#(night watch did eventually dethrone it but for a time it was competing with it quite seriously)

[justafterjericho]

If you liked that vibes you could read the Hogfather book or go with the Mort (the first in the death subseries). Then just read the read of the death books in order. Mort also has the benefit of being very good at establishing not only Death as a character, but also the worldbuilding (and not only the one surrounding Death and his function) and while you can get better book for establishing how gods on the discworld work (I'll get to that one), if I remember correctly, this one still gives you some basic idea.

I would also recommend Guards! Guards! (starting point for the city watch books, late enough that Pratchett figured out his voice and what he wanted to do, early enough that there are not many references or cameo characters from earlier books (except Death, but there are very few books that don't have that cameo and if you loved Hogfather, I doubt you mind)), Truth (stand-alone, some cameos from the city watch characters), Going postal (starting point for Moist von Lipwig subseries, cameos from the city watch characters and the Truth, being quite late into the series it's one of the best books in the starting points category, but while it and it's sequel Making money can be read as stand-alones without problems, third book in the subseries - Raising steam - concludes arc about dwarf society, that starts in the city watch books and you should probably read them too before going into it, but Going postal alone can be read before any previous books) and I would say also Monstrous regiment (stand-alone, cameos from the city watch books and the Truth, also quite late into the series) can be good starting point. While these series can be read withou each other and you can choose any of those starting points, if you start with the Guards! Guards! I would definitely recommend taking all of those books (and the subseries they belong to) I've talked in this paragraph and read them as if they were from the same subseries (by that I mean chronologicaly). It's definitelly not necessary for understanding but (with the exception of Monstrous regiment) they're all set in the Ankh-Morpork and do influence the city quite a lot. On the top of that the characters interact with each other and it's both interresting and hilarious to see what each of them think of the others (lets just say that Vimes, William and Moist do not like each other very much for most of the time). Monstrous regiment just adds good outside perspective of some of those characters on the top. Like I said it's not necessary and you can start with any other of those starting points, but if you decide to start with Guards! Guards! I feel it would be missed opportunity to not do this.

Other than that from the earlier starting points there's also Small gods (stand-alone, quite early into the series, gives one a good grasp about some of the worldbuilding, expecially about how the gods work) and Wyrd sisters (generally recommended starting point for the Witches series, there's technically Equal Rites, but that's more of a prequel, it has quite a different tone from the rest of the witches books, it's mixed with the Wizards and Granny Weatherwax is the only character that will appear in the other Witches books and it's also quite apparent that some, probably not all that small, amount of time had passed between Equal Rites and Wyrd sisters, still good though, firts discworld book I've read through and I loved it).

The Wee Free Men (the first book in the Tiffany Aching subseries) is technically aimed towards younger audience, but in true Terry Pratchett fashion is also in lots of its aspects one of the darker discworld books and this subseries as a whole contains probably the darkest book in the discworld (it's been some time since I've read I Shall Wear Midnight but from what I remember it beats Night Watch, Thud! and Sniff (later Watch books) on how dark it was). Even with cameos from the Witches books (which are in every Tiffany books from what I remember) they should be okay to read without any previous books except for the last two ones (the aforementioned I Shall Wear Midnight and The Shepherd's Crown). For those two you should also read at least all of the Witches books (this time including Equal Rites) - although in the case of I Shall Wear Midnight it's mostly for one very satisfying cameo which in my oppinion deserve to be experience in the fullest. It is definitely necessary for The Shepherd's Crown though.

The last starting point I will recommend is The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents. Like the Tiffany Aching books it's aimed at a younger audience, like the Tiffany Aching books it's also one of the darker books xD. It is stand-alone and one, where the only cameos are of the Death and the Death of Rats. For all its insularity from the others books it does introduce enough of the discworld and it's tone to be a good starting point. There's actually quite recent animated adaptation of this one that can be considered quite good, definitelly one of the better discworld adaptation. Sadly it could have been great if they didn't decided to make it more "kid-friendly" by erasing most of the darkness by, for example, making the villian less scary and (which angered me more) erasing a whole fucking character just so they wouldn't die because kids apparently just can't handle death (lets just ignore the Lion King). They were other changes that felt kinda unecessary but if you have any younger kids I feel they would probably like it.

I never really got into any of the wizards books (excluding Unseen Academicals and the Last Hero, but the former is pretty late into the discworld (and Rincewind isn't the main character) and the later is basically a crossover with the Watch and none of them can be counted as more of the typical wizards books), never finished the Colour of Magic and while I later read other wizards books that I finished and even somewhat liked they just never really clicked for me so I don't feel like someone who should recommend them. And there's also the Pyramids and Moving Pictures that could probably also serve as starting points but I've never read Pyramids and while I've read Moving Picture it was a long time ago and while I remember liking it just fine, it wasn't all that memorable for me and I feel they are probably much better starting points there. Although it should be noted that while Moving Pictures is a stand-alone if you've decided to go with the wizards books this one should probably be read among them, because while the wizards aren't the main characters froim what I remember (or at least not the main main) this book introduces the new Archchancellor of the Unseen University Munstrum Ridcully who becomes the permanent ficture of the University going foward and basically starts a new era for the wizards there. He does also appear in the non-wizards books, but I'd wager that if someone read the whole wizards subseries his sudden appearance could have maybe feel a little jarring (but idk).

I would generally advise against starting with reading in the publication order, at least not from the beginning (I'd call that my bias against Wizards books as a whole and CoM in particular, but there exist enough people who were put off when they started with this book to warrant it). If you really want to experience the publication order reading (which can have some benefits) I would firstly start with some stand-alone or even starting point in some of the subseries you like the synopsis of and read that and then decide to try to read the whole discworld from the start. Or you can just start with either Equal Rites or Mort and go from there, of course. Generally if you don't like some starting point in some of the subseries it's probably a good idea to just switch to some different subseries or stand-alone and not just continue within the same subseries and then decide discworld isn't for you - I'm not saying discworld is necessary for everyone, but there are quite a lot of books and a few subseries in there so trying different ones if you don't like some book (and subseries) in it before giving up on it as a whole might be a good idea.

So where does one start reading Discworld?

So, this post hove across my dash, and I need these vibes in my life immediately.

[theheavymetalmama]

This is the way an era ends

Not with a bang, but with an “Oh...okay.”

Okay, before I get shit-blasted from all directions, let me clear this up. No, this isn’t an anti-Roman Reigns post, no this isn’t me being salty because Taker retired and in fact I personally think he should have retired years ago, and no this isn’t me making some post about how this Wrestlemania sucked because it didn’t. This is just my personal opinion on the match itself and what it means for both superstars which is actually very little for both of them. Are we clear? Okay, cool.

I’ve always been of the opinion that if the Undertaker’s streak was to end, it should have been either to a fellow old guard legend such as himself or a new up and comer that could potentially spearhead the dawn of a new era and what better way to do that than “I’m the 1 in xx and 1.” Considering how WWE tends to handle their rookies and greenhorns as of late and how accident and injury prone momentum makers and attention getters like Daniel Brian tend to be, that latter choice was more or less out of the question. The only choice, an old guard. A fellow legend and icon such as himself that had seen and worked through more wrestling eras than most two superstars today put together.

Enter 2011, where the Undertaker makes his triumphant return to the ring after a year-long absence...only to be upstaged by someone equally iconic who also hadn’t been actively competing for over a year.

Before the Deadman had a chance to remove his hat, the Game undermined the Undertaker in of the biggest ‘fuck you’ upstages in wrestling history. Why? To challenge him to a match at Wrestlemania. The two legends had incredible entrances and one of the most brutal and grueling matches in their careers. Ultimately, the Undertaker beat Triple H and retained his streak, 19-0, but was unable to leave the ring on his own power.

Next year rolls around with Wrestlemania around the corner, and this time the Undertaker challenges Triple H. To the shock of both the audience and Taker himself, the King of Kings declines. Several weeks go by and Taker goads Triple H into accepting his challenge, telling him to “Give back what is mine” and going so far as to cut off lengths of his hair each time the Cerebral Assassin refused his challenge. Eventually, Triple H accepts the Phenom’s challenge...much to the chagrin of Triple H’s longtime friend, fellow wrestler and legend, Mr. Wrestlemania himself Sean Michaels, for the reason Triple H accepted the challenge was because Taker taunted him saying that Sean was better than him.

Wrestlemania 28 rolls around, and we have the “End of an Era” Hell in a Cell match. Triple H vs the Undertaker, with Sean Michaels as special guest referee. It was another grueling, physically and mentally testing match, one that almost saw the King of Kings reign supreme. But once again, the Deadman would rise and retain his streak, 20-0, and the match ends not with a feud or an exchange of heated words, but with three bruised, battered icons supporting each other as they limp their way up the ramp and out of the arena, giving the crowd one last wave before departing for the night not as enemies, but as old friends saying their last goodbye.

Thus marked the end of an era...

Or at least it should have.

Much to the contention of friends and fellow wrestling fans, I once stated that “End of an Era” should go one of two ways. Either Triple H wins and the streak ends at the hands of a friend and fellow legend and future WWE Hall of Famer, or the Undertaker wins and retains his legacy 20-0. Either way, the Undertaker should have announced his retirement shortly if not immediately afterwards and end his career on a high note with a record that wouldn’t soon be broken. My opinion being that if neither Sean Michaels nor Triple H were worthy of ending the streak, nobody was. Maybe Daniel Bryan was at one point, but his accident prone nature and sheer stubbornness stopped that before it started. Needless to say, I had no shortage of people booing and jeering at me for even suggesting such a thing. “The Deadman has years left in him!” they said. “The Streak will never be broken!” they said.

Two years later, the unthinkable happens.

The Undertaker loses his match at Wrestlemania. The Streak is over. Who is the one to break what was thought to be unbreakable? Does the King of Kings return to reclaim his throne? No. Does Daniel Bryan defy the odds and conquer the Phenom in the ultimate David vs Goliath match? No. Does the Big Show put a lid on his losing streak by beating his fellow wrestler and former mentor at what he does best? No.

Instead the Streak ends not with a bang, but a whimper. The Undertaker lost the match not to a fellow legend or even a new up and comer, but to a part timer wrestler, title hostage holder, and aging shaved gorilla, Brock Lesnar. Suffice to say, we were all saddened that such a prestigious accomplishment would end in such a way...but it didn’t stop me from riding the asses of each and everyone who gave me rations of shit for saying that if Triple H couldn’t beat the Streak then nobody should. “Oh yeah, the King of Kings totally wasn’t worthy, dodged that bullet right? Good thing the Streak was broken at the hands of somebody who truly was worthy-OH WAIT!!!”

Where am I going with this? Well, Undertaker kept wrestling and got his sort of revenge down the line, but while he kept showing up for Wrestlemania you had to ask...why? The Streak is over. There are no stakes in it anymore. Just retire already.

And that brings us to now, where Undertaker has now retired at the hands of a very polarizing competitor, Roman Reigns. The reaction...is about what you’d expect. You have smug Reigns and salty Undertaker fans butting heads with each other, sympathetic Reigns fans trying to be good sports as sad Undertaker fans quietly mourn, no shortage of people on both sides thanking Undertaker for an unforgettable era that last well over two decades, and then there’s me...my feelings for the whole thing can be summed up in this picture.

Honestly? The whole thing just seems banal and pointless. I mean, we all knew that the Undertaker wouldn’t wrestle forever, but this...I don’t know, Undertaker retiring to Roman Reigns (or anyone for that matter) after the Streak was already broken feels like ordering a TV dinner for your last meal. Also, how exactly is this supposed to help Roman here? It would have been one thing if the Streak had still been intact, but it wasn’t. He didn’t break a record, he matched someone else’s achievement. That’s impressive in and of itself, but as they say, nobody remembers second place.

As for Reigns himself, hey, good for him and all, but if the WWE keeps riding this train then it won’t end well for Reigns or the WWE. Sorry, but you can’t just take some mid-carder, force him upon the fandom as the next big thing, and then just expect people to accept him. Remember how well that worked when they did it for the Miz? Sorry Roman. Celebrate all you want, but you’re still getting booed and it’s still very much Undertaker’s yard. He just let you set up a lawn chair next to Brock’s.

In any case, what’s done is done. I wish this was a time where I could truly be shocked and awed at the outcome of the Undertaker losing his last match...but I’m not. I should be happy, nay, elated that someone beat the unbeatable and that their career will skyrocket...but I’m not. I should be at least somewhat angry that someone I’ve watched wrestle since I was a kid hang up his hat, gloves, and coat for good and likely quietly disappear given how reclusive he is...but I’m not. This should feel like a man dethroning a god, but instead it feels like a tired, jaded old man throwing the new guy a bone.

This is the way an era ends.

Roman? Good job. I hope things turn around for you soon.

Undertaker? Thank you. Your streak and your career may be over, but your legend will never die. Goodbye. You will be sorely missed.

[flauntpage]

We Spent a Week in Tokyo's Fight Scene

I'm at a world title fight inside a tennis stadium on the waters of Tokyo Bay, among 10,000 mostly Japanese fans, watching Frenchman Hassan N'dam, the winner by decidedly disgusting split decision, acknowledge those still in their seats on the south side of the ring.

Some have already left the place, shocked and confused and maybe indignant. But those who remain clap—and not passive-aggressively. Sure, politesse is the name of the game here, but plaudits for the guy who sucked the air out of this bubble called Ariake Colosseum by beating the would-be hometown hero, formerly undefeated Olympic gold medalist Ryota Murata, whose face has graced every Tokyo paper all week?

Unfathomable.

Finally, one Japanese man standing behind me renews my hope that the cultural gap can be bridged.

"Ie, ie, ie!" he shouts. No, no, no!

In total Bowe-Golota mode, I think, OK, good. Now let's charge the ring and dispose of these, at best, blind and, at worst, warped officials. But the shouting man goes quiet suddenly and shuffles out, a small prelude to the self-doubt some Japanese fans and writers begin expressing online within 24 hours that Murata wasn't as active as he should have been, he didn't press his advantages, he allowed the fight to be taken from him—the first two of which may be true.

But Murata, a probing man who ponders existence in ordinary fight interviews and often refers to the words of the eminent Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist Viktor Frankl, gave up nothing Saturday night.

Here, instead, is the story of the snatch.

It was supposed to be such an enjoyable, onigiri-filled voyage: Fly into Tokyo to watch 31-year-old Murata—at 160 pounds, the biggest Olympic medalist Japanese boxing has ever produced, by 46 pounds—ply his trade during a historic sports week in Tokyo.

Sure, Murata was no guaranteed winner. Some in his camp had wanted him to wait before challenging for a belt, but the powerful Japanese Boxing Commission grades every fighter who turns pro and compels the best, by virtue of the class of their issued boxing license, to compete at a high level immediately. Which may be fine for smaller dudes, whose divisions are thinner (how many 108-pound men do you know?), but isn't a great path for bigger pugs who should ideally face considerably more opposition before challenging the best. There are a hell of a lot of strong 160-pound men in the world.

But, per inflexible local combat law, Murata's career moved fast. He signed with two promoters, Teiken for his fights inside Japan and Top Rank for those abroad. He also began training in the Teiken Gym and let the firm, run by 69-year-old Akihiko Honda, manage his career. Unlike in the U.S., where it's illegal, in Japan, boxing stables host, promote, and manage fighters, in the tradition of sumo stables, which even prescribe meal times and ingredients.

Nike sponsored Murata—where his trunks once featured the words "Big Dreams," they now boasted a Swoosh. "He gave me a Nike shirt," Steve Martinez, a 27-year-old from the Bronx who was flown in to spar with Murata, told me after returning. "He's big out there."

Bigness was the issue all along.

Heading into May, Japan had produced exactly 80 men's champs. Only three had won in the 154-lb. class, and only one had taken a strap at 160: Shinji Takehara, who won it 21 years ago and then lost it in his first defense a half-year later; that you've never heard of Takehara says it all.

And size matters for reasons the Japanese rarely articulate aloud and almost never among foreigners. Several months ago, someone at Teiken, after I enthused about some of their stars, said, almost bashfully, that while their fighters have a lot of heart, they lack in technique. I heard nearly the same line—it might've been the same, verbatim—from a magazine writer inside Ariake, as we watched an undercard bout from a perch above our press area.

What they both left out or alluded to only indirectly is why Japan has had considerable boxing success at all: In the lower weight classes, you can take a hell of a beating and still win—the incoming punches aren't often one-shot tranquilizers.

From Fighting Harada to Eijiro Murata to the stars of today, they see their boxing luminaries as successful partly because of their weight limitations. Murata, by contrast, announced with his Olympic gold at middleweight that he could be the first Japanese fighter to win in the wider world, a world full of 160-pound antagonists.

For me, the Japanese focus on his size obscured some of his other intriguing traits, which I picked up in bits and pieces from older articles in Japanese. Murata resumed an amateur career he had abandoned year prior after a former boxer at Toyo University, his alma mater and employer (he was a boxing coach/general philosopher-dude), was arrested in 2009 for allegedly trying to smuggle illegal stimulants into the country. Murata has said he returned to the ring in order to restore his school's reputation. "It's a very Japanese way of thinking," one Japanese fight writer told me.

And the philosophizing itself was fascinating, though the language barrier prevents me from assessing whether Murata really knows of what he speaks or just drops names to legitimize whatever he wants to say next. Besides Frankl, he often brings up Nietzsche, the philosopher whom his father read most often, and theologian Reinhold Neibuhr. Did I mention that his degree is actually in business?

Anyway, my trip wasn't focused on this character alone. Murata was scheduled to headline the second of three title-topped shows on consecutive nights in the capital. The 19th was to be all female fighters, while the 21st was to feature 115-pound champ Naoya Inoue, aka "Monster," and Satoshi Shimizu, a featherweight who won a bronze medal in London just before Murata took home gold (that he's far less heralded demonstrates just how differently Murata, his larger Olympic teammate, has been treated).

If you're an otaku (or, more accurately, a lover of ukiyo-e and Japanese film) and certainly a fight fiend, how could you not go?

Issei Nakaya, the 38-year-old proprietor of a boxing gym outside central Tokyo, meets me at Narita Airport, and we navigate a series of sweaty, sardine-can subways westward, over two hours, to his neighborhood of Hachioji. We talk of crazy places fights can take a person, and he says has visited 50 countries.

Eventually, we reach the Hachioji Nakaya Boxing Gym, which is up a flight from the sidewalk. At the doorway, we remove our sneakers and don slippers, even though the floors are concrete and unlikely to be affected by shoes. (Incidentally, most Japanese gyms feature softer flooring, but Issei calls the concrete an American touch.)

I've been awake too many hours to count, but the small gym has a soothing familiarity, with its handful of heavy bags and single ring. Issei and I plop into his father's office for a moment just to regain our senses, post-subway smushing. The sound system plays reggae. Issei offers me a Pocari Sweat—a cloudy beverage akin to Gatorade—and I down it quickly.

A small boxing equipment store in Suidobashi

Issei tells me more about the gym, which is a small family operation compared to Murata's Teiken, which, besides being bigger and better-financed, also has branches across the country, in Osaka, Fukuoka and Hachinohe, that feature a modernist take on traditional Eastern architecture in glass and wood.

Here, the place is wonderfully grungy and everyone pitches in: Issei creates the fight posters (graphic design is his hobby, and he creates posters for the local soccer and basketball teams, too) and handles administrative work, while his father, Hirotaka, who recently turned 63, and one of his brothers, Kosuke, serve as trainers.

His father also sculpts in his free time, Issei explains, pointing to a few of his works—a bust, a funky desk—on view in the gym office.

Hirotaka is in the ring, teaching a kid to load up on the hook. Issei says they focus on power, not speed. Was he ever trained by his pops?

Issei says no. "My father isn't interested in his own kids," he adds. "Just sculpture."

"And other people's kids," I add, and Issei laughs.

There are a handful of pros in the building, including Musashi Yoshino, a super-flyweight fighting on the undercard of the Murata event. Whenever a fighter leaves, the remaining crowd says, "Otskare," short for "otsukaresamadeshita," or "Well done working yourself to the point of tiredness today, lord."

When I chat with Hirotaka, he tells me that training and sculpting are parts of the same art—forming something from nothing. Then he shows me a signed poster of a famous Japanese singer and, on his iPhone, a classical bath tub he fashioned in his own backyard. And then a photo of himself sitting in the tub next to two goats he owns (an image so humorous Issei created an illustrated version for his fight posters).

Issei and I depart for a local tiki bar, where we consume beer, peanuts, and garlicky rice while discussing the HBO-Showtime rivalry and other melodramas. Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side" plays. We toast the mutual friend who set us up, a Japanese sports reporter currently based in New York who is still very much beloved in Tokyo: To Daisuke! Kanpai!

The fights begin with the all-women's card in Korakuen Hall, a wooden box on the fifth floor of a building near the Tokyo Dome whose intimacy—it seats 1,800—belies the venue's grand history. It is here that Joe Frazier won his heavyweight gold medal in the 1964 Games. The nearby Dome was the site of the greatest upset in heavyweight history, Buster Douglas' 1990 dethroning of Mike Tyson.

Issei isn't promoting tonight, but he gets me in and later introduces me to a manager wearing a silky shirt and aviators, with a pseudo-Jheri curl. He kinda looks like an underworld figure; Issei says he's very skilled at matching fighters.

The women deliver the goods. Fan favorite Chaozu, who has cultivated a hybrid punkish-cute persona with that handle—her actual name is Akiko, which is in line with the Japanese custom of giving girls names ending in "ko"—and short, bleached hair, emerges to the tune of a Japanese pop song alongside a furry mascot that resembles Syracuse's Otto the Orange.

She wins by second-round TKO, admittedly against a Thai fighter brought in to be the B side (aka, not have a chance of winning), and then, like many of the night's contestants, poses for pictures with attendees.

The main event gives me the sniffles. Kayoko Ebata, 41, has challenged for a world title five times unsuccessfully, including twice inside Korakuen Hall. She faces Erika Hanawa, an undefeated 26-year-old with little wallop but a nice record. Neither truly deserves a belt at 105 pounds (minimumweight), but one is at stake, and that's all that matters in the moment.

The taller Ebata uses her length to touch Hanawa constantly and set the pace. At an age when boxers not named Hopkins or Foreman are already seriously in decline or retired, Ebata shows exceptional stamina. She never seems any more tired than Hanawa over the fight's ten rounds (standard for women; for men, it's been 12 for the past 30 years). Ebata evades a few bombs thrown in desperation, and then the bell rings and scores are announced. She wins: 98-92 on two judges' cards, 97-93 on one.

Ebata falls to her knees and cries. Her audience chants her name: E-ba-ta. E-ba-ta. When the MC hands her the mic, after she has composed herself, she thanks the crowd wholeheartedly and then announces her retirement.

I dab my tearful eyes. Issei smiles. I wanted to show you Korakuen-style, he says, alluding to the inevitable emotional connection fans here make with fighters who are mere feet away. "Auld Lang Syne" plays over the PA system as we leave.

Murata enters the arena through a gauntlet of supporters waving banners featuring his likeness and the logo of Toyo University (consider yourself redeemed in full, Toyo). I sneak between these supporters and follow Murata nearly up into the ring. If only Madison Square Garden ushers were so permissive.

Just before the bell rings, after the seconds have been told to exit, Murata's trainer reminds him to keep his guard up very high. And then I'm clued in—at least at the start, Murata is gonna wear earmuffs, Winky Wright–style, and merely try to deflect punches while walking N'dam down, feeling him out physically and wearing him out mentally.

N'dam can't land a shot. Each one slides off Murata's gloves like melted ice cream at a matsuri (more on that in a moment). Five minutes into the bout, Murata opens up and begins throwing at intervals. He's slow and throws sparingly, but every punch lands hard, and sends N'dam sprawling.

It's a strategy of compensation: Time your shots so they can't be countered, no matter slow your own reflexes. Then N'dam goes down in the fourth round, and the fight seems like a sealed deal.

The morning after Murata's loss, hungover from life and beneath a blazing sun, I hightail it to Asakusa for the third and final day of the Sanja Matsuri, a Shinto festival that is held in the summer and attracts 1.5 million people each year. The event is part tradition (participants wear yukatas and other traditional garb) and part grubby tourist attraction, with an endless row of kitschy vendors leading to the Senso-ji Temple.

At the actual front of this human traffic jam, people buy keys to wooden drawers, in which omikuji (fortunes) are stored. They're read and then either tied to a tree if your luck looks to be bad, or kept.

Oh, and representatives of local neighborhoods jostle, shove, and sing in order to carry one of three mobile shrines called mikushi with which nearby businesses are blessed. I've seen the look on their faces before, those lugging these intricate wooden arks. These are the good soldiers, pushing through pain to make for themselves a better life (although it may just be artificial, residual—faces they saw their parents make and so mimic).

I head from the Shinto mosh-pit to the third and final show, also at Ariake Colosseum, which is headlined by super-flyweight champ "Monster" Inoue, who just turned 24. Until recently the Japanese fancy wanted to match Monster against fellow division-ruler Roman Gonzalez (whom the Japanese press call by the portmanteau Romagon similar to the way they call personal computers pasocon—"Gonzalez" doesn't exactly slide off of the Japanese tongue). But Gonzalez has lost his belts now and may no longer be Inoue's target. Tonight, Monster faces a Mexican without a chance, just to stay busy.

More exciting than the bout is Inoue's padwork before it begins, in his police-guarded dressing room, into which I slide my phone's camera at various points, before finding a monitor displaying the room's footage—then I shoot the monitor and get it all.

As for the actual contests: The difference between Japanese and American title bouts is officiousness—a condescending display that betrays the nature of the game. In a fight, after all, manners are crushed by matter.

For three decades, politicians and promoters both have advocated for the U.S. to install a national commissioner of boxing, if only for safety reasons. Right now, each state has its own commission with its own rules, some of which are so lax they permit seriously debilitated fighters who've been barred from the ring elsewhere to compete with nary a test.

Well, the Japanese have such an all-powerful body, but rather than enforce safety, it mainly exists to reinforce its own authority. I note before each title bout: When belts are stake, the Japanese commission also offers its own trophy—which basically looks like what you took home from little league, but bigger (as if the belt and status weren't reward enough). In fact, until a few years ago, the commission refused even to acknowledge the validity of two belt sanctioning bodies accepted everywhere else, the IBF and the WBO. A Japanese fighter wasn't allowed to fight for such a belt or had to do so overseas.

What rubs me the wrong way most is that before each bout an old man surrounded by other old men reads a proclamation detailing the status of the fight. Sure, that's part and parcel of the culture, to put an official stamp on nearly everything. But title fights possess such a stamp already in the belts on offer, the well-known records of the combatants, and, oh yeah, the Japanese version of Michael Buffer, who also announces who's in each corner and for what they vie.

These older commissioners, then, put their imprimatur on the bouts for themselves—not for the crowd watching, which might already know the cash at stake in what is, after all, a prizefight. On the plus side, Japanese promoters don't engage in the boorish bloviating of their American counterparts. So I suppose either way, people are going to say self-aggrandizing things. The difference is who and when.

Maybe all of the above is just another way of stating Murata's grand task: To escape the Japanese fight world's meaningless local pronouncements and ceremonies; to transcend its minor xenophobia, as exhibited by its general policy not to issue press passes to foreign reporters, unless I was white-lied to by the promoter who explained to me my own rejection before offering me a ringside ticket—basically, to leave home in order to become the hero home needs (#JosephCampbell #StarWars).

Murata would never dare tell Japan that to its face, though he has said his dream is to headline a Vegas show and the best fighter of all time was Harlem's Sugar Ray Robinson.

But a kid 11 years his junior who appeared on an undercard over the weekend already has, in a way. His name is Andy Hiraoka, and he's a 20-year-old, half-Ghanaian, half-Japanese junior-welterweight southpaw who turned pro at 17, won some matches in Japan, and then put his competitive career on hold for two years to hone his game in the Mayweather gym in Vegas.

That he knew he needed to leave to improve is a sign of his maturity, but it also touches on the aforementioned nativist attitudes. Not to cast stones from this awfully glassy American house, but Japan still treats mixed-race Japanese as others, no matter their birthplace. They term said people "hafus"—as in, half and half—and there's a heartbreaking documentary by that name on the phenomenon I recommend.

Which isn't to say I caught any glimpse of it during Hiraoka's fight. Just the opposite, in fact: he is a clear favorite among the fans, including a group of little kids with inflated Thunder sticks who repeatedly shout, "Ganbare, Andy-san!"—ganbare meaning, basically, go get 'em.

Rather, Hiraoka's hafu status is likely what allowed him to slip out of Japan in the first place without creating a stir. In January, I interviewed top-flight Japanese 130-pounder Takashi Miura in California, before his second appearance on HBO Boxing (his first was the previous calendar's fight of the year, and his next is just scheduled to be held in July in LA).

I figured Miura's global rise was being hailed back home, and said as much. His response, without hesitation: No, it doesn't help my reputation to fight abroad. I'd be more popular if I stayed home. I do it because it makes me better.

Four months later, that line of thinking is perhaps why I sense an urgency to Murata's fight never quite addressed in the press and yet perhaps its underlying point: If Murata wins, the Japanese won't feel a protectionist urge to keep him at home. A win means he can take on the world—enter it—and his fans, therefore, can open themselves up to it, too.

A win means: We are all good enough.

Is that total projection? Maybe.

A week before the title fight, Murata told a Japanese reporter the importance of the middleweight class is an American idea—because Americans are physically middleweights by nature, they pay more attention to those guys on-screen. Then he said the Japanese had absorbed the American idea that middleweights are what boxers should look like, so Japan's best talent flowed to baseball and soccer and ignored the fight game.

Of course, that second line means Murata would indeed be breaking a major social psychological barrier with a win.

After the fourth-round knockdown, Murata continues apace. In the fifth, N'dam raises his left glove high momentarily—he is wary now of Murata's right. But when he opens up to punch, he lets his guard down and gives Miura a swell path to the jaw. N'dam breathes through his mouth in the sixth, while trying to stay upright on unsteady legs.

In the seventh round, I scribble in my notes that a ref could call a knockdown each time N'dam is held up by the ropes alone and not his own power "but doesn't. It shouldn't matter."

I have Murata winning the eighth, but he appears fatigued now, waiting for that second wind.

My note on the 11th: Murata takes some shots—but makes sure to return fire each time, as one of his sparring partners told me he did in the gym.

Final note in my pad: Eventually Murata will need to add the 3—a left hook—to his 1-2 combos. But it's impressive as hell that he won tonight and entered the sport's top 10 with his limited artillery. It speaks to his potential. Then the ring MC announces the split decision in favor of N'dam. Only the American judge, Raul Caiz Sr., scores it, widely, for the pride of Nippon.

The other two judges are lucky the match was held in Japan and not anywhere else on the planet. Tennis fans have rioted over far less.

Murata, The Big Humble, refrains afterward from complaining about the decision. "The result is the result," he says. He doesn't demand a rematch, but the WBA orders one anyway (as it should). In the final two rounds, Murata recalls, he was thinking just how lucky he was just to be in a title fight, on this stage. And now he's ready to take some time off, he adds.

It really wouldn't shock me if he never came back at all. A smart, thoughtful guy with a college degree who told the Weekly Asahi in 2014 he was only gonna box for four or five more years anyway. Not a shock at all. Then again, there is a rumor he'll come back straight away this summer or fall to face English beltholder Billy Joe Saunders. It seems like it has always been this way with Murata—all or nothing, retirement or a gold medal. Retirement or a championship bout. A great win or an epically unfair loss.

Almost as if he's too pensive to commit without question to the brutal game, and so is treated as warily by the game itself.

Want to read more stories like this from VICE Sports? Subscribe to our daily newsletter.

We Spent a Week in Tokyo's Fight Scene published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv