really. I would swing and hit him in the head and as soon as I would be retracting my punch he would swing and hit me in the head. Occasionally, Chris could find it in him to muster up one of those crushing hooks and deal it to me full force. I would back up, regain my vision, and lean in to a punch with as much weight as I could with out falling on him.

The round ended and the ref took both Chris and I by the arms to the center of the floor for the announcing of the winner. The judges took a minute as the crowd stood and as we half-way hung by our waists, waiting. The judges turned around and announced the winner. The ref held up Chris’s arm in triumph. Then suddenly, I heard metal chairs crashing and bottles smashing to the floor in an angry up-roar from the audience. Chris found me in the current of people rushing out of the room in protest, shook my hand and said, “Man, you kicked my ass!” With the last of my energy, I mustered up a small smile. Then, quickly, I stumbled to the nearest room I could find. I laid on the couch for a half-hour and thought about nothing except for how tired I was and how bad I hurt.