For St. Patrick’s Day weekend, what could be better than attending a good ‘ol fashioned boxing match with a bunch of buddies?  How about forty-one matches in one night?  Yes, it was time once again for the annual West Virginia “Toughman” Competition, and this year, my friend’s eighteen year-old son was going to take his shot at fortune, glory, and a chance to win $14,000 dollars.  How did he do, you may ask?

Patience, Grasshopper, all will be revealed in good time.

The site of the event was the Berkeley 200 Recreation Center, a multi-use facility that was all dolled up for the fights, with a large central ring, lots of seating, and plenty of beer for sale before and during the matches. When asked, the vendor told me they had “both kinds”, Miller Lite and Coors (you can take your woke Budweiser and stick it in your keister, mister).

The place was packed, the music was loud, and the atmosphere was electric.  Over eighty fighters (men and women) were paraded around the perimeter at the start of the event, and everyone settled in for a night of boxing mayhem.  Strict boxing rules would apply (no MMA or martial arts), sixteen ounce gloves would be worn and three, one-minute rounds would be scored on a ten-point must system, adjudicated by three ringside judges.  There were trainers for the corners (ex-champions), plenty of doctors and paramedics on stand-by, and competent referees to keep the action manageable.  Fighters were segregated into various weight classes, and for the first matches (single elimination), they would be paired up as close as possible to height and weight.  The entire thing was handled very professionally and competently, a testament to its thirty-two year run. It was even televised live on Pay-Per-View.

Boy, did they keep things moving.  As one fight was being decided, the next fighters would be coming into the ring, so the action was constant (as it would have to be, to get through forty-one bouts in one night).

The fighters varied in skill level and attitude, but the overall theme was shaved heads, beards, and an abundance of tattoos.  The announcer gave a short introduction on each fighter, including their age, height, weight, and occupation (I’m not sure what’s going on over at Fed Ex, but judging from the number of entrants from that employer, I will take pause before raising my voice at a driver in future encounters).  Each fighter also selected their own fight nickname, which of course, was hilarious in itself.  We had “Bonecrusher”, “Diesel”, “Filthy”, “Popeye”, “Big Balls”, “Bigger Balls” (his son, I’m not making this up), “El Toro”, and my personal favorite, “The Fighting Farmer”, who whipped the crowd into a frenzy when he knocked out his opponent in the 2^nd round of his bout.

Since there was only one minute in each round, fighters got to work in a hurry, wildly punching and aggressively throwing haymakers during their sixty seconds of action.  One unfortunate soul’s nose exploded in blood after a solid connection, and the crowd went insane.  Rock music pulsed during the rounds, and the DJ would even play the cartoon twittering of birds as an opponent sat bewildered and confused after a knockout.  Between rounds, strippers from the local gentleman’s club, “Lust”, twerked their way around the ring and threw swag to the crowd.  I couldn’t believe the number of small children and babies in the audience, but it was West “By God” Virginia, and the kids were gleefully trying to catch beer coozies and t-shirts emblazoned with the “Lust” logo.  That should be fun for “story time” at school on Monday.

A local politician running for Congress got up in the ring between bouts and whipped up the MAGA crowd into a froth, ending his short campaign speech with a rendition of “Take Me Home Country Roads” before returning to his seat amongst the strippers.  While waiting to use the bathroom (the lines to the men’s room was horrific while the ladies’ room was clear), someone commented “shouldn’t we able to use whatever bathroom we feel comfortable with?  He was quickly shushed by a friend who said “Pipe down, I don’t think they go for that sh*t over here.” The entire night was surreal.  A genuine West Virginia experience.

So how did my friend’s son do?  Well, “Ponn Hoss” (a stout and powerful young man weighing in at 257 pounds, the third largest of the tourney), faced off against “The Leprechaun”, a short, bearded middle-aged fella with a wild look in his eye.  When the bell rang they quickly began exchanging heavy blows, but Ponn Hoss was soon overcome and suffered his first knock-down within about twenty seconds.  He recovered, but the Leprechaun was quickly back on him again, and this time, as he went down, Ponn Hoss twisted his foot and horrifically broke all three bones in his ankle, which got him a stretcher exit and a long list of surgeries, doctor’s appointments, and physical rehab to look forward to in his young future.  It’s a tough man’s competition indeed.  I left with my friend to help get cars back home as he was off to the emergency room to check on his son’s prognosis.

But for those who stayed, “Lust” was offering half-off admission (with a ticket stub) and a chance to win $50,000 that night if anyone could defeat a local champ at arm wrestling.  Hell, bring the kids, I hear they have a buffet.