CAGE FIGHT SHOWS GOOD MANNERS

The line outside a symphony hall finds civilized people on their best behavior, looking good and full of hope for a night to remember.

It’s a well-dressed crowd on Broadway, a shuffling queue of elites found in cities around the world where even a mugger might receive a gracious thank you.

By elite, I mean a crowd that looks timeless, classical music timeless.

Are they any different than the crowd lined up on 6th and Burnside for a “Rumble At The Roseland?”

Take away the saw-toothed mohawks and neck tattoos and ignore the former boxers, brawlers and wrestlers with an edge toward violence. What’s left are the same moms and dads, friends and fans, you find going to The Schnitz for a show.

Everyone has the same goal: see a great show.

One minor difference is the weapons search at the Roseland.

Emotions run high for the cage fight crowd. Where a classical soloist misses a note without fear of gunfire from the audience, a cage fighter deserves the same protection.

Leave the guns and knives at home, bro.

Some folks balk at even attending what’s been called ‘human chicken fighting.’ They need a good reason, I need a good reason. Seeing a friend’s son on fight-night was reason enough.

If you go for one fight, you’ll stay for them all. It is a gripping reality that gives new life to old lessons.

One cage fight painted the entire evening.

The first contestant quietly entered the cage and waited.

His opponent sent a personal rapper to the cage first, then entered dancing, a 6-foot-6, 280-pound hoofer.

During the match, dancer jabbed and bloodied his opponent. He knew the game. Then the bleeder landed an accidental throat punch that brought the evening into focus.

Dancer went down, gripping his neck, thrashing.

His opponent didn’t notice the injury and jumped him. The referee pulled him off with hard force to send the man flying backward; the alert safety crew had already unlocked the cage and he fell out while they ran in.

Shaking and convulsing like a man dying, or one getting his trachea re-adjusted, the dancer eventually stood and fought on. At the end, he accepted defeat on the judges’ scorecards.

He lost his match but not his manners.

The two bloodied fighters embraced each other as if they’d just finished a friendly game of horse shoes.

Would they ever be friends, or was it just fear that brought them together.

I’d like to hear them retell the match.

“I didn’t mean to punch you in the throat.”

“And I didn’t mean to mess up up.”

A cage fight is a good place to see grown men turn scrappy, then return to normal.

It’s the ‘normal’ part that needs a better look.