In the end, we lamented that we hadn’t just gone to some boring Georgetown party with a boring keg of Rolling Rock and boring plastic cups, where we would have talked to some boring companions. Instead, we got just what we had wished for.
One Wednesday evening, my friend Sean Kulkarni entered the New South restroom to wash his hands before dinner. As he stood at the sink, his eyes wandered the walls, perusing the penciled offerings. His eyes found a genuinely enticing advertisement, which read: “For a good time, call 410-850-0113.” Known for discretion, Kulkarni said nothing about his findings at dinner. But as he is also known for his curiosity, we were not surprised when he approached us the next evening with a taunting question:
“Yo, you guys want to have a good time Saturday night or what?”
“Fortune favors the brave. And God watches out for fools.”?Traditional
On Saturday evening, as we barreled down I-95 towards Brooklyn, Md., we weren’t quite sure what we were. But we tried to think brave thoughts. “Amateur boxing,” Kulkarni had said, not really minding the wheel in true Jersey form. “They box because they love it. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, boys.”
Surprisingly, the scene at the Brooklyn Boxing Club resembled that of an innocent junior high basketball game. Boxers between the ages of nine and 20, concerned mothers, fathers with cameras, 13-year-old girls admiring their 15-year-old crushes, and Coke and pretzels being sold for honest prices in the wings all suggested innocence and athleticism. But the tiny ring in the center cut through any illusions. We were all here to see blood spilled, and spilled blood we would see.
After a few uneven bouts, an ugly acne-ridden pug of a 15-year-old crept into the ring with a more athletic but less striking opponent. This would be messy, I felt; the ugly child who gnashed his teeth and grimaced at the crowd seemed destined to have his face rearranged. Indeed, one round was enough to break open this sorry child’s nose, and blood streamed out as if from a faucet. But the angry little pug only grew angrier, spouting curses everywhere. One more round, and the faucet became a waterfall, which finally stopped the round much to everyone’s relief. Then some hagglers in the audience said something the ugly little loser did not like, and he unleashed a loud and resonant curse at the visitors’ corner.
The thin red line had been crossed. A 30-year-old, gold-chain-wearing mustachioed man stood up, and in a heavy Maryland accent responded in kind to the young boxer, and then proceeded to march around the ring, candidly stating his intentions to “tear [the kid’s] nose right off.” We yelped with glee at the commotion, shook our fists in the air and called for justice, but in secret, we feared the outcome. These people like guns, we thought. These people have no respect for life. These are people weaned on Jerry Springer. This is the real America now. I tried to keep my wits about me, wishing I’d brought my taser.
Fortunately, pug was saved by the referee, who loudly admonished the renegade father with the help of some leather-clad Ivans-for-hire, who ultimately brought some order to the room and some disorder to the renegade father’s face (at least, that was the stated threat).
The fights continued. During an especially nasty bout, the Brooklyn favorite named “Josh” repeatedly head-butted the visiting boxer. My friend Gladbach decided he would be damned before he let disaster occur, and insisted on marching up to the visitor’s corner to let him know that he had his back. “I will not be complacent!” he explained, swatting at us as we tried in vain to pull him back to his seat. Just before the fourth round began, Gladbach snuck up to the dazed young fighter, grabbed him on the shoulder and screamed over the crowd, “You can DO it, dog!” The visitor knocked the cheating Josh out in the next round, and we grudgingly congratulated Gladbach for his commitment to justice.
As if to prove that love transcends all, Gladbach then insisted on flirting with one of the two female boxers in the house, an 18-year-old Maryland girl named Meredith. The crush came to a screeching halt, however, when she finally got in the ring. As she belted her poor opponent, a child who was draped over the ropes in her corner loudly screamed, “Punch her in the kisser, mom!” Soon, led by Gladbach, we headed for the door.
A Baltimore Hooters welcomed us with open arms and fed us good wings and cheap beer. But we could not shake the fear that behind the bulging shirts and knowing smiles lurked monsters, ready to lie, cheat, have our kids and break our noses. We had seen the blood we sought, but the bitter pill was hard to swallow: We too were just brutes, looking for some good old-fashioned sex and blood, but we were weak. We were not boxers, and we trembled at the bloodlust of the people with whom we’d briefly mingled. We were butterballs, made fat and weak by comforts. We knew now that we were not all that brave.
Which meant that we were fools. And God has different, weirder plans for us.
Brendan Franich is a senior in the School of Foreign Service. He’s gone to great lengths to expand his threshold of pain.
