If fighting really is in our DNA, as Dana White likes to tell us, and the “niche” lies in tapping that primal capacity, there’s also a level of absurdity to the proceedings. One kick to the solar plexus is worth a dozen philosophy books in what it teaches you about life, just as a broken nose will have you questioning what’s behind the cosmos in the middle of the night. All of that is pretty obvious and easy to understand, even for a beer-drinking spectator.
But still, it’s a hell of a thing being a prizefighter, whose burden it is to override the absurdity of the job and focus on the objective.