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Subject: Tiger Schulman's Challenge of Champions [or, UFC Wannabees] Well, Don, Erica, Patti, Joao and I went to Tiger Schulman Karate's Challenge of Champions tournament Saturday night, which was as entertaining as we'd hoped -- exactly what one would expect from a tournament co-sponsored by Hooters. Basically, they're trying to turn it into a mock UFC, with only marginal results. [All the hype and none of the quality. But hey, most of the fighters were in terrific shape for summer and had lovely outfits.] We knew it would live up (or down, as the case may be) to our expectations immediately upon entering the arena, where we were treated to the sight of multiple booths selling various Ti-Gear: sports bras, t-shirts, workout clothes, etc. We were handed programs featuring photos of the competitors in each weight class, accompanied by hiliarious bombastic personal commentary, such as "The only thing my opponents will see is my fist first, my foot second, and at last the stars." [This from a fighter who didn't get past Round I.] Even better: the entryway through which the various fighters would emerge featured a giant Tiger head, with eyes that lit up red and smoke that came out of its nostrils as each fighter was announced, accompanied by their chosen theme music. The tunes were predictable: lots of hip-hop, Metallica's "Enter Sandman," "Bad to the Bone"... although I personally would have found it refreshing to see a fighter enter to the strains of "Muskrat Love" or "Close To You." THAT'S confidence! There were a couple of good fighters, but on the whole, even their stand-up techniques weren't very impressive. Hell, _I_ could have taken some of the lightweight fighters, which is pretty pathetic, given how inadequate I usually feel -- mostly because takedowns and grappling were allowed, but no one knew the first thing about what to do once they got to the ground. So they'd throw their flashy high kicks, the opponent would catch it, gravity would take over and both fighters would fall to the floor. Most of them had seen enough UFCs to get into some semblance of the guard or the mount, but then they couldn't finish off, even when their opponent was giving them a clear extended arm. [A couple of the better fighters knew about juji gatame, but couldn't pull it off; it drove Don and Joao crazy.] You could just hear the internal monologue: "Lessee... I know I once saw Royce Gracie do something with an armbar from here... damn, that's not working... maybe a choke... his %&#* arms keep getting in the way! Oh, hell, I'll just rain down a flurry of ineffective punches until the ref re-starts the match!" A couple of these scenarios deteriorated into the top fighter essentially bitch-slapping his opponent until the ref threw in the Yellow Cloth of Salvation, signaling a re-start. Early on Don had suggested we make the evening more interesting by placing dollar bets, and I wish I'd consented, since I was on a roll and would have left about $20 richer. I called all but two of the 21 fights correctly, and successfully predicted the three champions in each weight class. Some highlights: 1. Things began well, with a 35-second technical knockout (knee to the face) by lightweight competitor Luis Campos, originally from Brazil. ["I don't talk the talk. I just walk the walk. Prepare yourselves."] Naturally, Erica and I were thrilled to see blood in the very first fight. :) Alas, the subsequent matches were relatively dull, apart from the performance of one Russ Sucgang ["They call me The Sandman. Sweet Dreams."]. Not only was he a total babe with a lot of class rather than egotistical showmanship, but he also had a clue about grappling maneuvers. I quickly pegged him and Campos for the final match. And it was easily the best fight of the night, with Campos ultimately prevailing with a split decision. [As Joao said, "The Brazilians always win."] 2. Don was highly amused by the signature maneuver of a lightweight competitor from Romania, who entered the ring accompanied by two scantily clad blonde bimbettes-- oops, I mean "females" -- who were obviously his sisters. :) He basically attempted a flying scissor kick to take down his opponent, with dismal results. Don dubbed it, "The Flying Vampire Jaws of Death". 3. Most of the middleweight matches were desultory at best, but we were all impressed by a Liberian fighter named Beyan ("They call me the black tiger") Bonal, who kept picking up his opponents and slamming them into the ground, with damned effective results overall. Should he ever actually learn some effective finishing techniques on the ground, he'll be a force to be reckoned with. As it is, he won the final match with a spectacular kick to his opponent's jaw -- the guy was out cold before he even hit the ground. 4. One of the heavyweights was Kevin "The Quiet Storm" Cash, who said he considered himself the "underdog" of the competition. While his technique was pretty sloppy, he nevertheless beat the stuffing out of his opponent, whom I dubbed "Little Caesar" because of his disastrous haircut. Granted, LC gave him a lot of help. Whenever Cash would start raining a barrage of body blows, the moron would actually drop his head RIGHT INTO Cash's fist, and then act shocked that he'd been struck in the face (which was illegal under the competition rules, although KICKS and KNEES to the face were allowed). 5. By far the most entertaining of the heavyweight bouts was between the reigning champion -- an incredibly buff, conditioned 24-year-old named Scott McClean, 6'2" and 185 lbs, with a pretty stars and stripes gi -- and a 36-year-old, 6'3", 400-lb police officer we quickly dubbed "Orca", who looked like he would fight for Twinkies. Seriously, he had larger breasts than the Hooters girls. It was deeply disturbing seeing him in the ring in nothing but boxer's trunks, folds of excess flab quivering like Jell-O pudding as he tried to jump a little to warm up. "People above a certain weight should be legally required to keep their clothes ON!" Erica grumbled. Even a T-shirt would have helped. McClean, in contrast, entered the ring with a flying leap, landing on the floor in a full split to wild cheers. [Don: "And pulling a groin muscle in center ring... our reigning champion!"] Obviously, McClean's strategy ought to have been to keep out of close range as much as possible and make his badly out-of-shape opponent chase him around the ring to wear him out before moving in for the kill. Did he do this? He did not. Instead, he started throwing flashy high kicks at Orca's face. It was just a matter of time before Orca grabbed his leg and lifted him off the ground and above his head. The crowd roared as McClean's well-conditioned arms and legs waved helplessly in the air -- he looked like a frantic praying mantis -- before Orca slammed him into the mat, driving all 400 pounds right on top of him. Lucky for McClean that Orca had no idea what to do on the ground apart from use his immense bulk to immobilize his opponent. The ref restarted the match, and McClean only had to take one more hard fall before Orca lost his wind, winning easily on points. But there were some humiliating moments, all the same. Maybe he won't be quite so contemptuous of such superior size next time. 6. The final match was between McClean and a guy named Anthony Murray, who we decided we loved because he looked flabby and out of shape, with pasty skin and a bald spot, and entered the ring wearing what looked like his father's old gray gym shorts, as if to say, "I don't get enough exercise, I eat too much junk food, drink too much, smoke too much, couldn't afford a flashy outfit, and I _still_ kick butt!" His unassuming demeanor just screamed Cost Accountant Turned Weekend Warrier, but still contrasted favorably to McClean's ridiculous posturing in the other corner. We're not even sure how Murray GOT to the final round, because he had NOTHING in the way of skill or technique that we could see. Basically, he was lucky. He landed a lucky knee strike to win his first match, and since Kevin Cash dropped out because of an injury, fought a clueless alternate in the second match, which I dubbed "The Battle of the Beer Bellies". [The alternate was clearly one of those guys who thinks an extra 30 pounds of flab around the gut is just as good as an extra 30 pounds of solid muscle when it comes to winning a fight.] Murray won after his clueless opponent basically said, "Look, here is my back; please choke me out." And so he did, advancing against all odds to the final championship round, and single-handedly ruining my near-perfect prediction average. Obviously a lot of people in the crowd were equally annoyed by McClean's strutting arrogance, because there were chants of "Mur-ray! Mur-ray! Mur-ray!" throughout the final bout. And it was obvious that McClean would easily win on points should the fight become a judge's decision. As it turned out, however, he landed a solid knee to Murray's face with 1-1/2 minutes left in the fight, knocking him to the ground. Although Murray stood up and looked okay, the ref called the match and declared McClean the winner by technical knockout, even though McClean looked a hell of a lot more tired than his opponent. We still say Murray was robbed. He would have lost, regardless, but should have been allowed to finish the match. So that was that. I think we should enter Rich into next year's tournament as Official Mod Squad representative, just to watch him beat some humility into those Tiger Schulman clones.... --Jennifer |