Slice: Ultimate in fighters

COUNCIL BLUFFS — The show's boss gave 18 young men their instructions for the night.

No head butts, eye gouges, groin strikes, finger twists. No whacks to the back of the head, smacks to the spine or throat punches. No fish-hooking — putting a finger in the corner of a guy's mouth and yanking.

“This is a professional event, so let's keep good sportsmanship,” said the man, who goes by the name Victory Jay. “There's no spitting on the opponent. Keep the language clean.”

The young men, seated at round tables in a meeting room at the Mid-America Center, listened. One was Brandon Pfannenstiel, a 22-year-old Omahan. He wore small headphones so he could listen to Eminem and other rap musicians, except at this moment.

Ten feet away sat Jeremy Wise, a bearded 24-year-old from Bellevue, his hands folded.

After instructions, Pfannenstiel and Wise crossed paths and touched each other on the shoulder, like office colleagues passing in the aisle.

Ninety minutes later, Wise and Pfannenstiel, whose friends call him “BP,” would enter a small, square, fenced cage. They'd kick and throw hard punches at each other. They would fall to the ground and grapple.

They are fighters.

Mixed martial arts, or ultimate fighting, is perhaps the fastest-growing sport in the country. Some 4,000 people paid $20 to $100 last Friday to see nine amateur and pro fights in the Victory Fighting Championship, the organization overseeing the Council Bluffs event. Ultimate fighting is a full-contact sport that allows a variety of fighting techniques, including boxing, wrestling, jiujitsu, karate and judo.

After the meeting, Pfannenstiel (pronounced FAWN-un-steel) headed for the locker room he shared with about five other fighters. Wise went to another locker room down the hallway.

Jeremy Horn, a widely known fighter originally from Omaha, began to wrap gauze and tape tightly around Wise's wrists and hands. Horn now runs a Utah gym, and his brother, Matt Andersen, runs Elite Performance Omaha, the gym where Wise trains.

“Will you be mad at me if I lose again this time?” Wise asked Horn. “It's been eight months.”

Wise had won four fights but lost his most recent one, in December. Horn told Wise that he wouldn't lose this time.

Pfannenstiel took a cell phone call from a friend at 7:10 p.m., then started looking for his coach, Aaron Cerrone. BP wanted his hands wrapped. His fight was scheduled to start in about 35 minutes.

Cerrone, a coach at Mid-America Martial Arts in southwest Omaha, showed up and went to work wrapping.

“I'm excited but I'm nervous,” BP said.

“You should always have a healthy fear,” Cerrone told him.

Back in the locker room down the hall, Wise stretched by spreading his legs wide and leaning over them, like a giraffe drinking water. Thin, muscled and 5-foot-7, Wise weighed in at barely 130 pounds. He threw jabs in the air and made a small noise — “Shh! Shh!” — as he punched.

BP began to put his gloves on. He found them annoyingly tight, and a friend and fighter in his locker room helped force the gloves into place over the tape. The gloves are light, like padded work gloves, but leave the palm and fingertips uncovered so fighters can grasp better.

Then the 18 fighters lined up for the parade into the arena. BP and Wise stood next to each other. They are acquainted from the fight circuit.

“Have any problem getting them on?” BP asked Wise, referring to the gloves.

Then they talked about trying to find video of the other's fights on the Internet. Wise told BP he found one of BP sky-diving. Then they entered the arena to heavy-metal music, and the crowd cheered.

The fighters stood in the ring and listened to the national anthem.

BP hoped to go pro after this fight. He had six wins and one loss, weighed in 7 pounds heavier than Wise and carried a bigger reputation.

BP graduated from Millard North High School and works as a buyer at Precision Industries, which supplies industrial parts and services to manufacturers.

His goal is to be the best. He has been kickboxing and practicing jiujitsu about six years. He ramped up his training in the eight weeks before the fight. Besides sparring, grappling and kickboxing, he ran sprints up a hill near Pacific Street and Bob Boozer Drive.

Among his tattoos is one on his left shoulder that says “BP” and one on his chest that says, “Good times, bad times.”

Pfannenstiel anticipated a full contingent of family at the fight — parents, grandparents, uncles, cousins and his brother.

“It's nerve-racking,” BP said. “You don't want to lose in front of them.”

Most fight days he wakes up and wonders what he's gotten himself into. But this day, he awakened and felt good.

He held no animosity toward Wise.

“He's a nice guy,” the 5-foot-10 BP said.

Wise knew he was the underdog but figured it would make an impression if he won.

An amateur like BP, Wise started fighting four years ago after a brother took him to see the fights at the Mid-America Center. He watched a little guy lose, but when the battered fighter came back out to see other fights, people praised him. Wise found that awesome.

He eventually would like to make a lot of money from his fights and start a business, like a construction company.

He attended Thomas Jefferson High School in Council Bluffs and now works in the yard at the Council Bluffs Menards, carrying lumber, bricks and bags of cement.

He sees himself as a puncher.

“Everything I hit either falls down or splits open,” he said.

Losing a fight is like losing a girlfriend you really like, he said.

BP and Wise would fight in the second bout of the night, so after the parade of fighters, they went back to their locker rooms and got ready.

Wise's eyes were wide as he threw punches into the air. He jogged down the hallway. One of the men who would be in his corner put a little tape around Wise's gloves to secure them.

In BP's locker room, Cerrone oversaw the warm-up. BP threw punches into plastic pads held by a buddy, then fired kicks into larger pads.

“Nice and hard right kicks,” Cerrone said. “Good. Left side.” BP's feet popped the pads.

The fights fell behind schedule. At 8:05 p.m., Cerrone applied grease to BP's face so punches would slide off. It was time to head for the meeting room, a sort of on-deck spot for fighters.

The first fight of the night had begun. BP and Wise couldn't see it. They could hear the crowd.

Wise circled and sidestepped in an imaginary ring. He fired little punches into the air. He bounced. He pulled his mouthpiece out and put it back in.

BP paced. He took a drink from a bottle of water. He then opened his mouth wide and closed it, and did it again a few times.

He smacked himself on the jaws with rights and lefts. He ran hard down a hallway and back. He spit into a trash can, grabbed some flat pieces of ice from a bucket and put them in his mouth. He spit into a trash can and grabbed more ice.

A machine billowed smoky fog into the entrance to the arena, which would make it look like they were walking through mist as they headed for the ring.

Wise entered first after he was introduced as weighing 130.3 pounds. Someone said to Wise: “You don't need size to kick some —.”

Then it was Pfannenstiel's turn to enter.

“Hate this smoke,” he said, putting his nose into his red Tshirt.

“Let's go, bud,” Cerrone said.

BP walked into the square cage. Wise stood there, waiting.

It happened fast. They tapped gloves with all four hands and the fight began.

They simultaneously kicked. They fired off hard punches. They clenched and drove one another into a corner. BP got his arms beneath Wise's armpits. He used his left leg to swipe out Wise's legs, and fell on top of Wise.

BP threw a hammer fist that Wise evaded. It landed on the mat with a thud. BP stayed on top.

For a tiny moment, Wise broke from BP's grasp, but Pfannenstiel sprawled back on top of him. Then Wise's chest was on the mat and BP wrapped his right arm around Wise's throat. The arm dug tightly, like a python squeezing its prey.

Wise tried to endure it. His face turned red as BP's arm sunk deep. Wise couldn't withstand the pressure any longer and he tapped BP with his left hand, the signal that he'd given up.

The fight was over.

Pfannenstiel stood, beaming. He pointed to the crowd and raised his right hand.

“Whoo!” he yelled.

Dazed, Wise walked to the center of the ring. Sweat poured from his face, which was scrunched in disappointment and defeat. He gazed toward the spotlights beaming down from the black ceiling, and in that moment, he looked like the loneliest man in the building.

Contact the writer:

444-1123, rick.ruggles@owh.com

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