Thirty-two is greater than or equal to one
A fuzzy picture of a flyer was the impetus: It read “open ring boxing,” music and BYOB, all for $20. It was less than a mile from my house. It was promoting the 32nd anniversary party of East Bay Rats Motorcycle club.
I had never seen boxing before. I read Fat City once and that felt like the closest I would ever get to the real thing. This event, in an unassuming business that had billows of people awaiting entry, was brought to you by my backpack of free beer. We took our places near the front of the ring. I had invited my friend S, and we looked like Bomb Pops® in the crowd full of black hoodies.
This was a proper competition. This was a community of people who facilitated a space to punch someone in the face. The music was heavy and present. One fighter was in his 50’s and won against a much larger and younger person. After his bout, I gave him an icy cold backpack beer as his prize. He went on to fight again. He sweat right through his jeans. Behind me for a little bit were two friends that were riffing off each other. I chatted with them and they plugged their radio show without skipping a beat. It’s a West Bay radio station, Black on Black on Black.
I yelled. I cheered. I heckled until my voice hurt. I am cursed by the heckle, it takes over me. It found me in Division 2 bleachers. It found me right there on San Pablo Ave. I was optimistic that none of the boxers could hear my shouts, but S wasn’t so lucky. S suggested that a member of the Rats take off his jacket while he was fighting. S was worried about his thermodynamics. E, the fighter, was insulted. They resolved it. I gave E a beer after his bouts(!) and he explained to me how he had built the ring that very morning.
A fighter had to stop fighting because his shoulder decided to … dislocate. The refs were vigilant. One ref chomped on Red Vines® while he officiated bouts. They offered mouthguards to anyone who would fight. Most fighters brought their own. The halftime show came on. The heavy music stopped. My ears rang in response. A speaker played music for the performance.
Surgical tubing. Playing cards. A stapler. A stapler. An axe. An Angle grinder. An Angle grinder.
The crowd was dense. Dense with boxing lovers, flyer finders, heavy music folk and even some radio show hosts. I made a wager on a fight. I was drunk. I lost. The guy begged me that I didn’t have to pay him. I insisted on paying. I deserved a penalty. We walked back home. It would not have been possible without E who built the ring. I am also grateful for the evening’s sponsors, my backpack full of free beer. Happy Anniversary East Bay Rats. Same time next year?
