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Photo By Jymi Bolden
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Fight Club referee Terry “The Stallion” Armstrong
watches a female bout with great interest at Annie’s.
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Get out your boxing trunks, Tristaters. Fight Club Night at Annie's wants you. Every Tuesday evening, armchair fight fans head to the Anderson Township bar to get a chance to see what it's really like to mix it up one-on-one with another human being. For $10, you can get your amateur ass in the ring for more pugilist action than you ever thought possible. And if you're a watcher, not a fighter, spectating at Fight Club is just as fun.
"When people get in the ring for the first time, they experience something they never have before," says Pete Georgeton, Annie's owner.
That inexperience in the fight game goes for me, too. I consider myself a bit of a sports fan -- I'm one hell of a Ping-Pong player -- but my credentials as a boxing connoisseur are seriously lacking. I'm here as a spectator.
Presumably fashioned after a controversial movie by David Fincher, in turn based on Chuck Palahniuk's satiric novel, Fight Club at Annie's is really just an excuse for men and women of all shapes and sizes to beat the shit out of each other. And that they do.
Actually, Georgeton says the idea came from Ft. Lauderdale, Fla. "I go down there every year for vacation, and they've had it for 20 years. They draw two or three thousand kids a night. The movie connection was just a coincidence." While Annie's draws considerably less than thousands -- a normal night's attendance is around 350 -- the crowds are enthusiastic and ready for action.
For the uninitiated, the first rule of Fight Club is: Anyone can fight. The second rule: Anyone can fight. Even women are welcome, though the sexes are appropriately separated.
Fighters must weigh in on a scale that looks as if it were stolen from your grandma's basement bathroom. After weighing in, they must sign a waiver that says Annie's isn't responsible if something bad happens.
Boxers are then paired up with someone of similar height and weight, unless a specific match-up has been requested. Each fighter must wear regulation boxing gloves and headgear. After that, it's time to get it on.
The first thing you notice when entering Fight Club is the compoundlike atmosphere of the outdoor grounds. Yes, it's outside, behind Annie's actual "entertainment center." The combination of chain-link fences and concrete lends an appropriate air of fascism to the proceedings.
The second thing you notice is the ring. It looks as if is it was lifted straight from Madison Square Garden. It's a far cry from that makeshift thing Peel's Palace tried to pass off during their disastrous stab as boxing promoters.
The third thing you notice at Fight Club is the voice of Rick Marksberry, the evening's host and emcee. Stocky, with reddish hair, this Irishman is the consummate entertainer. A longtime fixture of the area's music scene, Marksberry does everything but get in the ring.
"I try to keep everything running smoothly," he says. And that he does, even going out into the crowd to interview patrons or by playing his mouth harp to keep the crowd entertained during lulls in the action. "I'm just trying to have fun with the boxing, and if that doesn't happen it's song and dance time."
Marksberry had his work cut out for him the first week I attended. The humidity was nearly unbearable and 20 seconds into the first bout it started to rain. After 10 fights it was pouring. Evening over.
The next week things went more smoothly, though still humid as hell. The very first bout featured Garvin Brophy, a manager at Hooters in Newport, versus Mark Carmony, a cook under Brophy.
"It was more of a joke than anything," says Brophy. "He was walking into the kitchen one night, and he was like 'I'll kick your ass' and I'm like 'Yeah, whatever.' It started off like that, and then I said, 'Well, if you want to go to Fight Club.' " It seems similar good-natured ribbings instigate many of the bouts.
In this instance, Carmony was promised a raise by Brophy if he won. He did, but he quit before he could receive it. Brophy assures it had nothing to do with Fight Club.
"I thought it was a laugh. I thought it was brilliant. But it was a little stupid of me to fight someone that was 80 pounds heavier and 7 inches taller. I've been back three times, but not to fight."
Bouts consist of three one-minute rounds. The rules are the same as regulation boxing. If a boxer is knocked down, he/she is given a standing-eight count. If the fight goes three rounds, the crowd gets to judge the winner by the loudness of their cheers.
There are usually around 30 bouts weekly. The average fight goes like this: The two fighters flail at each other non-stop for the entire first round, sort of like one of those scenes in Rocky when Stallone is making one of his remarkable comebacks. The difference being at Fight Club is that most of those punches miss entirely. The second round usually features an abundance of standing around, punctuated by an occasional swing. The third round is more of the same, until a late flurry by the two boxers, desperate for the fruits of victory.
Many fights last only one round, or as Marksberry would say, "John, the construction worker, wins by default." For those not in know about boxing, that means the other guy gave up.
Ring attire is basically whatever you like. Most men prefer to go bare-chested, with a pair of shorts and gym shoes. Women must wear a piece of white spandex over their chests, to assure safety, for both themselves and the audience.
My favorite ensemble was sported by Rick, a plumber who rides dune buggies in his spare time. His gear consisted of a pair of cutoff jeans. That's it, no shirt, and no shoes. When asked by Marksberry to describe this get-up, Rick replied with great sincerity, "I'm trying to get to the bare essence of the thing, man."
The referee of this madness is Terry "The Stallion" Arm-strong, introduced by Marksberry as a "39-year-old personal trainer and legend who has sparred with the likes of Larry Holmes, Tony Tucker, Frank Bruno and Tony Tubbs."
With his Air Jordan headband and rumpled black-and-white striped referee shirt, the slightly askew Armstrong looks like he's gone his share of rounds: Several teeth are missing from his wide grin, and he has a way of sauntering that's a trait of many a longtime boxer. He does his job with a mix of caution and instruction, often giving tips to the fighters mid-bout.
"Terry's been in the ring long enough that he's not afraid to get in between two people when they're throwing big blows. He keeps things clean," says Marksberry.
Over the two weeks I attended, only two bouts resulted in any incisive injuries: One guy's nose was broken and bloodied, another severely rolled his ankle and left the ring area in an air cast.
Adding to the testosterone-addled atmosphere are the amp-lified sounds of loud, guitar-based Rock -- Metallica, Guns 'n Roses, Rage Against the Machine, Tool and Prodigy -- that whips the fighters and crowd into a frenzy.
One boxer, hearing Axl Rose's screeching vocals in the opening of Gun 'n Roses' "Welcome to the Jungle," began an inspired Axl-like dance for his pre-bout warm-up. It didn't seem to help. He defaulted after one round.
Most of the boxers I tried to talk to were either not interested in expressing the meaning of this Fight Club thing or simply explained, "I just want to kick somebody's ass," or "It seemed like fun!"
I suppose, in the end that's what it's all about. Actions really do speak louder than words. At least they do at Fight Club.
FIGHT CLUB NIGHT at Annie's in Anderson Township continues through the month of September.
