backyard fights
PERRINE | A crowd of hundreds filters into a neighbor's backyard expecting to see something brutal: bloodied noses and punched-out teeth, blackened eyes and broken jaws, as stardom-hungry pugilists pummel each other on a manicured lawn.
A man in a red mohawk referees the action inside a 12-foot-square ring, enforcing the two explicit rules: No hits to the back of the head. No jabs to the testicles.
For although a crowd of 200 watches this day, hundreds of thousands more might watch on a blurry video on the Internet, where celebrity is democratic and pain can lead to fame.
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Backyard fighting's been around as long as there have been backyards. But it's only since the advent of viral Web videos that recordings of everyday people clawing at each other has been a launching pad for stardom.
Exhibit A is Kimbo Slice, the scary man from Perrine whose footage beating people up made him one of the most hyped Mixed Martial Arts fighters in the country.
Now another Perrine man is hoping to organize this gritty underbelly of the cyberworld and transform it into a multimillion dollar, multimedia industry.
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The cyberworld knows him as Dada 5000. His mother named him Dhafir Harris. He's a little Don King, a little P.T. Barnum, a little Justin Bieber.
Born and raised in Perrine, Harris, 33, is a lean, mean-looking promoting machine - 6-foot-4 and 270 pounds with a 650-pound bench press. His big beard protrudes from his chin like the edge of a battle-ax. His toes and fingernails are lacquered black. His muscular frame is shrouded with tattoos: Two boxing gloves behind his left earlobe, "No Fear" inscribed on his arm, a "No to Drugs" illustration on his left pec.
His thumbs, he thinks, are even mightier than his fists: He promotes through text messages to the 1, 000-plus people listed in his Blackberry. The fights happen before sunset, so there'll be enough light to gather click-worthy footage on YouTube.
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Some videos have already gotten as many as 200, 000 hits on the site, though many have gotten tens of thousands. The producers of the acclaimed local film "Cocaine Cowboys" are releasing a documentary about him. Local and national media alike have dropped by. Telemundo produced a documentary about Rene "Level" Martinez, a mixed-martial-arts fighter who got his start in Harris' mom's backyard.
While not the most conventional way to help a community, Harris has convinced himself that he's doing a service. Winners get a share of the purse, about $300. Losers get $50 - enough for bandages.
The gladiators in Harris' world include a high-school wrestling champion and MMA fighters, but most are on the lowest rungs on of the social ladder - dropouts, rejects and felons who Harris said "can count on one hand the number of times they've been acknowledged for something good."
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Is it legal? Probably not. The state's boxing commission says it has never investigated Harris' franchise, but there are no medical doctors on hand, as there are in professional fights. Nor has the commission sanctioned Harris for amateur fights. Unsanctioned fights are third-degree felonies.
But police have shown up only to disperse crowds that have spilled into the sidewalk, residents say. The Miami-Dade Police Department's records show it has never received a phone complaint.
In fact, some neighbors have used the fights for their own entrepreneurial goals. When a fight happens, the woman across the street sells conch fritters. The house around the corner holds car washes.
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"I don't like it, but in this neighborhood, people mind their own business, " neighbor Christine Goods, 59, said. "Those fights give people something to do on a Saturday, and they happen on his property."
As the fights became more popular, Harris has become more cautious. Nowadays, Harris gets fighters to sign waivers that the promoter can't be held responsible for any injuries.Chris "Scarface" Wilmore is the dictator of "The Yard" -- a narrow lot behind Wilmore's two-story home in Harrisonburg, Virginia, where tree trunks are covered in vines, rusty clothesline poles stand next to a charcoal grill and punching bags hang from the trees. Sometimes people refer to it as "Satan's backyard."
In the center of The Yard is a patch where the grass has been ground to dirt and a makeshift boxing ring sits. A crowd gathers around Wilmore, who is dressed in his usual blacks and grays, a headband around his shaved head, as he announces the day's fighters. His voice carries -- you can hear it across The Yard even when he's not talking loudly.
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This is the home of Street Beefs, a fighting event Wilmore started a decade ago as part of his "Guns Down, Gloves Up" crusade. "Let's give these guys who have a dispute some place to solve it, " Wilmore says. A place where, he says, "They won't severely hurt each other or go to jail."
Wilmore, 40, isn't shy about his own criminal record, which includes assault and drug possession. By his own count, he has spent nine years in and out of jail. It was in juvenile detention that he learned to box.
His Street Beefs idea has evolved into something of a club. Wilmore calls it a "safe zone" where ex-convicts and recovering addicts "can be part of something." Last year The Yard hosted upward of 180 fights, and it has a YouTube channel boasting more than half a million subscribers and 142 million-plus views. The YouTube revenue has allowed Wilmore to quit his day job as a personal trainer to run Street Beefs full time. He says he hopes to soon start paying those who staff security, referee or assist with Street Beefs social media. Wilmore started the channel in 2009 with a handful of posts each year. In 2014 the video production increased and by late 2015 the channel was monetized. Street Beefs produced more than 220 videos in 2018. Its top video, with 20 million views, is from 2013.
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Fighters aren't paid and there's no admission fee charged, so Street Beefs falls outside the jurisdiction of state licensing, according to state and local officials. Harrisonburg police report occasional noise complaints, but besides that, the gatherings are left alone. There are no professional medical personnel present, no physicals required and no blood testing. People just show up and fight. "It's essentially the same as if we want to go play backyard football, " Wilmore says.
The men -- and yes, it's primarily men -- who gather are manual laborers, construction workers, furniture movers and the like. Most live within a few hours of Wilmore's renowned backyard. But some, having discovered Street Beefs via YouTube, drive from as far as Miami and Boston. One recent fighter said he'd flown in from Milwaukee.
They come to release stress and anger, or to pursue an improbable dream of being discovered online and embarking on careers as professional fighters. A few say fighting is simply in their nature. But they almost all talk about the test in the ring, how much they respect one another's willingness to fight for no money, the punches in the face, the focus, the pain, the adrenaline -- and more than anything else, in the calm aftermath of it all, the surprising bond they feel with their opponents.
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"The first time he hit me, yeah, the first thought I had was, 'What did I get myself into?' Then, the second thought, 'I need to do more defense.' ... After that, I kept just wondering when the round was over. ... It felt like I couldn't breathe. It felt like my lungs were going to collapse. I was just out of breath, and my legs and arms felt like jello. The 14-ounce gloves felt like 20 pounds on my hands."
"When I am pinning somebody, I have full control over the fight. It's one of the best feelings when you watch someone's spirit break, when they just give up -- I can't do this no more with you. ... What I learned to notice, when you take control away from somebody, you kinda watch them sink into a slump and then them just give up hope, and that's what I really like about it, watching somebody give up, knowing they can't compete. ... It comes from me being the aggressor. Even when I get hit in the head -- that guy, Dirty Harry, he was elbowing me in the head and hitting me in the face, and it didn't matter to me because I wanted to break him. I wanted to watch his spirit break even if it means I've got to rearrange my nose at the end. ... I like to be aggressive when the time is appropriate to be aggressive, like getting in a ring and fighting it out. ... Everyone needs a way to channel their anger into something ... I've always used sports as my outlet for my anger. ... It's hard to join a wrestling team when you are 20 years old and you're not in school. ... and there's a lot I am angry about."
"First fight, I kinda showed up at a fighting match -- my brother
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