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black dress, but she can’t be too comfortable
seeing that most of the people in attendance didn’t even bother wearing a
shirt.
    “So do women like never
come to these things or what?” she asks.
    “Women are here all the
time,” I tell her. “They make up almost half our fights.”
    “That’s sick!” Ash
blurts.
    “How so?” I ask.
    “You make women fight for
your entertainment?” I ask.
    “First off, we don’t make
anyone fight,” I tell her. “Second off, we’re not going to bar a whole gender
from a sport. That’s incredibly sexist, don’t you think?”
    Yeah, this isn’t going
how I’d hoped. I’m just crossing my fingers that she starts to have a little
more fun when the first fight gets going. We don’t have to wait long to find
out.
    The first match is
between two bantamweight guys who end up talking crap to each other for most of
the first round. By the time the first punch is thrown, Ash is ready to go.
    “I don’t think I’m ever
going to understand this. How many points do they get for leveling criticism at
their opponent?” she asks.
    “None,” I tell her. “Some
guys do that to puff themselves up, but most people who get in there have a
little better sense than that.”
    “Okay, so what we’re
really here to see is the violence?” she asks.
    A couple of heads turn in
our direction, each with a single eyebrow raised.
    “We like to think of it
more as sport than simple violence,” I tell her and the people eavesdropping on
our conversation turn back toward the fight.
    In the middle, the two
guys are into their second round and the one with the long, blond hair is
getting pounded by the one with the spiked, black hair. I don’t know these two.
I’ve never seen them before and there’s a decent chance I never will again.
    A lot of people come here
the first time and either they don’t get to fight so they lose interest, or
they’re so viciously mocked before, during, and after the fight, they can’t
bring themselves to come back.
    Imagine:   Someone spends hours in the gym every week,
years with trainers or coaches or senseis—often all of the above—and when it
comes down to it, they decide taunting strangers are too great an obstacle to
overcome.
    Amateurs.
    Longhaired blond guy
manages to get to his feet and he catches black spiky hair guy hard on the
chin, the latter’s knees buckling with the loss of consciousness.
    The crowd of about two
dozen erupts and Ash is covering her ears. If I can get her to stay for at
least another fight or two, I have no doubt she’s going to start getting into
it.
    A lot of people are
turned off by MMA the first time they see it because it’s so brutal, but the
people who give it enough of a chance almost invariably end up hooked. I just
need to find some way to convince her that it’s worth it.
    The initial burst from
the crowd has died down, but the basement is far from quiet as over twenty
voices all try to talk over each other.
    Ash is still covering her
ears, and I’m not entirely sure what to do here. I give her a pat on the
shoulder to let her know that I’m still here and she turns toward me, hands
over her ears, yelling, “How many more fights are there?”
    “I’m not sure,” I answer.
“We’ll go until the energy levels start to drop. It could be as few as five, as
many as ten.”
    “What?” she asks,
partially uncovering one of her ears.
    “It’ll be going for a few
more hours,” I tell her.
    “Oh,” she says. “Do we
have to stay the whole time?”
    Only a few people turned
before, but with Ash’s question, nearly the whole basement is looking in our
direction. It’s not a response of anger, but one of confusion.
    Why would someone be here
who didn’t want to be here and how the hell did they get in?
    The answer, obviously, is
that I could see myself really getting into Ash as we get to know each other
better, and I don’t want her to run for the hills before we’ve had that chance
just because I