[i am back. to blogging, that is. i am not sure who reads me, but i know why i write. i write to clear my mental chatter. i write to rationalize my emotional ambiguities. mainly, this is where i spoil my randomness, lest i drive people around me insane by how i could go from here to there without warning.]
i like sports. well, ok — i like watching but i watch with such conviction, i scare myself a little sometimes and impress the initiated. my love for sports (wow, i say it like i actually play one… ) occurs in what i call phases. once, i was on a tennis phase — i was ready to profess my love for carlos moya and pete sampras. when i lived with my cousin who was into golf, all it took was a little ‘explanation’ from him, and i found myself spending a few extra minutes on a golf coverage when i channel surfed. basketball is a phase that never really goes away. although i watch the PBA and the NBA only when my teams are playing, i do keep up with the team standings and keep an opinion on trades and other controversies. (go, celtics!) i have also probably seen all of manny pacquiao’s fights — including that fight in an open area in thailand, when manny was hardly a star, but definitely already impressive.
and now, the UFC. i am thoroughly entertained by it. and no, i am not one of those bandwagon fans that cheer for the favorite or the more attractive fighter. (because it’s embarrassing) don’t get me started, but i actually know my favorites. i remember my late mom getting so worked up whenever i watched MMA matches. she found it violent and feared that i was secretly blood-thirsty. rawr!
so anyway, the beautiful Georges St-Pierre gave Josh Koscheck a beating yesterday. aren’t men just an interesting lot? they trash talk and beat each other up in their skimpy trunks. then someone wins, of course — and they hug and kiss each other, whisper praises into each other’s ear, and sing each other more praises on the microphone as if they had not just each tried to mangle the other person minutes before that.
but really. sometimes, men are just the coolest. now i still wouldn’t want to be one, but there are a couple of things girls can actually learn from them and from mixed martial arts. i can not, for the love of me, imagine two girls going at it, and then hug and pat each other’s back for a catfight well-done. and when women talk nasty — they mean it. they aren’t just hyping it up; they are seriously out to ruin your reputation and your life.
if i try a little harder, i may even say that the UFC may be an interesting commentary on how life is supposed to be. you know, like here, the fighters pick men their own size. in the real world, a lot of people win over others who did not even have a shot to begin with. and they dare call themselves great.
the better fighters try to beat the opponents in their own game. they’re deliberate, and studious. life is like that. there is some level of pleasure in beating people where they believe themselves to be good at.
i wish life allowed us to tap out. you know, just tap out when you think you’ve had enough and save yourself from more hurt. for anyone who understands, it isn’t cowardice because it’s all part of the game. it’s a lifesaver at your beckoning.
and when cain velasquez knocked out half-man-half-concrete brock lesnar — i think it showed how, sometimes, there’s a way to beat the scary.
so do i watch the UFC to bask in all this art imitating life? nah. i’m all for the throw downs and watching the loud mouths get submitted. and it doesn’t hurt that kenny florian is too cute.