Ultimate Fighting Championship

Last night, sniffling with a fall cold and sure no one loved me, I watched two men fight on Spike TV. There was an obligatory dramatic documentary of their training and their family stories. There was the ritual posing and posturing as macho men who intended to be violent and show no mercy. There was the cage, the dramatic, spotlighted introduction, the raucous "Let's get ready to rumble" roar from the referee and the crowd's roar in response. Two eager, young, scared, fierce looking strong men leapt on each other to do their worst. One blonde, muscled and boyish, one a little older brunette who had determined to "hate" his opponent and bring all his ferocity to bear.

The two struggled mightily in the first five minute period, but the fight was even. No blood. Lots of wrestling and attempted kicking, elbows, fists, feet. However, the boyish blonde was staggered by a quick punch, then two quick knees to the head in the second period. He was knocked cold and lifeless. They brought an ice pack for his neck and some concerned attention from the trainers and a doctor. For a minute or two as he roused, he muttered over and over, "I didn't make it..." Then, to the surprise of all, he began to cry like a little boy. My heart ached for him. This was a young man who had devoted his life to being good enough to "make it" and he was now crying like his dream, maybe even his life, was over. Such pain. Such sadness.

My thought? This is about fatherhood. This is about manhood, misunderstood.
More tomorrow.