The Cage Fight

 (© Peter Sackett)

A few weeks ago, while hanging out with the old folks at the Brunswick Trugo Club, I met a photojournalist named Paul Jeffers. He'd taken an interest in the game much the same way I had-- having noticed its oddness and vulnerability-- and decided to start documenting the sport and its players. Before long, we were sharing ideas for other subjects we thought might make good stories. My experience as a supernumerary in La Boheme was one that I came up with. One of Paul's was to follow a 24-year-old Samoan cagefighter named Mikey Ventou'ua as he prepared for his first professional match.
Cagefighting ranks mighty low on my list of interests, varied as they may be. Conversely, it ranks very high on my list of things I don't care a lick about. But I do like a change of pace, and the design writing schtick is feeling pretty stale these days. Sure, I said, let's see what happens.

At ringside with beer.

We met Mikey briefly at his friend's barber shop in Glenroy, about 20 minutes north of the Melbourne CBD. Mikey is short and bright-eyed, and muscly in a way that reminds one of balloon animals. He was getting his hair cut in preparation for the fight; according to Mikey, this was a ritual. Considering this was the eve of his first bout, though, I wasn't sure how fixed a tradition this could have been; maybe he just looked forward to it becoming one. The next night Paul and I, having obtained media passes, drove to down to Geelong to watch the match, which was being held at the local arena.

The place swarmed with people who looked like extras borrowed from "Strictly Ballroom" and "The Road Warrior"-- among the ladies, cheetah-print stretch pants appeared in more-than-average numbers, even for Australia; scrawny, sunburned men with Red Bull baseball caps aggressively sucked cigarettes from pinched fingers; and among all, there were mongrel assortments of tattoos, infected-looking ear and neck piercings, and hair chopped and shaved into mangey patchworks.

Good day for Mikey; bad day for my hair.

Paul and I were concerned that we weren't going to enjoy this at all. We'd agreed that neither one of us liked blood, and there was going to be plenty of it on the floor. As it turned out, we both had a great time. It wasn't that we liked the fighting, but that we had such freedom to roam where we wanted. Cage fighting is just catching on here, and with our media passes, were able to hang out in the back room where the fighters were having their knuckles taped, walk out with their entourage in clouds of artificial fog when their names were announced, and circle the ring freely without getting the least bit of harassment. In the United States it would have been a different story-- we'd be confined to a more limited circuit. Paul was able to get some great shots, and I was close enough that I could hear sweat flying and the splitting of skin. We were both able to focus completely on the action without interruption, and that was a pleasure.

Photos by Paul Jeffers unless otherwise noted.