Genia - Raw combat : the underground world of mixed martial arts
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A unique look into a side of MMA that only a few know and only Genia can give. Chris Palmquist, partner, MixedMartialArts.com Out Freakin ColdForget pay-per-view. Forget championship belts or sanctioning bodies. This is Mixed Martial Arts combat in its purest, rawest form. Follow Jim Genia into the illicit world of vale tudo (anything goes). Locations are always changing and known only to a few, from run-down, shuttered gyms to speakeasy combat cages. The ruthless damage exacted on the human body leaves a trail of hard-won scars. The fighters battle for everything but a payday, risking it all for honor and pride. In a world of conformity, these are men of action who struggle against rules, selling out, and their own demons. Jim Genia offers on-the-mat access to a brutal arena and the men who spill their blood there. Captures the good, the bad, and the ugly. Matthew Polly, author of American ShaolinIts a raw, wild scene and Genia takes you in his pocket for the ride. Sam Sheridan, author of A Fighters Heart16 Pages of No-Holds-Barred Photos. Read more...
Abstract: A unique look into a side of MMA that only a few know and only Genia can give. Chris Palmquist, partner, MixedMartialArts.com Out Freakin ColdForget pay-per-view. Forget championship belts or sanctioning bodies. This is Mixed Martial Arts combat in its purest, rawest form. Follow Jim Genia into the illicit world of vale tudo (anything goes). Locations are always changing and known only to a few, from run-down, shuttered gyms to speakeasy combat cages. The ruthless damage exacted on the human body leaves a trail of hard-won scars. The fighters battle for everything but a payday, risking it all for honor and pride. In a world of conformity, these are men of action who struggle against rules, selling out, and their own demons. Jim Genia offers on-the-mat access to a brutal arena and the men who spill their blood there. Captures the good, the bad, and the ugly. Matthew Polly, author of American ShaolinIts a raw, wild scene and Genia takes you in his pocket for the ride. Sam Sheridan, author of A Fighters Heart16 Pages of No-Holds-Barred Photos
Abstract: A unique look into a side of MMA that only a few know and only Genia can give. Chris Palmquist, partner, MixedMartialArts.com Out Freakin ColdForget pay-per-view. Forget championship belts or sanctioning bodies. This is Mixed Martial Arts combat in its purest, rawest form. Follow Jim Genia into the illicit world of vale tudo (anything goes). Locations are always changing and known only to a few, from run-down, shuttered gyms to speakeasy combat cages. The ruthless damage exacted on the human body leaves a trail of hard-won scars. The fighters battle for everything but a payday, risking it all for honor and pride. In a world of conformity, these are men of action who struggle against rules, selling out, and their own demons. Jim Genia offers on-the-mat access to a brutal arena and the men who spill their blood there. Captures the good, the bad, and the ugly. Matthew Polly, author of American ShaolinIts a raw, wild scene and Genia takes you in his pocket for the ride. Sam Sheridan, author of A Fighters Heart16 Pages of No-Holds-Barred Photos
Genia: author's other books
Who wrote Raw combat : the underground world of mixed martial arts? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
Augustus John Roe
Britannica Educational Publishing
Miletich Patrick Jay
Nick Gullo
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Acknowledgments
T hanks to Farley and Richard, an agent and an editor who believed. Thanks to Dale Peck, Peter Carey, and Roger MacBride Allen, three writing instructors who bade me to not suck. And a very special thanks to everyone whos ever stepped into the ring or cage and fought, bled, won, and lost. The word inspiration doesnt quite describe it, but it comes close.
EPILOGUE
T he text comes on Friday night, a short and succinct UCL this Sunday as Im sitting on my couch, and minutes later comes the follow-up with location details. Seven years of writing about New York Citys lone illicit fight circuit and those texts are really all I needed to know about whats in store. There will be fistfights and beatings, cringe-worthy slams and chokes, then gratitude, and when its over therell be the feeling that all present are in on a big, juicy secret. No clue who is fighting, though, the who at this point mattering much less than the where. Twentysomething shows thus far in all manner of gyms, but this one in the Bronx will be the first time that the venue is in an Islamic cultural center and mosque, worn posters advertising boxing match-ups and karate tournaments of yore traded in for walls adorned with Quranic verse and New York Post and Daily News clippings describing violence against Muslims. But thats how it goes.
Kaream called me from Rikers days before. His sentence had finally been handed down and he was going to do a year upstate on the gun charge, a welcome change of scenery and a chance for him to keep his head down and reboot, maybe introduce Kaream version 2.0 to the world upon his exit, and would his criminal record affect his ability to fight in New York when everything was legalized? I didnt know for sure, but Lembo seemed to think it wouldnt and I passed that on. The funny thing about the tap out, though, was that you always did it so you could come back and fight another day.
Anil meets me on the subway in Manhattan and we ride north, staring out the windows when the train goes aboveground, staring out at the city as dusk falls, and when our stop comes we walk the rest of the distance in the shadow of the elevated tracks. And there is Kevin at the door, with a warm and firm handshake, he doesnt even have to consult his list (really, just a piece of paper with names scribbled on it), he lets us right in.
There will be no admission charged for this one, but only a select few have been invited. Once, at an event in Queens, a limousine pulled up and out came men in tuxedos and their dates in dressesJust an evening at the underground show, honey. Is that cool? This would clearly be the furthest thing from that.
Within is Chris, gone now from the New Generation Karate school and on the verge of moving to Florida, not here to fight but to watch. We clasp our right hands together and embrace with our lefts, the universal greeting for tough guys and thugs, then Peter and I shake hands. Unlike Chris, he is scheduled to compete, to mix it up with a muscle-bound bruiser named Braddock from Ozone Park for the first-ever UCL championship belt (sponsored by a clothing company called Sadistic Athletics). The goateed Latino is clad in a blue judo uniform, his black belt is tied around his waist. Nowadays, Peters been teaching at a gym in Queens, laying down mats for grappling and working to get an MMA program off the ground. Training for a fight has been the furthest thing from his mind, but someone has to get into the ring and face Braddock for the belt, so why not, right? Although in this instance, ring is a bit of misnomer. Combatants will be doing their thing on a mat, the melee held in place by the scant observers and the natural reluctance of anyone to let the fight spill out onto the hard concrete beyond.
A speaker upstairs starts broadcasting the evening prayers and they echo throughout the building. Theres the faint smell of burnt incense, of dust and mold, and the tang of the industrial-strength cleaner a young kid is using to wash the mat. Outside, a train rumbles by. Around us the cast of characters assembles.
Theres Rage, the coach from Brooklyn, and his ward Rashad standing close by, Rashad still very fit and very ready. Jerome, a veteran of the last show, sits across the room, carved out of dark marble, his lips bulging with a mouthpiece as he gets acclimated to the feel of it there. Theres Braddock, cool and focused and flanked by Richie Torres, Kenneth the amateur fighter, and Daniel the pro, his trainer partners at Katzs school. Add a kickboxer named John and an aggressive scrapper named Anton to the card, and theres three bouts total, an abbreviated menu but enough. All told, theres just over thirty people present, somehow each of usthe coaches and teammates, the writer and the photographer, the Sadistic Athletic reps, the brother and girlfriend of one of the fighters, the distinguished alumat least tangentially connected to whats about to transpire. The evening prayers drone on.
In a few weeks, I will be sitting in an arena in Philadelphia for a Bellator event, watching Lyman lose for the very first time, his foe an Olympic wrestler with unstoppable takedowns. After five rounds, both mens faces will resemble abused slabs of meat, and K-Rod and Tom, there as spectators, will come sit beside me. Their fight school has merged recently with the folks at Tiger Schulmanns, so I get to hear the ardent Jersey Shore scrappers dish insight. The way they were in shape, I always thought they were on steroids or something, says K-Rod with a laugh. But theyre not, they just work so hard and train so much. Its freakin nuts.
Nothing denotes acceptance like the approving nod of an experienced fighter, and K-Rod and Tom give it to the karate stylists who adapted to MMA, karate the harder, more difficult route toward viability and the exact opposite of all those wrestlers and jiu-jitsu folk learning to strike for the sake of the sport, traveling the other direction toward the same goal of well-roundedness, and how can you express anything other than admiration for what they had accomplished and how far they had come? The two marvel at the machine churning out fighters and at their new TSK brethren, at Nick (who will be fighting in the UFC in a couple months), at Jimmie (who just won a prestigious King of the Cage belt), at Louis (who was now a Ring of Combat champ). We all agree that Lyman will be back.
But thats weeks away and Im still at the mosque. In a dark room beyond and in the shadows upstairs the fighters are warming up, hitting pads and flitting about, and then they make their way to the mat without fanfare, the referee (one of the Sadistic Athletic guys) addressing each of them and then telling usin case we dont knowthat this one is Peter and this one is Braddock. Peter, standing in one corner of the battlefield in his traditional gi , is one-hundred eighty-five pounds; Braddock, shirtless and in green camouflage shorts, is upwards of two-hundred twenty-five.
In theory, the shiny chunk of gold-painted hardware with UCL CHAMPION on it should transform this pairing between the promoter and his foe into something more than just a run-of-the-mill brawl. But so much for theory, as the bout plays out like so many have before. Although a veteran of at least three times as many underground fights, Peters experience cannot overcome the size disadvantage, and the fact that Braddock is a compact behemoth with muscles upon muscles and is prepared to fight only makes things worse. With a wicked grin Braddock comes forward looking to throw leather, and when Peter ducks low and reaches in for a takedown, the bigger man simply pushes his hips away and lets all of his weight come down on the judo black belts shoulders. He follows it up with a salvo of knees to the head and body while Peter is on all fours. Round 1 ends, and in the fighters respective corners comes a stream of impassioned instructions and encouragement amidst huffing and puffing. Then Peter and Braddock are back at it, and soon Braddock is straddling Peter, raining down punches. The referee steps in when Peter taps out.
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