Violence begets violence

And a damned good thing it does, too:

Commenter Zarathustra noted in my previous post taking to task the pile of horripilation that we know of as "soccer" (one of several on the subject, actually), that real men prefer to watch bloodsport, if we have to watch it at all.

I heartily concur.

I write that as someone who actually participates in a form of bloodsport, albeit at a far tamer level than what you see in UFC fights. What I do doesn't quite involve people trying to KTFO of each other, but it's not far off either. Yes, we wear 14oz or 16oz boxing gloves, instead of 4oz MMA gloves, and yes, we do use shin protection when doing proper sparring sessions.

But a shinbone to the thigh- or, worse, the neck- still hurts like hell even with padding.

Just yesterday I was asked to spar, pretty much all-out, against a guy nearly a foot taller than me- and I'm a few centimetres off six-foot myself. Two minutes of boxing, and two minutes of kick-boxing, against a guy with the wingspan of a freakin' albatross.

My Lord but it was fun.

I didn't get out unscathed, of course. He nailed me with a solid right hook that rang my bell pretty hard, and then when I had him cornered in a clinch to cut off his reach, he hit me with a solid knee straight in my left quadriceps muscle.

That was on top of the bone bruise on my right elbow from a sparring class two hours earlier, and all of my existing long-term injuries that I have to work through no matter what, and the fact that Wednesday is leg-day in the squat rack for me.

I do not pretend to be good at fighting, by the way- not even slightly. Against the average untrained idiot on the street, sure, I reckon I could probably hold my own, depending on size, speed, and age. (This is helped somewhat by the fact that I always have something that can be turned into a weapon, if required, on my person.) But against trained killers? Forget it. I'd be just as dead as any other victim.

And I am constantly reminded of my shortcomings as a fighter by the savage way in which our school's grandmaster can simply pick apart my techniques just by watching me throw a few punches and kicks. Sparring against more skilled and higher-ranked students is always an education, delivered in most brutal and summary fashion, usually at the end of a well-placed fist or foot.

The difference between me and most professional "football" players is that when I get punched or kicked or kneed, I don't flop about on the mat whining and crying about how unfaaaaaaaaaair that big bad meanie was for hitting me. I'll leave that to girls, thank you very much.

Or, y'know, pro European soccer players.

The point is that Euroweenies who insist that "football" is a man's game, really ought to stop diving for the ground in order to score free points, and start learning what taking real impact feels like. They should learn what it means to put one's health, safety, and consciousness into the hands of another person when in a headlock or armbar or kneebar.

Then, and only then, will I be willing to listen to the flopping pansies who dive for the pitch every time someone so much as breathes on them.

It should be noted here that I make special exceptions to this rule for men like our Supreme Dark Lord (PBUH) who has been playing "soccer" for something like 40 years, and has trained in full-contact martial arts, and has fought actual cage-fights. I certainly have no problem listening to men like that talking about how great football is- but that is because they aren't pansies.


  1. You follow the thought to its noble end. Better than watching bloodsport is to participate, to throw down. I train in a boxing gym near Queens Plaza. I'm in my 40s, so I'm not about to compete in Golden Gloves. That's a younger man's game. (Master's League is a different story) But the training, the work I put in, giving as good as getting... MAN.

    Because in the beginning stages, when one gets his first licks to the head, liver, etc., there's this social conditioning that has to be overcome. This person who just caught me good and hard is not my enemy. He does not hate me. He is my friend or is definitely friendly. We are working together helping ourself and each other to get better at the art. Yet each millimeter of respect is earned, it's not given for free at all. Strong friendships are forged in the ring. And ya don't have to say some nonsense like "No Homo".

    Just imagine if young boys roll or spar instead of insipid watered-down BS gym activities. Who knows, maybe we wouldn't have to spy these white boy poofters walking around town.

    1. Yeah, I try to live by what I preach. Not always successfully, of course, but I think I do better than most.

      Studying martial arts changed my life. I went from being a reasonably strong guy who had never thrown a real punch or kick in his life, to a man who loves nothing better than to go a few rounds with guys intent on hitting hard- and then go out with them for a beer afterwards.

      In the process I have become far stronger, calmer, more mentally resilient, and self-aware. I have largely gotten over my old fear of weapons and combat, because I know what real fighting feels like and have some idea how to handle myself. It is just as I wrote a few years ago: men NEED to learn how to fight, in order to be men.

      The men that I fight with are not my enemies. They are indeed my friends- my brothers. I would do anything for them, because they and I share the special respect and bond that only warriors can know.


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