A home for 'human cockfighting'

~OFF's Richard Cason observes the beginning of a bloody new scene

ROUND ONE

For the last two weeks of this past January Cape Girardeau was the fighting mecca of Southeast Missouri; not "boxing" fighting but "fighting" fighting -- mixed martial arts, kickboxing, wrestling and good old trading punches to the face. It is amazing that what was once banned in 49 states is now family entertainment. Of course, this style of fighting had to water itself down in order to hit the big-time. No more elbow smashes, eye-gouging, or kicking a man while he's down; still dangerous but not nearly as violent i.e., entertaining.

This "cleaning-up" of the sport is partly in response to a comment made by Sen. John McCain (R-AZ) in 1995 when he referred to ultimate fighting as "human cockfighting". A few years later the sport's main promotion, UFC, almost went bankrupt; then some "investors" stepped in and bought UFC, banned the fighting tactics mentioned above, got a TV deal with Spike, went mainstream, and now mixed martial arts gyms can be found almost anywhere. The end. Not really.

So on Jan. 20, the Absolute Fighting Challenge was held at the Cape Girardeau Eagles. OFF had procured for me a pretty sweet V.I.P. ticket to this thing. It was my understanding that very important people (me) who were in attendance would receive free drinks, a steak dinner and a seat alongside Mayor Jay Knudtson while grown men tried to murder each other before our very eyes.

I arrived at the Eagles fairly "prepared" for the evening's festivities; in retrospect, probably a little too prepared because I kept thinking I was at one of my ex-girlfriend's bank Christmas parties which were always held at an Eagles, VFW, or K.C. Hall. "That she-beast is out of your life now", I kept telling myself. "Remember, this is fight night". I composed myself and made it to the entrance. At the admissions booth I presented my V.I.P. ticket to the nice lady and she summoned the Eagles president. After some awkward pleasantries were exchanged he lead me into the entertainment hall which was filled with folks and smoke. On our way to the V.I.P. section the prez introduced me to my scantily-clad waitress who asked how I liked my steak. I replied, "I want my steak medium rare, my SoCo and Coke stiff and I want them now... chop-chop."

I was seated next to a former radio colleague of mine, Randall Lee, who hosts a weekly bluegrass show here in town. I asked him where the Mayor was and he said that he hadn't seen him but heard that at some point he would be there. The weak drink arrived followed by the steak which tasted like it had been boiled for two hours but, hey, it was free. I horsed it down, drank the drink and excused myself for a smoke break but not before my spidey-sense told me that evil was somewhere in the building, then I saw him; my archenemy, the overalls-wearing yokel in the state trooper hat. Completely ignoring him, I went outside, prepared myself once more and returned ready for action.

I didn't know that bushels of corn was still legal tender in these parts but there was the Yokel and his whole farming family sitting in the V.I.P. section as well.

The event was co-sponsored by some boxing/fighting gym out of Sikeston and the first match would be two combatants from that gym. Fighting out the blue corner, a 13-year-old girl! And fighting out of the red corner, a 16-year-old girl!

Both teens were in full sparring gear and didn't look very into it at all, especially the older girl. So here they were fighting in front of a predominantly male audience and the younger gal was taking it to the sixteen year old, even getting in a couple of late hits after the "referee" split them up. I looked at Randall and asked, "Is this right? I mean, should we be here watching this"?

He didn't appear that sure of the event either. I thought we were going to see the real deal, not a couple of kids putting on a weird show for some sexed-up men. Finally, thankfully, that match was over with the younger girl "winning." Next match: some more kids! Screw this, I thought as I went outside for a smoke.

When I came back inside, it was time for -- you guessed it -- more fighting children!

In this corner, some 19-year-old boy who was going to try out for the U.S. Olympic Boxing Team … and in this corner, a 13-year-old boy. Sure, the younger boy was as big as his opponent but this older kid had been training for years and naturally, he made short work of him. This was just getting stupid and it was only going to get more stupid as the manager of the Eagles and the Yokel entered the ring and slogged through some ridiculous sketch about who could out-talk who. From what I understand, once a week she comes on his five-hour radio infomercial and they pick on each other; and during this time, if I had to guess, radio dials all over the listening area are simultaneously switched over to the "off" position. Their little playlet was made entertaining only when someone threw some boxing gloves into the ring. I was hoping against hope that the Eagles manager would lace them up and knock the Yokel on his ass but it never happened. Screw this, I thought once more as I went outside for a smoke.

When I returned there was some actual fighting with actual fighters from Arkansas, St. Louis, Illinois and other places. I saw that the Mayor decided to show up, but rather than sit with the V.I.P.s he was among the commoners down on the floor. I returned to my seat as Randall Lee was leaving; he said he had had enough excitement for one evening. If two men hugging violently was excitement then I surmised that I had probably had enough as well. I did manage to make it to the last fight which resulted in a stone cold knockout -- the conclusion that one wished all of the bouts could have had. I don't remember who was whom but someone in camouflage was laid out on the ring apron and EMTs were rushing to his aid.

ROUND TWO

The next week was Devastation Fight Night at A.C. Brase Arena. I arrived early and there was still an electric feeling in the air: Promoters getting things in order, sound checks, lighting tests, the whole thing.

The first fighter I interviewed was Torry Bogness from the Quad Cities of Iowa and Illinois. He would be going up against Ricky McKee from Festus, Mo., for the Devastation Fight Club Light Heavyweight Championship. It was a brand new title which had no holder but one of those two would be the first. I asked Torry if he was nervous and he said that he wasn't. There was a certain vacancy in his eyes that, for me, indicated he had already won his fight; carrying it out in the physical realm was only a formality.

Mark Brackett was from either Fredericktown or Farmington; I can never keep those two towns straight. He was fighting Steve Woeneke also from either Fredericktown or Farmington and the winner of that fight would return to the Brase Arena in March for the DFC Heavyweight Championship. When Mark wasn't training he worked construction and he looked every bit like it. Unlike the welterweights and featherweights whom I sized up and decided that I would have, at least, a fighting chance against ... this cat could rip about four of me apart as he brushed his teeth in the morning.

Steve Woeneke had an interesting story. He was 50 years old, had never competed professionally before but had wanted to for about 10 years while he worked as a corrections officer. Where Brackett probably went about 6'2", 235, Woeneke was around 6'6" and was at least 260. He had been training for months for this one fight because according to him, Mark Brackett was feared in at least four counties. If he won this fight, his family would let him continue.

At 6:30 the place opened to the public and in no time at all it was packed. As the people filled the seats, the lights were dimmed and it really started to feel like an event. In the middle of the floor was the chain link octagon shaped cage, a ramp leading from the cage to the stage where the fighters would enter, fake fog and a giant flat screen on each side of the entrance gate. It could've been on television if the event was a little better organized.

What was supposed to start at 8:00 finally started around 8:25. The ring announcer, Tony the Sicilian Assassin, entered the ring and started working the crowd. "You ready for some devastation", he asked the crowd who released a "yeaahhhhhhhh"!

The Assassin said, "No you're not! Now lemme hear ya -- YOU READY FOR SOME DEVASTATION"? "YEAAHHHHHHHH", the crowd roared. Then for no reason he broke into a James Brown-like dance in the middle of the cage. "That's right, brother -- You know it! That's how the Assassin gets down"! Alrighty, then.

During the fights there were camera guys standing atop ladders on opposite sides of the cage and the images they were capturing were projected onto the giant screens on the stage. They also happened to obscure the view when the fighters got behind the camera guys resulting in, "Get off the damn ladder! I paid for a fight not some jerk on a ladder", every five seconds. The Missouri National Guard was there and in between fights they went up into the audience and gave away free "Guardware". Among these trinkets were little nerf-like footballs which served as the perfect ammunition to throw at camera guys on ladders, which is exactly what happened. Every time one of them whizzed by, the camera operator would turn around and flip off the audience.

It was time for the Light Heavyweight Championship bout. Torry Bogness was introduced first and like a man possessed he ran down the ramp and into the cage desperately wanting to hurt Ricky McKee. Ricky McKee, on the other hand, strolled casually to the cage in his hooded bathrobe. The bell rang and Bogness completely snapped on McKee. In about 51 seconds of the first round Bogness beat the living bejesus out of him, getting the knockout, leaving McKee looking like Beetle Bailey after the Sarge got a hold of him. As EMTs and the ringside physician were tending to him, Bogness did his victory … whatever you would call it, around the cage.

Then there was a peculiar series of no-shows. The Assassin would introduce fighters and they simply did not appear. I don't know if it was stage fright, fight fright, or what, but there plenty of awkward pauses as an introduction would be made, four or five minutes would pass and then nothing. As the Assassin was starting to lose his voice he managed a hoarse, "We're gonna take a fifteen minute break and then we'll be back with more DEVASTATION"!

Even though I had nothing to prepare myself for this event, I finally had to go outside, for apparently the Brase Arena doesn't have a "no smoking" policy and if they did, it was not being enforced. One almost needed a fog lamp just to cut through the haze.

The break was over and there were a few more really quick tap-outs, a few more no-shows and then the main event: Brackett Vs. Woeneke. Woeneke had more of an old guy gut whereas Brackett looked as though he was on the same regimen as Ivan Drago from Rocky IV. Woeneke might have trained for this fight and trained hard but Brackett obviously trained harder. No sooner had the bell rang did Brackett throw a left, gaining some air in doing so. It didn't connect and Woeneke managed to grapple with Brackett a little before they both broke free. Once apart, with renewed vigor Brackett came at him and Woeneke, at the risk of him reading this and snapping me in two, looked a little worried; worried enough to lose his footing and Brackett took full advantage. After a left and a right and a right and a left it was the end of the first round. Woeneke's family looked concerned, as they should have. In fact, I'm not sure they wanted him to back for the second round. It didn't matter, as soon as the bell for round two was sounded the doctor stopped the fight due to a cut above Steve Woeneke's left eye.

"It's over", one audience member asked himself. Another cried, "Well, that was lame" while someone else yelled "Get off the damn ladder"! Trying to beat the crowd I made a break for it.

Judging by the attendance of both events it looks like Cape Girardeau will be a regular stop on the fighting circuit. If there aren't any in town already, I predict that fight clubs will spring-up all over the area. I also predict that a lot of UFC wannabes will find out that they are not nearly as tough as they think they are. In closing, for this sport to be described as "human cockfighting" is a little off the mark; fighting chickens wear sharpened spurs on the ankles and typically fight to the death. If you ask me ultimate fighting could use some sharpened spurs.