Two burly men face off in the ring, fists up and feet moving fast. Sweating under the lights, they duck and dodge blows and throw punches while the speakers blare and the beer-swilling crowd cheers them on.
"It's not how big you are—it's how bad you are!" yells the announcer in a booming show voice. "Who wants to see a fuckin' knockout?!"
This isn't a professional boxing match or a training gym. It's a recent fight night at Addison City Limits, a North Dallas sports bar with pseudo-psychedelic murals on the walls and a mechanical bull rotating in the corner. Every Wednesday night, a few hundred people come to watch others duke it out or to themselves don headgear and red gloves and climb into the ring.
The announcer, Ben Jackson, 25, owns X-Treme Promotions and has spent the past year organizing amateur sparring matches in local bars and clubs. A longtime student of boxing, mixed martial arts and jujitsu, he's no stranger to fights. Now he faces a new adversary: the state of Texas.
The Texas Department of Licensing and Professional Regulations, which monitors combative sports, had Jackson arrested by Dallas vice officers last October for promoting fights without a permit. The agency maintains that Jackson's fight nights violate regulations that require licenses for combative sports events, but Jackson says the live sparring matches aren't combative because they're partial, not full, contact, and there are no official scores. He's suing the agency in district court.
"By their own law, it doesn't qualify as a combative sport," Jackson says. "This is what I enjoy. I'm abiding by the law, and I think I have a right to make a buck on it."
The legal wrangling hinges on the definition of combative sports, which under state law are defined as boxing, kickboxing, martial arts and mixed martial arts in which participants engage in full contact to score points, cause an opponent to submit or disable an opponent. The statute excludes student training or exhibition that's partial combat designed for recreational purposes, which according to Jackson and his attorney S. George Alfonso is precisely what X-treme Promotions provides.
"You don't have to be a licensed promoter if what you're doing doesn't qualify as a combative sport," Alfonso says.
Jackson says applying for the permit would mean paying steep fines and changing his business model from welcoming anyone who wants to fight and giving them large 16-ounce gloves and head protection for safety, to a more competitive setup, which is not his goal. "I couldn't have audience participation because I'd have to get the fighters registered beforehand," Jackson says. "If I'm gonna do that I may as well do it the way USA Boxing does it—use smaller gloves, have them get ranked. But that's not what I'm trying to do here. If it's not a combative sport, why should I have to pay money, whether it's $200 or $2,000?"
The Texas Department of Licensing and Regulation first contacted him last April to inquire about the fight nights. He says he explained the fights were a safe form of training and entertainment and didn't hear from the regulators again until last October, when Nancy Newcombe, a TDLR investigator in the enforcement division, told him she was reviewing their legality. Then, on October 25, Jackson was arrested by Dallas Police Department vice officers during a fight night at Club Uropa on Main Street. The charge listed on the police report is promoting an organized fight without a state-issued license, a Class A misdemeanor.
"They came in with around 15 officers," Jackson recalls. "Like I was a killer or something." After spending 19 hours in jail and still facing misdemeanor charges, Jackson hired Alfonso and filed an injunction.
"Mr. Jackson filed a lawsuit to prohibit TDLR from performing its statutory duty, which is to enforce the state's combative sports law," Steve Bruno, an agency spokesman, wrote in an e-mailed statement. "We do not believe he will be successful."
Until the legal skirmish is settled, Jackson's fight nights at Addison City Limits continue. On a recent Wednesday night, spectators who have paid a $10 cover sit at ringside tables or stand sipping drinks. In the corner near massive speakers, willing participants prepare to fight. They sign liability waivers and get a mouthpiece, padded head gear and 16-ounce gloves. Men who have already fought walk around in T-shirts that read "I kicked some ass," and those waiting their turn practice throwing punches into a partner's open palms.
Carl Williams, 18, is up next. Blond, around 5-foot-8 and shirtless, he says he's been training off and on since he was 8. "It's a safe environment to fight in, and you can still have a good time," he says. Minutes later, during the first round, he takes a punch to the face. "Whoa," Jackson yells into the microphone. "You OK?" Williams nods yes but steps down from the ring.
"He got tired," Jackson says later, pointing out the punches guys are taking to the face without any noticeable consequences. "You can get knocked around, maybe get a bloody nose, but you're not gonna get knocked out." He points out that the gloves he uses are larger and softer than regular boxing gloves—"like hitting someone with a pillow"—and says he keeps a certified EMT and two police officers on staff in case of injuries or other problems. In seven years of organized fights (before coming to Dallas, he did it in his native Illinois), he says, he's had just one injury—when a man broke his arm during an arm wrestling competition.
"We provide an arena for the average Joe," he says, "someone who's trying to get in shape in a safe environment."
Jackson says he got into boxing and martial arts as a teenager and found that the sports relieved the stress and anger that came from a difficult home life, including a mother who suffered from a debilitating illness. "I had a lot of aggression," he says. "I needed an outlet. When you're in the ring, nothing else matters. You're focused on one goal, and you forget about all your problems. You forget about everything and just let go."
Hanney Kamal, having a beer with friends and watching the sparring at Addison City Limits last week, says the fight nights are a healthy way for people to get rid of their anger or settle disputes. He bartends at Purgatory in downtown Dallas, and he says that at least here, the participants wear gloves. "If you have a problem with someone and you're still pissed, you may as well be like, 'Meet me at Addison City Limits, put on some gloves, get in the ring and settle it,'" he says.
But men aren't the only ones who come to fight night. Women also seem to like the spring break-like atmosphere that's complete with earsplitting bass and ring girls with waist-length hair and tight short-shorts.
"It's the testosterone that I like," Alison Garahan, a frequent patron, yells over the blaring music. "It's heavy with testosterone in here!"
One of the last fights of the night features a petite young woman wearing red boxing gloves. She steps into the ring to face her apparent ex-boyfriend, whose arms are strapped behind his back. "Introducing your victim tonight," Jackson, walking outside the ring, yells into the microphone. "This is for all the times you didn't respect the ladies, Robert." He turns to the audience. "Apparently, Robert did a little cheating—with her sister!"
The crowd jeers, and the woman pummels the guy in the face. When he steps down a few minutes later, his face appears to be intact.
"This is where people can let themselves go in a ring where it's safe—get rid of their aggression. And if something does happen, we're here to take care of them," Jackson says later. "How is that a bad thing?"
