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A few friends of mine train Muay Thai kickboxing at the Church Street Boxing Gym. On Friday night they took me uptown to see some fights put on by the gym. The last time I saw live boxing was a memorable experience: my father took me to see an up and coming Riddick Bowe fight journeyman Elijah Tillery at the old D.C. Convention Center. The fight ended abruptly when a round went about a minute long (for some inexplicable reason), and the fighters kept throwing after the bell. Tillery kicked Bowe twice before being flipped over the ropes by Bowe’s volatile manager, Rock Newman. He landed on a ringside table, was knocked unconscious and wound up permanently injuring a woman sitting at the table who would go on to work for my mother ten years later. There was a rush toward the ring from within the raucous, general admission crowd and a brawl started soon after. While my father whisked me away to safety, someone was shot and killed outside. It was a long time before they allowed professional boxing in D.C. again.

There were no brawls or shootings on Friday, but the evening was entertaining nonetheless. I can’t imagine there being a more testosterone-infused crowd than the one that comes out for boxing/kickboxing. There is a lot of chanting and yelling, hip-hop blasting between rounds and fights, and ring girls showered with catcalls. The only thing missing was scraps of raw meat thrown out to the audience. They did have hot dogs, though. And beer, of course.

I briefly considered wearing my Renzo Gracie Jiu-Jitsu shirt before realizing that this was an idea with more negative than positive potential. I probably would have been fine, but without the anonymity that I usually enjoy. There was a large contingency of Extreme Jiu-Jitsu loyalists, who my friend Ryan referred to as the Kobra Kai of the local Muay Thai scene. When one of their own was in the ring, they all chanted "Ex-treme! Ex-treme!" while crossing their arms in X-formation.

The event was held in the huge basement of a church, because that’s a perfectly appropriate place for people to beat each other in front of a rowdy crowd. I guess there’s always someone on hand to give last rights, if necessary. The room, while sufficient in size and layout, lacked air conditioning, making it an almost unbearable place to stand shoulder to shoulder with bloodthirsty fans. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for the fighters, many of whom gassed after only a round.

The fights were entertaining for the most part, but why anyone would present boxing and kickboxing on the same card is beyond me. Kickboxing, with its knees, kicks and lack of referee intervention simply blows boxing out of the water. Five years from now, when the UFC has fully eclipsed boxing and is finally receiving favorable mainstream media coverage, this will be one of the main reasons. One of the few Muay Thai fights ended via vicious knockout from a head kick that left the recipient needing medical attention and the crowd wanting more. There were several competitive fights, including two women’s boxing matches, one of which involved a woman so furious with her corner-man for throwing in the towel that I thought she was going to hit him. The main event featured my friends’ coach who, after entering to the theme music from Conan The Barbarian in traditional Muay Thai attire, quickly dispatched of an overwhelmed opponent with a series of brutal knees.

After saying goodnight to my friends, I headed out, sweat-soaked, into the night. Manhattan air had never felt so refreshing. I was glad I went, though, and plan on doing it again, but only for a full night of Muay Thai. One of my favorite things about living in New York is the incomprehensibility of all that’s going on. On any given night you can walk by a church without realizing that hundreds of people are watching two combatants pummel each other in the basement. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.