San Francisco’s Fight Club
Four shirtless guys watch from my left. I doubt they expect a good fight. At the same time, I’m wondering how I got here: facing a guy who outweighs me by 30 pounds and plans to beat the shit out of me in this cinder block basement.
But mostly I’m hoping he won’t break my nose.
Then suddenly, like a car accident, a fist crashes into my ribs. In a strange way it’s somewhat comforting. But only for a moment, because then…
…no wait. Back up. Let me start over here.
I’m your average Joe. Not tall, not short. Could be in better shape, could be worse. I’m not a cop or an ER doctor or some other profession that’s exciting enough to merit a TV show. And while I hadn’t fully become a slave to the Ikea Nesting Instinct, I do admit to once flipping through a catalog and wondering what kind of dining set defines me as a person. My life was becoming stagnant, like gutter water.
I am Jack’s atrophying muscles.
Then, on a Website for activities in San Francisco, I came across this:
Fight Club SF. Trying to generate some more interest here! Last three fight clubs were great, we will be doing it again on December 30th. Please do not respond if you don’t intend to show up. Serious inquiries only although questions will be answered happily.
All you need are grappling gloves, a mouth guard and a willingness to fight. Fighters are matched up according to weight. Everyone who shows up must fight. Everyone who shows up must behave themselves; no gloating, no victory dances, no silly comments. Those who are interested should email there height, weight and level of experience.
No Experience necessary.
All you need are grappling gloves, a mouth guard and a willingness to fight. Fighters are matched up according to weight. Everyone who shows up must fight. Everyone who shows up must behave themselves; no gloating, no victory dances, no silly comments. Those who are interested should email there height, weight and level of experience.
No Experience necessary.
All you need are grappling gloves, a mouth guard and a willingness to fight. Fighters are matched up according to weight. Everyone who shows up must fight. Everyone who shows up must behave themselves; no gloating, no victory dances, no silly comments. Those who are interested should email there height, weight and level of experience.
No Experience necessary.
I was intrigued. No, more than that. Interested. I hadn’t thrown a real punch in more than a decade. But if this was for real, I had to try it. Why? Well, as Brad Pitt famously said, “I don’t know why. How much can you know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?”
A few e-mails and weeks later, I’m holding a mouth guard as Harry* meets me at the door. He’s a small, bald 50 year-old with seemingly 0% body fat. Despite outweighing him by 45 pounds, his handshake suggests he would kick my ass within 10 seconds. Harry started Fight Club SF 11 years ago because it “affords a bunch of men, most of whom have nothing in common except a love of fighting, to get together and be men.”
Gentlemen, welcome to Fight Club.
I’m introduced to four other guys and instantly feel welcome, which kind of surprises me. I expected this to feel more like a drug deal – a little on edge, a little seedy. Instead, it feels like I’ve been invited to a friend’s house to watch a bowl game. It’s evident these guys know each other. They talk about mutual friends and life in general. But mostly they talk about fighting. And it’s completely natural. It’s like me talking to my friends about the holidays, or how the Lakers suck this year.
Fast forward 30 minutes and we’re in a locked basement throwing blows.
I’m standing shirtless and barefoot in a 15’x10′ makeshift ring. Walls make up three sides, and the forth side has four ring ropes bolted into the concrete. The floor is covered with padded mats and the walls are covered with fighting posters. Brad Pitt and Ed Norton stare at me.
The rules are simple: Fight until someone gives up or gets knocked out. No low blows, no eye gouging, no biting. Everything else is fair game. I put in my mouthpiece and don grappling gloves (think weightlifting gloves with minor padding on the knuckles). I remind myself that I don’t want to die without any scars.
OK, I think this is about where we came in.
I am Jack’s insanity.
…the second and third body blows slam into me. I need to do something. I snap off a left that connects with his stomach. It feels good in the way hitting a home run feels good. The next thing I know, I have my opponent around the waist and I’m taking him down to the mat – except he has me in a headlock and is choking off my air. He rolls on top of me, trying to lock his hands. After 30 seconds that seem like hours, I break free. I feebly attempt to lock him up. He pounds his knee into my ribs repeatedly. I’m trying to pry his arm off my neck and get my own arm around his windpipe. Nothing’s working. My biceps are burning. All I can do is punch the back of his head and elbow his kidneys. Then he’s on top of me again, covering my mouth with one hand, my nose with the other.
Unable to breath, I tap out. It’s over.
The entire thing lasted two minutes tops, but I’m spent. My muscles are quivering. I’m gasping for breath. I’m shaking.
I feel like a pussy.
I feel like a stud.
Grabbing a folding chair I watch the next particularly brutal match. It lasts for 15 minutes and one guy’s taking an incredible pounding – massive body blows, sharp shots to the face. I can see the swelling already. But he doesn’t give up. And after an unnatural amount of punishment, it’s the other guy who concedes, completely spent of energy. I suddenly feel like a fraud knowing I would have given up two minutes in.
The next thing I know, I’m called out for a second fight. While obviously a Fight Club veteran, this guy is smaller than I am. However five seconds into the match I’m in a headlock, flipping head over heels. It feels like being thrown down a flight of stairs. He rolls me over again but I slip free. Somehow I twist on top and apply a serious choke hold. As he struggles to free himself, the left side of his face opens up. Swing now! My fist connects with a surprisingly solid thwack and he yells out…
There’s an interesting though process that goes through your head when you’re fighting. Do something to him, or he’ll do something to you. Keep attacking and he can’t attack you.
…so I continue punching over and over. Out of aggression or fear I’m not sure. But my arm keeps pulling back as far as it’ll go, then down hard, crashing into the side of his head. Four, five, six in a row. When he finally covers the side of his face I switch to the back of his head. More yelling. I’m throwing punches as fast as I can with my left, my right cranked down hard around his neck. Outside the ring I vaguely hear guys ooohing as I throw more punches. He keeps trying to find a hand position that protects both his face and the back of his head, but when he covers one place, I smash my fist into another.
I am Jack’s left hook.
And then he taps out. It’s over.
I feel like I just beat the world.
After a few other guys fight, that’s it. We change back into out regular clothes and go back upstairs to nurse wounds. In all the time Fight Club SF has been around, there’s never been an injury more serious than a bruise or a black eye. That was the case this night – no broken skin, no blood, no loose teeth. A day later I have my share of bruises. I admire them in the mirror. They’re my trophies.
Other than internal bleeding, the one thing I took away from Fight Club is how much guys who fight respect each other. Not the way you respect a coworker, but the way you respect your buddy from Nam. There were no hard feelings – just the unequaled camaraderie that two guys have after going mano a mano. It reminded me a lot of my football playing days. Every play you tried to hit the ball carrier as hard as you could. You didn’t hate (or even dislike) that opposing player. It was just the game. And that’s the way it was here. That old saying about hurting the one you love? Well, it works both ways.
The friends I told in advance all suggested I was crazy, at best, to try Fight Club. But it did what I needed it to do – shake things up a bit and push me a little farther outside my comfort zone. And for those of you who still can’t believe I did it? Just know this: You’ve met me at a very strange time in my life.
