Fight Club

7.7.2008

By Mark Simpson

'AAAYYYYYYYYAYYYYEAAAAAAA-AAHHAAAARGH!!!'

The Bell Centre outdoes itself as Georges St.-Pierre, surrounded by his lieutenants, makes his way to the stage in a natty red jujitsu jacket. Climbing into the Octagon, he peels off his silky, tight black T-shirt. He pulls off his trousers -- he sports tight black trunks with just a white fleur-de-lis on the side of his firm right buttock. It matches the tasteful tattoo on the back of his steely calf.

Cheers turn to boos. Matt Serra has arrived in a baggy black T-shirt with big white lettering: BUY GUNS SELL GUNS -- GUNSAMERICA.COM. The stats on the big screen make difficult reading for Serra: GSP is taller and younger and has a longer reach. Also, he is more popular and better-looking and has nicer pants. He's the favorite in every way.

The bell rings, and they touch gloves. In a flash St.-Pierre has Serra on the canvas. All that frustration, regret, resolve, training -- and heart -- have exploded. All over Serra. To tire him out, St.-Pierre lets him get up, keeping him within range of his own fists but out of Serra's. Then he takes him down again. St.-Pierre's purposeful, ominous shoulders rise up like medieval armor, like Joan of Arc's.

End of round 1. Serra's eye is swelling up badly. He looks beaten already.

Round 2. Plucky Serra tries a kick.

St.-Pierre catches it and takes Serra down. After Serra stands up again, St.-Pierre lets fly a barrage of punches. Serra is too groggy to parry them. St.-Pierre -- part panther, part lethal dancer -- comes in for the kill, easily taking his opponent down again. Serra offers his back, and St.-Pierre knees him repeatedly, athletically, professionally in the ribs.

The ref stops the match, and it's all over: technical knockout. Canada has won. Montreal has beaten Long Island. The butterflies flew in formation. Terrifying formation. And judging by the noise from the crowd, the entire world and its dad have just climaxed.

A grinning St.-Pierre executes a winning somersault. The crowd chants, 'Fuck you, Serra! Fuck you, Serra!' He has been fucked. He was fucked. He is fucked. He is without any doubt the fuckee. But he exhibits no resentment. The warriors embrace warmly, another kiss from GSP to that huge neck. Serra holds St.-Pierre's arm up for the crowd, hoists him on his shoulder, and carries him for a few staggering steps.

If MMA is gay porn for straight men, then tonight a part of me wonders whether, for all its spilled blood and mashed faces, it isn't the better kind. After all, no one could really accuse gay porn of having 'heart.'

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