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Fighting the Good Fight: Existing in the Combat Sports Subculture There is an element of beauty to pugilism that justifies the comparisons made to other arts. It is only fitting that the canvases Picasso and Monet used as the foundation of their finest works is the same material on which Muhammed Ali, Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Joe Calzaghe have painted their own stories with agility, power, stamina and technique. One of the most well-established and prominent subcultures of modern history is that of the combat sports enthusiast. Sociologist Dick Hebdige’s definition of subculture as the “noise” of a niche group of people complements the combat sports industry’s outspoken praise of physical contests that defy more conservative and family-friendly perspectives. Combat sports disturb the system of values on which standard social behaviour is based; condemning its loudest advocates to an existence grounded in criticism. In that adversity and isolation from others, the collective fanatics band together, becoming a vocal champion of combat sports. For individuals who define themselves by the limits they test, the combat sports subculture is a perfect medium that encourages the defiance of physical capabilities and mental weaknesses. Practitioners form rewarding relationships with like-minded lost souls along the way. Yet amidst the whispers of disapproval and cries for legal intervention, a social good has risen from the pariah’s playground. As a social concept, combat sports has bridged gaps seemingly irreparable in other areas of society. Among the most high profile is racial tension. When the Western world was mired in a dispute between oppressive white forces and black activists campaigning for civil rights in the twentieth century, boxing consistently recognized a string of African-Americans as the sport’s heavyweight champion of the world. Between 1959 and 1970, Floyd Patterson; Sonny Liston; Ernie Terrell and Muhammad Ali all held the gold championship belt in their dark hands. By lionizing professional fighters on the merits of their skill, instead of irrelevant criteria like wealth and ethnicity, purist combat sports fans affirmed their 1 distance from majority consensus racial ideology in early 1900s America. Despite its niche cultural status among the larger population of the Western world, I consider myself a firmly rooted part of this subculture. Initially attracted to combat sports by my passion for fitness and personal training, I gradually moved from the fringe of the subculture towards the centre through the media of watching shows, actively practicing mixed martial arts and writing for a news outlet. Combat sports appealed to my competitive drive and insatiable appetite for improvement; perhaps a genetic inheritance considering its place in my family’s history. My grandfather was an avid fan of boxing. Before arriving in England, which he eloped to to with my grandmother, he would attend the weekly fights that took place at the Crumlin Center in Dublin, Ireland. Studying medicine at the time, it was his ultimate guilty pleasure – watching men tactically decimate each other contradicted the mantras underlining his career in healthcare. Although my grandfather never formally boxed, the terraced homes that lined the streets of Cork in the 30s and 40s played host to countless scraps between the restless children residing there. Raised as a strict Catholic in one of the more deprived neighbourhoods, my grandfather’s frustrations would often escalate into fistfights, a common method for resolving disputes in the area. He was unafraid to let his knuckles speak for him. As a volatile adolescent, it was my grandfather’s experiences that helped him appreciate the aggression, agility and mental aptitude that Jack Dempsey, Gene Tunney, Joe Louis and other professionals exhibited between the ropes. Continuing tradition, I am often just as pugnacious and knowledgeable about the world of combat sports as my grandfather once was. We both defend boxing and mixed martial arts against stereotypes and criticisms as ill-informed as their speakers. Accusations of combat sports glorifying violence, exploiting less fortunate individuals and setting a negative moral example for younger generations fail to acknowledge the avenues for personal development in prizefighting. I follow my grandfather’s footsteps by leaping into long diatribes about the courage inherent in combat sports. I detail its romanticized portrayal of fear, how 2 the environment encourages one to surpass their physical, mental and social ailments using the body and mind. These qualities should shine bright like stars against the night sky. Walking into Liberty’s Gym, a rustic structure found somewhere in the doldrums of Nottingham’s streets, I let the controlled frenzy grip every one of my senses. Limbs crashed into bags and pads, reverberated a crisp sound off the high metal-panel ceiling. The irregular staccato percussion made a fitting soundtrack to the festivities, sporadically broken up by the dull buzz of a timer clock hanging loosely off the rear wall. Further inside, lines of twisted metal chains and rusted barbell plates lay on top of weathered surf-blue pads, creating a pathway to a weathered canvas ring. The building’s col dry air scratched at the back of my throat as I strapped on a pair of ‘house’ sparring gloves as damp and clammy as the matching headwear. I plugged in my mouthguard - still sour and gritty from days of collapsing into damp earth on the rugby field - and came out swinging. A left hand weaved past my guard, clashing against cheekbone. Vibrations rang through my skull leaving a distinct ringing sound that silenced cries of instruction from a gym regular outside the ring. Gingerly stepping back, the sour taste of iron filled my mouth as blood stained teeth. My heartbeat quickened and adrenaline pulses through my veins. Eerily satisfying. A momentary setback is a valuable lesson learned. My passion had been ignited. I was a member of the inner circle. Back in the changing room, the sweat-soaked tank top is thrown to the floor. Walking down the corridor, I catch a glimpse of my face in a window pane. Matted hair, a red complexion and notable swelling blemish the face in front of me. I can’t help but smile, savouring the last drips of endorphin while I can. The grin will be gone tomorrow morning. This is my free time. 3 .

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