Fight Schlubs

Do we really want mixed-martial arts in Philly?

by Brian Hickey

It was one of those moments that makes you wonder whether things will ever be the same, if what was once a cultural touchstone really just spat out its slobbery mouth guard for the final time.

Welcome to Trenton's Sovereign Bank arena. It's Saturday night, 20-ounce lagers are going for $7, most shirts no longer have their sleeves, and an antsy, mouthy crowd is here for the bloodletting.

In a couple of hours, Eddie Alvarez, the mixed-martial-arts-pride of Kensington, will emerge from behind a black curtain. He'll walk past the machine that coughs up the requisite artificial smoke and, as a distorted metal track blasts through the speakers, make his way toward the ring to the delight of a couple of thousand spectators who paid up to $150 to be here.

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BEFORE AND AFTER: Prior to fighting for Bodog's middleweight title Saturday, Yuki Kondo of Japan could boast of a 46-19-6 record. Afterward, he had this 20th loss - and a nasty gash above his left eye. Photos By: michael m. koehler (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

He'll see that a good percentage of them are sporting green T-shirts that tout the Philadelphia Fight Factory on East Susquehanna, which is where the 23-year-old former street tough learned to dole out as much punishment as possible. Pain is temporary, reads the back of the shirts, pride is forever.

But down in the loading dock, not too far from ambulance 74-4, which will yo-yo between here and a nearby hospital throughout the evening, the topic of conversation is not tonight's first-time-on-U.S.-soil Bodog Mixed Fighting Championship card. This, even if some of the fighters — both male and female — are nearby jumping rope, shadow boxing, pacing and brooding.

Instead, someone receives a phone call about the action 75 miles to the southeast.

"Gatti got knocked out. Seventh round," a beefy man announces to the brawlers, trainers, fight officials and workers who are waiting for the sixth of the evening's 10 few-holds-barred brawls to commence. "By a guy who was on reality-TV. ... Wow."

By "Gatti," he meant Arturo "Thunder" Gatti, the aging pride of Jersey City who, over the course of a boxing career made memorable by its unapologetic violence, became the state's favorite fighter. Like any self-respecting Jersey boy, he'd scrap till his skin was raw and bones were shattered, taking any and all abuse, getting up, fighting some more and —in better days — winning what would become memorialized as the best fights of the years in which they were fought.

On this night, he'd taken that reputation into the ring at Atlantic City's Boardwalk Hall, the scene of some of his grandest accomplishments. Not the type of fighter who culls a pay-per-view draw, and coming off a pair of damaging defeats, Gatti's bout versus Alfonso Gomez was set up to move him back into contention. If that was even possible.

So, by "reality-TV," the guy meant that Gomez's claim to fame is appearing on Sugar Ray Leonard's series The Contender, which chronicled a tournament of aspiring boxers hoping to get a whiff of the big time. (Like, say, an HBO fight against a local legend in his backyard, before his adoring fans.)

When the fight connoisseurs under the Sovereign stands scoffed at Gomez's unconventional path, they didn't yet realize that Gatti had been so savagely and decisively beaten into the sort of helpless submission that brings a retirement announcement — after the doctors manage to stitch a face back together to allow for speech.

Even so, the "wow" made clear what the news meant to this start-up crowd: Maybe what everybody's saying is true — boxing is a relic that greedily cannibalized itself, we're the future and if anybody gets in our way, we'll manipulate their limbs and beat them about the head until they tap out.

To which I say: If this is the future of the American sporting landscape — even if contained to the 18-34 male demographic, which enabled the unfortunate explosion of pro wrestling — the sky is falling.

Granted, boxing's never been the most intellectually noble pursuit. The purpose is to remove your foe from consciousness. It's brutal. It's counterintuitive. But for some reason — likely the fact that we breed bad-ass fighters here — it's always held a charm in Philly, a town that appreciates someone willing to take his life into his hands and go mano-a-mano for cash.

And it's true that, as an athletic endeavor, Bodog — and countless other start-ups that air on TV with the yesteryear regularity of "There's that news van" commercials — offers a superior product. But here's the thing: It also seems to bring out the worst in people.

Here are a couple of nuggets from Trenton:

• When a cameraman fell off the ring apron, it earned the loudest non-Alvarez applause of the evening;

• When a heavyweight bout devolved into a glorified Greco-Roman wrestling match, one fan yelled, "I've seen dogs fight better than that";

• When a Japanese brawler took to the ring, the fans lustily started a "U.S.A." chant, not realizing that their great white hope in the other corner was actually South African;

• And, when two women who would kick my ass from A.C. to Trenton to Vegas if they were so inclined entered the ring for the first-ever Bodog's women's title, the catcalls ranged from "Rip off her shirt" and "Kick her in the balls" to "Stick your finger up her ass."

Now, it takes a lot for me to call something offensive, but — keeping in mind that this was likely just a couple of immature morons with Kenso coarsing through their veins — it was enough to make me wonder whether this is something we want in Philly. And that's something worth collectively thinking about, since the state Athletic Commission's MMA Committee is expected to soon recommend the sport for legalization here.

So call me a throwback, but rather than waiting around to see what the green-shirt brigade would do when Alvarez parted that black curtain, it was time to leave to catch a fight replay on HBO. Just don't expect me to pony up $49.95 to watch Bernard Hopkins' PPV bout on Saturday.

I may not be sold on boxing's death quite yet, but I still know a rip-off when I see one.

(hickey@citypaper.net)