We Gotta Fight for Our Right to…Fight?

The first (and only) rule about Fight Night, readers, is do not talk about Fight Night. Otherwise, you’re going to end up looking in a box with Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in it.

Wait, no. Sorry. I’m mixing up my Brad Pitt movie references. Seriously, though, you are not supposed to talk about Fight Night.

So, naturally, we’re going to talk about Fight Night (I know. I’m ever the rabble-rouser. I blame public schools and violent video games.).

After successfully completing my first official week of winter term, I needed a proper way to unwind. I love Asian cinema as much the next gal, readers, but there is a limit to the amount of subtitles I can handle. I reached it this week somewhere between the fourth and fifth movies we watched, entirely in Cantonese with subtitles in a florescent yellow color that is basically what conga lines embody, if you were to sum that up with only one color.

But, I digress.

So after a week of this, I was on the lookout for a way to spend my Friday night that was a delightful change of pace from the rest of my week. Instead of watching a group of Chinese assassins kill each other with the power of only their minds (from the movie Hero, on the shelf of your local Blockbuster, in case you were wondering), I watched my fellow classmates suit up in their Rocky Balboa-inspired getups and punch the living daylights out of one another.

Welcome to college, kids.

This wasn’t a ruthless act of gang violence, mind you (despite what Westside Story has led me to believe, stuff like that doesn’t happen. Seriously. I’ve been alive almost two decades and not once has someone broken into spontaneous, choreographed violence set to a jaunty tune. Not once.). Fight Night is a rather ingenious fundraiser put on by both C of I and Caldwell High School. Everyone knows that Americans prefer their entertainment to blood-filled (the higher chance of someone losing a molar, the more ready we are to throw our money at it), so why not put together an event indulging that? So for the low cost of only $10, I found myself in the bleachers watching a kid from my poetry class deliver a wicked uppercut to the boy from my First Year Seminar while I ate popcorn.

It. Was. Awesome.

All the fighters volunteer and are comprised of a mixture of C of I/CHS guys and girls, suited up in protective gear and spitting in a bucket (Something I had originally thought was only a thing they did in the movies. Nope. Totally happens all the time and is just as disgusting as you would anticipate.).

There was a weird, sort of manic energy that ran throughout the crowd. It’s almost as if we all, collectively, reverted back to the time of our ancestors, when we would sit in the coliseum watching gladiators go at it against lions, tigers, and bears. It was a unique experience, to say the least. No one was eaten by lions at this event, though. Not yet. There is always next time.

In other news, I’m taking a badminton class in addition to my Asian cinema class. And, much to my overwhelming shame, I am already sore from the brief two days of play we have had: my quads burn something fierce, my knees ache, and my forearms protest each movement. I know, I am an embarrassment. But, come on, I’m a writer! Not an athlete. I’m gifted in other areas, please believe me.  

I’m off to finish an essay on the unification of warring China (please try to contain your jealousy, readers.).

-Ashley A. Miller

Ashley is a sophomore Creative Writing major from Payette, Idaho.