Cracked Window

A young man played bagpipes while riding a unicycle on one end of the Portland Farmers Market. On the other, protesters decried passage of the anti-gay marriage amendment in California.

In between on the Park Blocks amid the produce and other foods was scene after scene that made my Saturday morning. Maybe the brisk bike ride to the market with wife and son heightened everything, an endorphin rush of awareness. Whatever the reason, I want more of that drug.

My fascination with boxing began as a boy. Never the fighting type, I liked the drama. But as youth passed I no longer cared.

Many years later, I missed the rise of the cable-TV phenomenon Ultimate Fighting. Then in 2003, a Willamette Week ad touted a night of brawling. I attended to fulfill a graduate school story assignment: find an event and describe what I observed.

Waiting for the fights to begin, I saw people fawning over a guy leaning against a wall. I quickly learned Randy Couture was a world champion in this brutal sport and briefly interviewed him. He had the saddest ears I’ve ever seen.