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FISTICUFFS: The Real-life Fight Club

A peek inside the underground world of unsanctioned bare-knuckle boxing in Dallas.
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I watched and I thought, “Could I do that?”

This was a couple of years ago, my first time in a true boxing gym, in Plano. I was there a little early for the beginner’s class and watched as two fighters danced around each other, dripping sweat and confidence, tagging, sticking, moving, bobbing. Bleeding a little.

I’d been looking for something more in a workout. Running is fine, if boring. Bicycling? Not so much. Aerobics? Good enough, but the thrill of being one of the few guys in a class gives way to the sapping realization that you’re one of the few guys in the class. Yoga? What am I, a hippie?

But boxing. Old-fashioned pugilism. It appealed to my Y chromosome. That’s how I found myself in the gym, watching more advanced students and wondering if I had the stuff to really go through with it. Thing is, boxing is a lot like smoking. It’s not something you find people starting in their mid-30s.

It takes about a month or so to learn the fundamentals—how to throw a proper jab, hook, cross, uppercut; how to bob and weave; how to pivot and circle. At that point, you’re feeling a little more confident.

But then comes your first time in the ring. Never mind all the pads. Never mind all the practice. Never mind that you’re sparring for only one round. When the round starts, you lock up instead of staying loose, you forget to breathe properly, and you close your eyes exactly the way you were taught not to when your opponent throws a punch. You’re as timid about hitting the other guy as you are about getting hit. It’s three minutes of eternity.

With a little time and practice, though, it gets good. You start handling yourself like a fighter. You get your bell rung a few times, and you get over that fear of getting hit.

Despite the pads, there were a fair number of busted noses and lips. I took a cracked rib when a 6-foot-3 southpaw landed a solid shot to my midsection. I got my revenge that same fight when he tried the shot again, only to have me slip and pivot around and hammer that chin he’d left open like a Christmas gift. Still, at our level, blood was spilled only occasionally.

Which is why Michael’s injury stood out. He kickboxed at another gym, and the gash he had over his left eye was something you’d more likely see in a true amateur or professional bout—deep and glaring, accented with a goose egg on the cheek and a black eye for good measure.

This was the first time I heard about what, for lack of creativity on my part, I started to call “Fight Club.”

Michael said he was a junior associate at a law firm that specializes in real estate and tax law. He said that “junior associate” meant he was worked like the only mule on a 500-acre farm and was paid like a legal secretary. He took up kickboxing in his late 20s because it was too hard picturing all the senior partners on a target as small as a racquetball. We talked a little about his injury, and he told me about these guys who get together outside their gyms for unsanctioned, no-rules fights. We traded e-mails and left it at that. Honestly, I didn’t think much of it. Because there are two things you’ll find plenty of at a gym: BO and BS.

Come on. There was a brief period shortly after the 1999 Brad Pitt, Ed Norton movie where you’d hear stories about real-life fight clubs across the country, complete with guys aping Tyler Durden. (“Do you know what a duvet is?”) Movie-inspired fads generally don’t have six-year legs. Still swing dancing after Swingers? Me neither.

Turns out, though, it’s not so unheard of. In early 2001, the Texas Department of Licensing and Regulation pounced on a gym in Farmers Branch called Fighter’s House. They were hosting twice-monthly matches where all the state’s rules and safety regulations for combative sports were thrown out. The brutality of the mixed martial arts, full-contact, no-holds-barred matches aside, it was the money that got Fighter’s House in trouble. They were charging $5 a head for spectators, and the state isn’t happy when it doesn’t get its cut. Licensing and Regulation effectively shut it down.

The state gets about two to four complaints a week where they investigate unsanctioned fighting events, though nothing as extreme as what Fighter’s House was doing. “Mostly, it’s people who are putting on a fight and aren’t aware they’re not in compliance with the rules,” says Patrick Shaughnessy, the spokesman for the TDLR. “They usually get warned and they comply.”

Shaughnessy admits that it’s next to impossible to police private fight clubs. The department has only administrative standing. If money isn’t changing hands, the state doesn’t have much power or interest.

SO I DECIDE TO TRACK DOWN MICHAEL. I TRY TO get him by e-mail, but it’s been more than a year since I met him. For weeks there’s no response. I visit gyms all over the city. I trawl Internet message boards. I put out feelers in newsgroups and bulletin boards. If there’s anything to what Michael told me, then these guys are following that famous first rule. No one is talking about Fight Club.

Then I get the e-mail. A couple of weeks later, in August, I’m in the Deep Ellum Cafe Brazil at 9:30 pm to meet Michael and his buddy Chris. They’ve promised to take me to Fight Club. Over coffee, I ask them why they do this.

The fighters are just ordinary guys, they tell me, most of whom have been, or are, students of the various martial arts. They want to test their mettle outside the artificial limits of point fighting systems or half-strength, padded sparring rules. “It’s going toe-to-toe without a safety net,” Michael says. “Remember that first rush you got your first time in the ring? I’ve done four of these. I get that every single time.”

Fighters decide when and whom they fight. The matches happen every four to eight weeks, depending. Sometimes they set up the matches in advance, but two guys will also agree to fight that night. Rules for a bout are mutually agreed on between the fighters. Some go for strict boxing, some for no-holds-barred. Some opt for lightweight gloves like you wear for the speed bag or the fingerless padded gloves martial artists prefer, but most go strictly with wraps—long cotton “tape” boxers wear under their gloves to keep from breaking their hands. No shirts and no shoes is about the only rule taken literal from the movie. There’s no referee. A guy either taps out or stays down to end a fight.

They don’t know how long the group has been getting together. New members come and old ones go. No one’s really in charge. It’s self-organized chaos. There are no rules against bringing a guest, but no one wants attention. No cover at the door. And betting? Oh, please.

We pile into Chris’ Infiniti and drive toward Central. Ten years married and two years a dad, it’s been awhile since I prowled this part of town, and in no time I’m lost. After about 10 minutes, we pull up to the rear of a small, one-story industrial building in the vicinity of Fair Park. A side door by a loading bay is propped open, and we go inside.

We’re just inside and going around a dogleg hall into an open, concrete-floor bay area when we hear the shouts and scuffles, the sound of knuckles or a knee hitting flesh, the resultant forced exhale-groan. A couple of lights hang overhead, and below I see the backs of a small crowd of men intent on something. I’m reminded of a dogfight I once attended while working for a small newspaper in Arkansas. The same energy and electricity is here.

We find a gap. Looks like there’s maybe 40 or 50 men standing around in a loose circle. In the center are two shirtless fighters circling each other on a thin fold-out ground pad a little smaller than a regulation ring, duct taped at the edges. The crowd is about as mixed as the cars outside, where beat-up old Ford pickups are parked alongside BMW 3 series. It’s hot and a little dusty, and the fighters are slick with sweat. One’s a white guy who paid a lot for that haircut. The other guy is darker, maybe Latino, wearing track pants and a bloody nose.

They lock up and struggle for position. Knees fly and shins bang together. Haircut tries to yank Track Pants by the shoulder and arm, but his grip slips, he goes right, and Track Pants’ left knee slams into his upper rib cage. A right cross in the kisser sends Haircut to the floor. Track Pants backs off and Haircut stays down, raising his hand to wave it off. Fight’s over. Track Pants helps Haircut up, and they give it the one-armed hug. I look around and see Jackson and Franklin dumping their old friends for new ones.

Someone has a dingy towel and wipes up the sweat and blood from the fighting circle. There’s a big, orange cooler with ice water off to the side, and the two kick boxers use paper cups to wash away the grit and the blood from their bodies and to put ice to injuries.

“Who’s up?” someone yells, and there’s disorganized milling. Some of the guys came dressed just to watch, while some came dressed to fight, the karate gi pants and the wraps being the giveaways. None look too far out of shape, some are cut and broad. Someone says they’re ready, and everyone backs away from the two fighters, forming the circle again around the pad. A guy about my height, but easily with another 30 pounds of muscle and with cornrows, faces off against a taller, leaner opponent with a headband.

There is no bell. They simply nod and tear into one another. It’s quick and dirty, and they go down grappling. Guys around me yell the kind of helpful suggestions Rocky got from his wife. (“Hit him!”) Looks like if you tie up on the ground for too long, spectators will reach in and pry you apart, stand you up, and let you go back at it. This one gets brutal. Headband grabs the back of Cornrow’s head with his left hand and brings in a right that flattens the guy’s nose with a sickening splat. Blood comes pouring.

I lose track of why I’m here and fall into the crowd’s spirit, the back part of my brain fascinated and horrified at the same time, the front part playing cheerleader. Five more fights follow. A few guys trickle out, but more trickle in. The fights are brutal but pretty quick, less than five minutes except one that goes about 10. Pretty sure I see teeth flying at one point.

We take off before the last fight ends, and the air outside is crisp compared to the heat inside. Only afterward do I realize I’m coming down from an adrenaline rush. It’s just plain crazy to take that kind of a beating—or give it out. But Michael and Chris say it’s all about facing that fear and besting it. “Wounds heal, and chicks dig scars,” Chris says. But now you know you can do more than beat the hell out of a 60-pound heavy bag. He says he plans to fight at the next session.

I’m heading back to suburbia, but I have to admit that somewhere in the back of my head—knowing I don’t plan to find the answer—I’m asking myself, “Could I do that?”

Trey Garrison is hard at work avoiding writing a book that’s been in his head for four years.

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