PROVO -- It was a nasty 2-inch gash over Aaron Christopher's left eye that provoked curiosity in everyone he encountered.
Colleagues at work questioned him about the wound, as did his clients and friends. Strangers often sneaked glances at him, honing in on his black eye."I'm pretty selective about who I tell," said Christopher, a 22-year-old fitness instructor. "I just say, 'Yeah, I was boxing.' If they're cool, I'll tell 'em about Fight Club."
He's not talking about the movie "Fight Club," the film that depicted a malicious brand of bare-knuckled brawling cloaked with vows of CIA-like secrecy. He's instead referring to Fight Club Provo-style: a more diluted form of combat where competitors wear boxing gloves and try to pound each other for three 45-second rounds, and where word of the macho hobby is liberally spread.
Although Provo, a stronghold of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, may seem an unlikely place for pugilism to thrive, the Fight Club's predominantly word-of-mouth campaign is paying off. Otherwise slow Monday nights in Happy Valley have been replaced with large crowds of Brigham Young University and Utah Valley State College students gathering to watch fighters stand toe-to-toe and pummel each other at various park sites or other remote areas. To control the size of the crowds, the events' ever-changing locations are not announced on the club's Web site until three hours before fight time.
The founders of Provo's Fight Club -- 10 college-age male students, most of them roommates -- say Hollywood's version did not inspire what they consider their well-behaved and well-structured social club. They hosted their first official Fight Club session about five weeks ago inside a small off-campus apartment after Christopher, a former collegiate wrestler, outraged a roommate by playing a prank on him.
But grudge matches are the exception to the rule, the club's members say. What lures most people to this sport is a desire to measure their manhood by the ability to take or give a punch.
"I think a lot of the motivation for it is just being in a fight and seeing how you handle it," Tyler, 22, said. "To get confidence in that situation; see if you got guts."
Twenty-two-year-old James Anderson never looked to fighting as a test of his courage. The lanky snowboarder and rock climber had never fought in his life until five weeks ago.
Now, his weekly bouts are said to be so spectacular and engaging, and his fighting style so relentless and fierce, that friends call him "The Champ" even though he has one loss.
"Sometimes I'm in a 'I-want-to-feel-pain mood," said the 162-pound UVSC student.
But while many would consider this amateur pugilism barbaric, even inhumane and would love to see it banned, Provo's Fight Club members say their club doesn't sanction or promote violence. All fighters must consent to rumble, they note, and spectators are under no pressure to become participants.
Fighters are matched with opponents of similar weight, wear mouthguards and 16-ounce gloves (the least punishing size available). Three judges score the fights. There is a timekeeper, and a referee became standard after Christopher was intentionally elbowed in the eye during the arbitrator-less fight against his roommate.
"I don't see the difference between this and a father buying two pairs of boxing gloves and telling his boys to go at it," said "Johann," a Fight Club founder who did not want his real name used for fear of repercussions at LDS Church-owned BYU, where he is a student and holds a job. "It's just the name 'Fight Club,' so people automatically assume it's evil."
On Monday, the muscular and undefeated Christopher competed in his third fight -- the eighth and final bout of the evening. An energized, raucous crowd of 250 to 300 people formed a tight circle. Some stood on Dumpsters or cars. They yelled. Stomped. "Get 'em, Aaron!" "Knock him out!" A collective "Oooh!" was sounded with each wicked blow that connected.
On the undercard, two first-time fighters quit after just one round. In the main event, Christopher and his stocky opponent collapsed toward each other at the start. Unlike seasoned boxers, who throw a lot of jabs, most of the punches thrown in these club fights are wild, looping haymakers -- ugly shots that nevertheless pack a lot of power when they land.
Christopher fights valiantly, but on this day his heavy-handed competitor hits him with several thunderous blows to the head. Christopher is hurt twice in the first round, and his legs become wobbly. Another good blow in the second round and he staggers once more. The referee calls time to decide if a beleaguered Christopher has enough to continue.
In more than 20 matches, there has never been a knockout -- or even a knockdown -- at Provo's Fight Club. With his pride at stake, Christopher comes out for round three and fights back furiously. His tiring opponent loses his mouthpiece and Christopher wins the round.
"I think it's quality entertainment," BYU senior Brandi Brian said. "I like the solid punches."
Time expires and the crowd -- about 40 percent of them female -- chants repeatedly: "Round four! Round four! Round four!", begging for an encore that never transpires. Christopher has lost by a decision. Fight Club is over for the day.
The crowd turns tame and disperses as a BYU police officer arrives at the scene, followed by three Provo police cars. No one is arrested. The officers say they received a complaint about noise and commotion from nearby residents. A Provo officer said police can cite people for disturbing the peace, but there is nothing he or other officers can do about the fighting per se if it's consensual.
"It's mutual combat," the police officer explained.
Ironically, several of the founders of Provo's Fight Club have never fought, citing the difficulties of explaining bruises, black eyes or injured noses to their bosses. But Aaron, who works at a local health club, fears no reprisals at work, and he intends to continue fighting.
"There's probably about 10 to 15 people who came up to me at the gym yesterday and congratulated me."