With one swift blow to the head, he was down and out.
For only four seconds. Then he stood up and wobbled back and forth a bit like a toddler standing first time. But it didn’t matter that he eventually found his balance. The referee called the match, and the fraternity brother’s chance for glory crumbled. It was only Thursday night, but Boxing Weekend was already taking its toll.
I didn’t enjoy watching this man fall on his face, potentially sacrificing his dignity. I didn’t like witnessing countless noses and lips break or bust, leaving smears of bright red blood on the opponent’s boxing gloves. The shouts of “He’s a p***y!” and “F*** him up!” sounded excessively crude, especially after the spit of one spectator sprayed my cheek. I didn’t like walking through the crowd of what seemed to be a thousand people, most of whom were intoxicated to some degree, hoping no one would fall on me or my camera.
I didn’t like any of it, but I went again on Friday.
When I couldn’t find a parking spot close to the building, I realized the previous night had simply been a mild taste of Boxing Weekend. The Expo Center smelled of sweat, spilled airplane bottles of Fireball Whisky and nacho cheese. The SAE gentlemen looked eager for another night of fights. Of course they did – this was their charity event and attendance was record-breaking.
An hour later, I left hoping one of the 600 photos I took would be worth the torture.
I braced myself for Saturday, the night 11 fraternity men would be presented with giant champion belts. The night some of the football team would show up and almost steal the show. The night I would see a grown man cry because his fraternity brother was victorious.
I drank some espresso and put on my lucky socks. I carpooled with Hayley Pennesi, a fellow photographer, in solidarity. I even brought two extra memory cards in case of emergency.
There was never an emergency.
There was an obvious desperation in the undercuts and left hooks of boxers fighting their way through 270 seconds. There was disappointment in the referees’ eyes every time they needed to interject. There was fury in the formidable faces of state troopers as they tried to keep the chaos of the crowd to a minimum. There was pride and passion in the kiss Trenton Elsten shared with his fiancee after he became the Junior Middleweight Champion.
There were a lot of things I’ll never see again. Things I never expected to see in the first place. And that’s why I went back each night: it was a spectacle, a glimpse into a world that I do not belong in.
A world I would re-enter as long as I could take my camera as a shield.
