Every couple of months in Revere, Mass., Club Lido hosts a “Combat Zone”—sixteen match-ups of no-holds-barred mixed martial arts fighting. Revere is not the gem in Massachusetts’ crown; it’s not even the crown’s protective plastic case. It’s more like the old cigarette you find on the beach, far, far away from the crown. But since NHB fighting is illegal in Connecticut, I return home to the Bay State.
Entering Club Lido, where bass throbs and neon lights spin wildly, is like entering one of the more benign and appealing circles of hell. The place pulses with expectancy—alcohol flows like water, eyes flash eagerly and men strain like dogs against leashes, pressing towards the ring. Others sit coolly in ringside seats, faces drawn, hair slicked back, diamond studs twinkling in their ears. The place has an underground, illegal feel—as if it were taking place in Connecticut.
Finally the fighters enter, advancing somberly to their rumbling theme songs. They roll through the ropes, tear off their shirts, prance around the ring and relax grimly in their corners.
In full tuxedo, the referee enters. He reminds us that the fights will be two rounds of four minutes each, and that the only thing not allowed is kneeing. The fighters’ gloves have just a thin layer of padding and are open-fingered. Everyone is barefoot.
“Blue are you ready! Red are you ready!… Let’s get it on!” The bell rings, the crowd collectively holds its breath, and a girl screams, “Fucking kick that piece of shit’s ass!” The fighters pace around then pounce forward and touch gloves. The faces in the crowd watch in rapt hunger, their eyes ferocious. The fight begins.
Their bodies work perfectly, limbs lashing and snapping like rubber bands, muscles spreading across the their backs like angry wings. I feel flushed in the hot spotlights and notice my hands shaking. They throw punches back and forth, weaving artfully, but for a second one man misjudges.
His face explodes. Blood gushes from his nose and mouth as he hits the ropes, his lips and eyelids flapping backwards against the elastic until his head hits the ground.
“FUGGIMUP! FUGGIMUP MIKE!” the guy behind me bellows again and again, shredding his voice and showering me with spit. “GODDAMN FUGGIMUP! FUGGIMUP!” until it’s a drunken, incoherent chant. His spit catches the light as it rains down. “FUGGIMUPMOTHERFUGGER!” There’s too much blood, so they pull the other man off. He grins for the audience, pounding his bald head and shaking his face like a dog. He gives a giant “suck it” thrash with his arms and roars. The other man is slow to rise, but eventually gets up, rests against the ropes, and grins stupidly through syrupy clots of blood.
Between rounds, a skinny redhead with a teasing, saccharine smile comes out in fuck-me boots and hot pants. She waves a “Round 2” sign at the crowd and struts around, reaching back self-consciously to pull down the seat of her tiny shorts. The other girls there wear a lot of frosty makeup and most have bitchy, sassy eyes. They don’t smile back.
The only woman I talk to is the tiny grandmother sitting next to me, whose grandson happens to be the fighter I fall in love with. When he wins, she flails her delicate arms and cries, “Yay! Yay!”
“And he’s not bad looking either,” I lean over and add. She screams out a peal of laughter and grabs my shoulder. Her fingers dig into my skin for a moment and I’m amazed at what an adrenaline rush she’s on—the golden chain on her glasses quivers as she frantically pushes them back on the bridge of her nose and claps like a child.
The best fight of the night, though, comes at the end. Joe Lauzon—a 19-year-old kid, fresh faced, no tattoos—has come unleashed on his opponent. He’s body-slamming him, crushing his face under his fists. It goes into three rounds, and before the third round the redhead comes out in an American flag bikini top and a pair of white panties that say “Round 3” on the rear.
The bell rings. White flesh turns red and for every blow dealt Joey releases a nasty hiss. “Get them kidneys!” someone yells. “Hit the kidneys, Joey! The fucking kidneys!”
And then they fall to the ground in a spent entanglement. For a moment they rest, their faces pressed together, arms wrapped limply together. But then the light hits Joey’s eyes. He snaps to attention as sweat drips from his smooth brow. His arm sneaks around the other guy’s neck and it’s over before I even knew what happened. The other man’s face is contorted, his gaunt cheeks gray, his purpling mouth dripping with saliva. “The Sleeper” is Joey’s trademark move, and after only a few seconds he taps out, gasping for breath. The crowd rises to its feet in a wild roar. Joey jumps onto the ropes, flexing his biceps, kissing them in the flurry of flashbulbs.
The final fight, however, takes place in the parking lot, where two dudes throw off their leather jackets and slam one another against the asphalt. Boys will be boys, right? And I can’t help watch as these Massholes flail violently at one another, busting the seams of their Express For Men shirts. “The fuck are you looking at! Huh? Don’ you fuckin’ touch me you fuckin’ shiteater!”
I love Massachusetts.
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