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Love Test #1: India Yoga Ashram

By the second week Mara had grown to love them all. Despite her "meatball" assumptions, they proved as sweet-natured and considerate outside the ring as they were merciless inside. After the morning sessions I'd often sit with Mara and watch Ninja and Shogun Rua continue to train. Both were preparing for looming mega-fights
in the U.S., where they hoped someday to gain the celebrity—and multimillion-dollar endorsements—of such fighters as Chuck "The Iceman" Liddell. Their incredible power and quickness were evident, but what I found most fascinating was that on balance they didn't seem much more physically or technically gifted than others in the gym. But for some reason—perhaps sheer force of will—these guys were among the world's elite.

Deep into our final week at Chute Boxe we finally got to shadowbox with the pros. Mara despised this, finding it hard to take a swing at another human being who wasn't me. But I enjoyed it, as I got to experience firsthand how truly gifted the fighters were without risking serious injury. I even went a simulated round with Dida, who gently bopped me in the face as a reminder to keep my hands up. By then I had accumulated a number of souvenirs: two gashes on my knuckles, deeply bruised shins and ribs, a swollen big toe, and even a small serving of cauliflower ear. I had also lost ten pounds (five kilograms) and regained some muscle definition, which I minutely cataloged for Mara back in the hotel's mirror. Mara, meanwhile, remained essentially injury free save for some mild bruising, though she insisted this represented the early stages of some Draculean condition she called "blood sacks."

On the last day a trainer took the two of us into the Octagon for an hour, where I held the bag while Mara attacked with extreme prejudice using knees, elbows, and smack talk. As we walked out of the cage Javier approached us for the first time since our arrival and extended us an invitation to a fight the next night out in the dusty old cowboy town of Guarapuava. "I will reserve a room for you and Mara in the fighters' hotel," he said. "I believe you will enjoy it."

That left one last thing for me to do. After all those days in the gym, I had yet to feel I truly belonged. So that night I attended the final Brazilian jujitsu session, only this time halfway through I ditched Mara and boldly went in search of my first submission victory. I forced the eye of one of the young amateurs. He was lanky and probably about 18, a bit cocky around the edges. When the buzzer rang, we grappled for five minutes. I tapped out twice, first during an arm bar, then a triangle choke. Next I challenged his buddy, a stocky guy in his mid-20s. I had him in an arm bar but was unable to close the deal, my lungs all but climbing out of my mouth. I declared it a draw, but nothing more. That left one last chance to claim a rung on the Chute Boxe ladder, no matter how low. Hiding in the back of the group I found a tall kid coated in baby fat, who looked all of 14. For the next five minutes I beat the hell out of him, finally forcing a submission deep in the fourth minute before striding triumphantly off the mat to a cheering Mara.

The next morning Mara and I picked up a hungover Chris and headed out of Curitiba for the 150-mile (241-kilometer) drive west on highway BR-277 to the event in Guarapuava. A major artery for long-haul trucks belching fumes and charter buses en route to neighboring Paraguay, the road cuts through a rolling landscape of soybean farms and cattle ranches and up the face of the Serra do Mar escarpment. Along the way I found myself musing on our immersion adventure. Insofar as my goal to be "drenched in the blood sport of MMA," I considered it more or less a success, even if it came partly at the expense of a child. I had come to Chute Boxe intimidated, as Mara said, but had managed to find my place, a certain comfort level. All the same, I still had a nagging sense of something left unresolved. And it was Chris of all people who hinted at what that could be when he shut off his iPod and told us about the time he pinched one of Shogun's sweaty T-shirts in the locker room. "I have never washed it, dude, and will never wash it," he declared. "Shogun has huge heart, and I'm hoping some of it will rub off on me."

We arrived mid-afternoon in downtown Guarapuava and drove straight into a scene out of American Graffiti: Hundreds of cars and pickups slowly cruised back and forth while thousands of Guarapuavans milled about on the sidewalks. At the largest intersection a crew of girls handed out glossy flyers for the fight, officially titled "Storm Guarapuava." It felt as if a carnival had come to town.

By that point I had become familiar enough with the fighters in the gym to nod hello in the morning but little else. So it was revealing to hang with them on Guarapuava's strip in the hours before the fight. Each one appeared only slightly nervous, lost in their heads as they sat quietly with each other on stone benches or around a table outside a coffee shop. Nerves were understandable, as a win kept them on track; any loss could set a career back years. Oddly, their opponents were right out there too, doing the same thing. The different fight camps mingled, emitting no trace of ill will.

Around 7:30 a small caravan of buses and cars left for Guarapuava's municipal stadium, a 5,000-seat domed arena of corrugated metal. Javier escorted Mara, Chris, and me in early, seating us in the VIP section next to Ninja and Dida. Several minutes later the gates opened and the arena became a raucous cauldron of shouting, flashing lights, and hip-hop. When the fighters entered for the prefight introductions, emerging from a tunnel through a cloud of dry ice backlit by tiki torches, the crowd roared and pounded their feet. Then the fights began, eight in all, three rounds each, from feather- to heavyweight. Most didn't get beyond the first round, the Chute Boxe fighters administering an MMA clinic on their overmatched foes. Some were particularly brutal affairs featuring head stomps (legal in Brazil), flying knees, and one-punch knockouts. Michael "Gangsta" Costa, who entered the ring in a black fedora, TKO'd his opponent in eight seconds with a spinning back kick. At one point I even caught Mara screaming "Arm bar! Go for the arm bar!" signifying what I already knew: She had come over to the dark side.

At 11:30 it was all over, a 6–0 sweep for Chute Boxe. By then the crowd was gone, save for a few security guards and ring girls harnessed in spandex. The Chute Boxe guys were nowhere to be found either. It was just Mara, Chris, and me standing around the ring in the last wisps of dry ice. "Screw this," Chris said finally. "I bet Javier is talking to 'em in the locker room. I'm going." With that he trotted over and vanished into the tunnel.

"You gotta go too, babe," Mara said, now pushing me.

I resisted for only a second.     

At the end of the brick tunnel I found a series of wooden doors. Two were locked, but the third opened to a small room, its floor littered with the detritus of fight night: punching bags, padded mitts, unspooled gauze, headgear. There was an interior door. I opened it. The 20 Chute Boxe fighters who had made the trip to Guarapuava stood with heads bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped, circled around Javier, who was sermonizing just above a whisper, with the palm of his hand on his heart. His eyes were shut too. A few guys were on their knees, including Gangsta, who had exchanged his trademark fedora for rosary beads. I stood in the doorway with Chris off to the side. Then one of the fighters noticed the former semipro paintballer and reached out. Chris lowered his head and joined the circle. With that another fighter did the same for me. But I decided then and there to end this particular immersion trip and stood rock still in the doorway. The truth, as I learned at Chute Boxe, was that I was a plum-shaped writer surfing the edge of middle age, not now or ever in possession of the heart of a true fighter. To pretend otherwise, even for a moment, would be to disrespect my heroes.

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Love Test #1: India Yoga Ashram