Strikeforce Challengers: Episode Six—Live Blogging from San Jose

It's been almost two full weeks since the last time I wrote anything, which has gotta be a record for me as far as writing downtime is concerned.

The break was a necessary evil of the California Bar Exam, which has been inflicting its own unique brand of 18-hour torture on me over the course of the last three days. So you'll have to forgive me if this one disintegrates into an erratic, stream-of-consciousness, travesty of gobbledygook.

I swear it won't be my fault; I can rally with the best of 'em, but 16 hours of sleep over the last four days (six of which were on Thursday) is past my breaking point. Not only that, the stress doesn't totally wear off immediately because you know you have to wait until May to find out whether you pass.

Eventually, it wears off as you get farther away from the exam. But not the day after.

Anyhoo, enough self-indulgent blather—onto the real action.

Because I've been in a voluntary cone of silence for the last several weeks, I don't know too much about the antagonists tonight. But a fight is a fight and—judging from the trio that was in the cage warming up a second ago—there are some legit athletes and bangers on the card.

Hopefully, they'll introduce themselves to me tonight and make a lasting impression.

For those of you who are even more casual followers of the greater universe of mixed martial arts, this installment of the Strikeforce Challengers series features a headline bout between two battle-tested females.

I've never seen a women's fight live, let alone one for a belt. Oh, and Sarah Kaufman is putting a 10-fight undefeated rampage on the line when she faces Takayo Hashi.

Color me intrigued, especially when you throw in the obvious hostilities between Canada and Japan...

Looks like we're only a couple minutes away from the first touching of gloves. I was gonna say the first fireworks, but there's an odd haze hanging over the intimate San Jose Civic Auditorium so I'm assuming some have already gone off.

Crowd's filtering in and the public address system is prattling on so—while I wouldn't say the excitement is palpable—angry combatants will be joining us shortly.

I'll be back when they do.

NON-TELEVISED UNDERCARD

Ronald Carillo v. Anthony De Los Santos—135 pounds

Wow, it's tough to do but De Los Santos found a metal song I've never heard, a band I can't recognize, and a tune that isn't particularly noteworthy—either good or bad. Well done by the San Jose native.

Carillo enters to another selection from this new wave of gangsta rap crossed with heavy bass'd nu metal—another offering that's not-good-not-bad. Hailing from Pleasanton, Carillo's clearly brought a contingent of fans with him.

In the smallish arena, they're making quite a fuss.

Don't know who the referee is, but I'll work on that.

Round One

The fighters come out and touch in the middle then start exchanging high kicks. Carillo has yet to throw a punch as both fighters appear to be intent on striking the night away. De Los Santos is on the defensive—I wouldn't say on his heels, but he's certainly taking more than he's giving.

But don't tell the guy in the balcony above me who is screaming himself hoarse for his homeboy.

Carillo sinks in a deep guillotine on a standing De Los Santos and holds it for a bit, but the San Jose favorite shakes if off and the action goes to the ground for the first time.

De Los Santos sinks in a choke while Carillo has side "control," but the round ends with nothing coming of it.

Call that one 10-9 for Carillo.

Round Two

De Los Santos' corner seems to have gotten the message across because its fighter comes out more aggressive with leg kicks and presses the action to the cage. Carillo reasserts himself and takes the fight to the ground.

Carillo's working for mount and then transitions to his adversary's back. Ooh, nice transition into a fatal arm bar.

Carillo by submission (armbar) 1:08 into the second.

Steve Dickie v. Alan Lummel—265 pounds

Well, the first bout wasn't too bad—some good action and a nice finish. What more can you really ask?

The second tilt of the night features the really big boys. I don't know if 265 counts as super-heavyweight, but these fellas are livin' LARGE.

Lummel comes out to, I swear, the same song as De Los Santos—I'm beginning to think maybe I should know the band. I don't.

Dickie apparently goes by the moniker "The Hammer." I think there's an Ultimate Fighting Championship fighter of some note who beat the San Jose local (see a theme developing?) to the...ahem...punch.

He enters to what sounds like Korn with a cold. So far, the fighting has been much better than the music.

Referee is Dan Stell? Still?

Round One

The rather rotund gladiators meet in the middle and take a couple swipes before the action moves to the cage.

Oops, the Hammer has Lummel rocked as the staggered fighter backs his way in a vain attempt to escape. It doesn't work as Dickie crumples him and then finishes it off with some heavy hammer fists.

His namesake would be proud.

Dickie by TKO at 33 seconds of Round One.

Hey, we've got a Frank Shamrock sighting. His nose is every bit the massacre in real-life, too. Seems like he's having a good time posing with the fans, though.

That's always nice to see.

My first ladies bout is coming up. It feels a little bit wrong, but that's probably because I've got two sisters who I can't imagine throwing leather.

To each her own.

Renee Robinson v. Lilia Salas—145 pounds

Leave it to the fairer sex—Salas (making her amateur debut—these are amateur fights?!?) enters to Rage Against the Machine's "People of the Sun." That is, incidentally, one of their best tracks; well done Lilia (another hailer from San Jose).

Robinson is also making her amateur debut—this place isn't huge, but it's still gotta be a bit terrifying for a first-timer. I have no idea what her music is—shockingly, I can barely hear it over the ovation.

San Francisco is winning the turf war in the crowd.

Both women are already taking some big breaths; nerves could be a factor.

Didn't catch the ref's name.

Round One

And we're off, Robinson is loading up for some huge shots as Salas immediately shoots for the take down.

Talk about your all-time backfires—the San Francisco native takes her opponent's back like lightning and immediately starts working for the rear naked choke. She can't find it and instead flattens her prey to start raining blows from above.

The ref's seen enough and stops the brutalization before it gets worse.

Robinson by TKO at 1:03 of the first.

Dear Lord, I can't imagine all these people actually know the victor, but they're reacting as if they do. Place is going NUTS as Robinson walks by with a huge grin on her face.

As she should; talk about an impressive debut.

Time to pass along the first fruits of my collateral observations—the crowd is almost at full capacity now and at least half are female. Most of them are dressed to the nines...for a Friday night fight in San Jose.

A for effort, ladies, A for effort. It's more than compensating for the absence of Arianny and Chantal.

Jesse Tobar v. Johnson Nguyen—145 pounds

I knew a Jason Tobar once; makes me wonder if they're related...or if the spelling of the last name is even the same.

Nguyen is yet another debutee; he enters to some quietish classical stuff. Nice change, but I would've chosen something more recognizable.

Tobar enters to System of a Down or P.O.D.—I can never keep those two straight. It's the one that demands you wake up (Chop Suey! by S. of a D. -ED.) Second best choice of the evening, trailing only Ms. Salas and Rage.

Round One

It's fast and furious at the jump...for a second. Then the action hits the ground and stagnates a bit. Tough to see who's doing what because the front row insists on standing up and the haze makes the screen tough to follow, but Tobar is getting roughed up at the moment.

Neither fighter looks particularly hurt, but Nguyen's spending quite a bit of time on the offensive. The Sacramento native has taken full mount, then transitions to his opponent's back before losing control.

The fighters stand back up and Nguyen registers a nice trip before the horn.

10-9 for Nguyen, easy.

Round Two

The second starts a little more slowly, but not for long as the pair go flashing across the cage into the fence. Nguyen's still on the better end of the action as it goes to the ground, but Tobar pulls a nice escape and takes Nguyen's back.

Tobar's desperately trying to sink in the rear naked choke and the crowd insists he's almost got it.

They're right. Terrific comeback for the San Jose hood and not a bad opener for Sac-town's own—he's surely disappointed, but it was all him there for a while.

Tobar by submission (rear-naked choke) at ~1:30 of the second.

Okay, I'm not sure if I've lapsed into one of those Fight Club waking comas, but we're now getting Vanilla Ice's "Ice, Ice Baby" crossed with "Play that Funky Music" by Wild Cherry and a little (lot) extra bass chucked in.

I'm shocked into silence.

Now I'm HOPING I've gone Tyler Durden because whoever controls the music is raping Guns 'n' Roses' "Sweet Child of Mine" with some horrible mash of beats. That's a song from my (late) childhood.

In other words, what they're doing is criminal.

Next fight's up after our one billionth ad for Full Tilt Poker.

Tristan Arenal v. George Miller—155 pounds

Apparently it's the Brad Pitt hour—I can't help but think of Legends of the Fall whenever I hear/see the name Tristan. Sad that it's taken top billing from Tristan and Isolde (the opera, not the "film").

Oh well.

Miller enters first and the PA system seems to be discriminating against certain pugilists—can't really make out the details of the sound, which is probably a good thing. Seems we've got a hold-up with Miller's gloves and that means an extended serving of this nonsensical noise.

Arenal is another San Jose boy and the place responds accordingly. Rap is definitely the order of the event, which leaves me at sea.

The crowd is pulling for its city over Concord, Calif.

Round One

I wondered how these rounds were just flying by—they're only two minutes. Like I said, my brain is bruised from 18 hours of law.

Yikes, these two are banging. It's not the most technically clean striking you'll ever see, but Arenal is walloping away and Miller's reeling.

The action goes to the mat as Arenal works for an armbar. Miller's trying to struggle through it, but he's in bad shape at the moment. Finally, he powers through and ends up in Arenal's guard.

Arenal goes for rubber guard, but loses it almost instantaneously. The buzzer sounds with Miller on top.

The round has to got to Arenal, 10-9.

Round Two

The shorter rounds are probably a good thing because my truck is in a lot that closes at midnight. And I don't want to spend the night on the streets of San Jose.

Lovely city though it be.

Both combatants come out to a more measured pace, for a second.

Then the big bombs come back out and Miller starts catching them with his face. Ouch, that one buckled his knees and another finished the job. Arenal pounds him out to make it official.

Arenal plays to the crowd, and the crowd plays right back.

Arenal by TKO at 30 seconds of the second.

We're getting closer to the Showtime cameras because the lights keep getting darker and darker, which only makes the fuzzy visual filter hanging in the air more pronounced.

If anyone's seen The Deerhunter , the inside atmosphere looks a little like the gambling room where Bobby D finds Christopher Walken. Strangely, however, it doesn't breathe any differently than clean air.

Chris Stewart v. Samuel Bracamnonte—185 pounds

Ah, our first absolute nightmare of a name to type. Samuel Bracamnonte...sorry fella, you're SB from here on out. That "m-n" combo in the middle is a deal-breaker.

SB enters into what I could swear is Rage, but I'll have to get back to it.

Because Chris Stewart, from Pacifica and making his amateur debut, is setting the bar beyond the reach of his fellow card-mates by entering to the greatest metal track of all time.

Metallica's "Master of Puppets"—no more typing, I'm drinking it in.

Ah, that was amazing as always—Hetfield and the boys never fail to get the chills going.

The Internet is a hell of a thing. SB entered to Eric B and Rakim's "Microphone Fiend" covered by Rage. Good tune I'd never before heard.

For those keeping score at home, SB's head is half blond and half black. Okie-dokie.

Round One

The action starts in the middle of the ring as the two clinch and move to the cage. SB is going for a double-leg takedown and Stewart defends valiantly, but ultimately to no avail.

With the fight on the ground, nothing much of consequence is happening. SB maintains dominant position, but Stewart scrambles back to his feet and is now looking for a single-leg takedown of his own.

SB's underhooks are proving prohibitive for the moment. He finally concedes the takedown as the horn hits.

"Master" makes me want to give that to Stewart, but I think SB takes it 10-9.

Round Two

Goes to the ground almost right off the crack, but the pair gets back to their feet just as quickly. Stewart's going up for a ride, but the drop down isn't too bad except he's got a battering ram on top of him.

SB's working for position and manages to enter Stewart's half-mount. Stewart forces his way to his feet only to be tripped back to the canvas and SB continues to pound away. With SB working Stewart's arm for a submission attempt, the round ends.

Call it another 10-9 for SB.

Round Three

The final verse opens with a reckless Stewart coming straight forward behind jabs and straight hands. SB side steps and throws a nice hook that lands, but not to the cruel effect with which it started.

Yet the effect is enough to turn the tide in SB's favor as he takes his stunned opponent to the ground and quickly pounds him out.

Oh well, Stewart won the music battle of San Jose, Bracamnonte won the war.

With a name like that, he's destined for big things if for no other reason than to torment typists the sport over.

Bracamnonte by TKO at 50 seconds of the third.

Eric Lawson v. Wayne Pillips—185 pounds

Quick turnaround—Phillips, out of the American Kickboxing Academy (which should be pretty pleased about now in the wake of Cain Velasquez's demolition of Antonio Rodrigo "Minotauro" Nogueira) enters to Disturbed's "Down with the Sickness."

Good call.

Lawson is the first non-San Jose native to get the support of the crowd over a local product. Concord's in the house (for Lawson, at least).

His music doesn't merit discussion.

We're into paid professionals as the competitors are shirtless and it's back into five-minute rounds.

Round One

Fighters touch gloves in the middle and the action is a bit more tentative with money on the line. As I say that, Phillips goes for a wild kick and ends up on the ground with a thunderous splat.

Lawson lets him up and the two continue feeling each other out.

Phillips appears to be controlling the action in the early going, but he's not scoring much. Lawson stirs and takes the upper hand, but only lands some glancing blows as the two separate.

Now the fists are flying and Lawson's landing with far more frequency. Phillips is in trouble as Lawson whizzers him to the ground and takes top position.

Tough to see, but the ref has stopped the action and is giving Lawson a stern talking-to for strikes to the back of the head.

No point deduction as far as I can tell, though.

The battle re-takes center cage and Lawson continues to dole out punishment. Phillips tries a couple knees, but they don't slow the assault.

Lawson takes him back to the ground and ends up on his adversary's back, looking for the rear-naked choke.

For a finishing move that everyone seems to hate, the crowd sure gets excited...until Phillips reverses and takes Lawson's back. He's looking for a choke of his own in between strikes.

The choke is in and squeezing shut, but time might be on Lawson's side. It's not, but he still manages to wriggle free. His reward is Phillips on top.

The AKA product suddenly ends the bout with a quick and smooth transition to an armbar. Impressive. Very Impressive.

Lawson looks like that arm might be hurt.

Phillips by submission (armbar) at 4:27 of the first.

Suddenly, there are a lot more Wayne Phillips fans in attendance.

Hey hey, Nate and Nick Diaz make an appearance—Nate is rocking a pretty ugly black eye. Of course, those two always seem to have black eyes.

Stockton must be a rough place; I haven't been in years, which shouldn't surprise anyone familiar with Stockton.

Lawson's next to make a pass and that arm is definitely dinged up. To the shelf, my son.

MAIN CARD

With the televised portion about to kick off, the stars are starting to ascend to the heavens. If the heavens were the San Jose Civic Auditorium...

Herschel Walker is chatting it up with some lovelies at cageside. And, by lovelies, I mean a smoking hot mom with an infant IN HER ARMS.

Can't imagine the smoke (this is the first indoor facility I've been in the State of California where people are smoking freely) and blaring music is all that wonderful for the developmental stages of babies.

But what do I know?

Like I said, it's a brave new world.

Hey, did you know you can play poker online at Full Tilt Poker?

Good grief, Charlie Brown—if you have to beat the horse that badly to get a ride, just let it die in peace.

Raul Castillo v. Yancy Medeiros—185 pounds

The production value has just kicked in with the Showtime cameras—we're talking hype vignettes, a Buffer-esque announcer, and all sorts of seizure-inducing strobe lights. If I'd eaten today, it might be coming back up.

Granted, the four cage girls might argue otherwise.

Medeiros, only the second non-Californian on the card so far (he's out of the Aloha State of Hawaii), appears to have quite a few high-pitched fans randomly peppered around the arena.

One in particular behind me in the rafters seems to think she can draw his affection through determination.

Whoa, the Medeiros contingent doesn't stand a chance; raucous doesn't begin to describe the Castillo bunch. Castillo's from Half Moon Bay; this is like an entire fight card pulled from my backyard.

And, yes, I'm saying my backyard is the entire Bay Area.

Neither music rates to the discussion scale.

Round One

We're now a full 30 seconds into the fight and one punch has been thrown. Testing the waters might describe the "action" if you could test with the whisp of your knuckles.

Medeiros lands a punch and Castillo responds with a thwacking leg kick.

Castillo shoots for a single-leg, turns it into a double-leg, and takes it to the ground for a nanosecond. Medeiros springs right back up.

They're pressed up against the cage and Castillo drops levels for another takedown. Medeiros defends better and tosses a knee that lands with some success. But Castillo responds with a shot of his own and goes back to work trying to get the fight to the mat.

The battle for grappling control goes back and forth across the ring in a pseudo-clinch with neither man grabbing an advantage.

Castillo gets a single and then gets the double, but he might be too tired to finish the takedown. He is.

In fact, he might be too tired to survive the round as Medeiros is landing all of a sudden. Castillo briefly appears to be re-charged as he fights back, but Medeiros is really pushing the action now. He lands a nice right that stumbles Castillo.

The round ends with the Half Moon Bay product shooting in.

Tough round to score, but I'll give it to Medeiros, 10-9.

Round Two

Second starts with the same feinting and flirting, but it doesn't last as long.

The heat is on Castillo now as Medeiros doesn't appear to be worried about anything but the takedown. And that doesn't seem to be bothering him too much.

The Hawaiian is stalking his prey, slipping strikes in while dodging the offerings of Castillo. Nice low kick fake into a stinging right as Medeiros is officially in a groove. He's looking far too comfortable in front of his opponent.

There's a pause in the action as Medeiros pulls off the attack momentarily.

Castillo's in survival mode at this point—he's stopped his offense almost entirely, although the focus on defense isn't bearing too much fruit as he continues to eat hands for his trouble.

Medeiros must've punched himself out or he's playing possum because it looks like his tank is on empty. Castillo doesn't appear to be too interested in taking advantage though—I think you can count his offensive attempts from the round on one hand.

As I say that, he almost ends the fight with a knee. Luckily for Medeiros, he narrowly avoided its brunt.

Horn ends another 10-9 round for Medeiros.

Round Three

Whoops, quick groin shot from the Hawaiian to open the final stanza, but the ref ain't buying it from Castillo as he urges the warriors to re-engage.

Castillo goes for the shot, but Medeiros turns it away. Castillo comes back in and grabs a single-leg, but his heart doesn't appear to be in taking the momentum any further. Medeiros gets a hook in and there's no more danger of the canvas.

The ref separates the fighters and Medeiros continues to put the Californian on his heels. Medeiros left jab is landing almost at will. Now a left hook finds its home and a knee.

Castillo rallies, but the rally includes a sincere knee to the groin and Medeiros is having trouble shaking it off. We're OK now, and the crowd discovers its voice for Castillo.

He's not listening.

Madeiros pummels away and has Castillo on the verge of darkness, but Half Moon Bay's own walks back from the brink. He's losing the fight, but proving his heart in the process.

In comes Castillo for another shot, but the move has lost all efficacy as the bout wears on. Ref stands Castillo up and the Californian scores with some jabs of his own.

Too little, too late.

Call it another 10-9 round and a unanimous decision for Medeiros—the judges do.

Medeiros by UD.

Little respite before the next bout, including interviews of both Walker and Gilbert Melendez—who predicts if he keeps fighting "like a Mexican," Mexicans will watch.

A Californian, too, Gilbert is careful to specify.

James Terry v. Tarec Saffiedine—170 pounds

Our second ridiculous name of the night, Saffiedine, hails from the international landscape judging from his accent. This tidbit makes the "Temecula, Calif." tagline under his name all the more astounding.

Terry is yet another from the San Jose stable. Consequently, he's got an entire section of the crowd on its feet.

Hard to bet against a guy named "Tarec," though. Just sounds like he must be a good fighter.

Round One

The duo open the round with a lot of gesticulations, but nothing of genuine promise. Very odd to watch so much movement with zero chance of amounting to any points.

Tarec lands a nice right to an off-balance Terry, but the latter seems no worse for the wear. Uh oh, another right lands from Saffiedine and that could be a harbinger of bad things for San Jose's own.

A jumping knee almost lands from the pride of Temecula and Terry looks a bit lost out there. Nice combo from Terry, but it doesn't land. A short left does, but Saffiedine comes right through it.

Another shot lands from Terry and he's looking more at ease. But Saffiedine's not done yet as he lands a thorough leg kick and then backs his adversary up with some more solid blows.

The right hand is still looming large for Saffiedine as Terry starts letting his jab go.

Terry gets the fight's first takedown and scrambles to turn it into some positive points. He scores a few before his opponent jumps back to his feet.

Saffiedine is slowly but surely taking resounding control on the feet.

Horn puts a 10-9 round to bed for Saffiedine.

Round Two

The second starts with a flurry as Terry's fire might've been lit in between rounds. The larger problem, however, is the favorite has no answer for Saffiedine's striking.

More leg kicks precede a potentially conclusive upper cut that barely misses.

Saffiedine tries for the Muay Thai plumb, but Terry slips away. Things are getting pretty gloomy for the San Jose local as more shots from his antagonist land. A left head kick threatens to end the fight, but Terry blocks the majority of it.

A wild overhand right from Temecula almost lands—Terry's living on borrowed time unless he pulls a 180.

To his credit, Terry is still coming forward and doing his best to score some points. He just has no choice but to retreat the minute Saffiedine starts firing away.

Another firm leg kick lands from Saffiedine; Terry's gonna need a stoppage in the third to pull this baby out.

With less than a minute left, Terry almost completes a nice takedown, but the cage holds the fighters up. Terry's finishing this round better, but I still think you've gotta give it to Saffiedine, 10-9.

Terry shoots in and Saffiedine sprawls as the horn sounds. It doesn't change the scoring.

Round Three

Remember that line about Terry needing a stoppage? I think his corner told him the same thing because he's come out for the third like gangbusters. Nothing crushing lands, but it's the best start he's had to a round.

The back-and-forth hits a snag as both men try to find some extra fuel.

A left and a right lands from Saffiedine as Terry might've used what little reserve he had left. There's now a gross welt/gash below Terry's left eye, but the guy keeps coming.

With two minutes left, he's gonna need a miracle, but it's obvious he has an abundance of intestinal fortitude.

Plus one hell of a chin.

Another knee from Saffiedine with a Superman punch chaser. Saffiedine's letting the tricks out of the bag. Terry is none-too-impressed, but he simply can't land enough to change the tenor of the match.

Saffiedine lands a spinning back kick, but it looks way better than it was. Still, when a spinning back kick lands to any degree, things are probably not going well.

The round ends with Terry scoring a takedown and finishing in full mount. Nevertheless, even if you give that round to him, 10-9, I've got Saffiedine by unanimous decision.

Yep, make it the official word.

Saffiedine by UD.

Let's tie-up some loose ends—Saffiedine hails from Belgium (which I hear is just like Temecula), he's a member of Team Quest, and his nickname is "Sponge."

Tarec Saffiedine is now on my radar (as is his lady friend, wow).

Luke Rockhold v. Paul Bradley—185 pounds

The music has ground to a halt; I'm not even sure these were chosen by the fighters as it sounds more like background music from a video game.

Bradley comes out first to a hearty round of boos. I'm not sure if the crowd dislikes Bradley for any reason other than he's from Minnesota and Rockhold is the requisite entry from San Jose.

Fun fact—Rockhold owns a submission over Jesse Taylor (who fight fans will remember from his notorious exit from The Ultimate Fighter after qualifying for the final). He also is the only MMA fighter I've ever seen bring a surfboard into his pre-fight vignette.

The crowd loves him. Bradley might not make it out of here alive if he pulls off what would have to be described as an upset.

Round One

It's now clear that the haze is from the fog machine more than the cigarettes, which means it's intentional and all the more absurd.

Bradley is quite a bit shorter than Rockhold—he's like a bigger version of Sean "The Muscle Shark" Sherk...or a smaller version of Jeff "The Snowman" Monson.

All that muscle ain't doing him too much good though as the early feelers result in a snapping right from Rockhold and another that sends Bradley to the canvas. The shorter fighter recovers only to be smacked right back to the ground on the other side of the cage by a thrashing right to the jaw.

Rockhold quickly and briefly goes for the guillotine, but instead lets his fading opponent get up just to be put back down. The San Jose favorite finishes it with his fists as the ref steps in.

Rockhold by TKO at 2:24 of the first.

Time for Luke to go surfing for a couple weeks. But before he hits the waves, he states a desire for some more well-rounded fighters so he can make it out of the first round.

Take that, Paul Bradley. Mr. Rockhold doesn't lack for confidence.

Judging from that performance, he shouldn't.

Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a Dan Henderson sighting. Rightfully so, he's drawing the biggest crowd. Man, that guy just oozes "fighter."

For that matter, so does Frank Shamrock.

Hendo's got an enormous head; that's coming from someone who wears a 7 5/8 fitted Giants hat (can't say for sure if they make fitted hats for other teams).

Trevor Prangley v. Karl Amoussou—185 pounds

Amoussou makes a second international entry on the card—I'm pretty sure the Frenchman said he's a civil policeman in Paris. I can't decide if that'd be cool or it would suck.

Prangley must've done something unsavory because the San Jose native doesn't even get a whisper from the partisan crowd. Maybe he's just unfriendly.

If you haven't noticed, I've totally thrown in the towel on the refs. But Jason McCoy has the action for the penultimate fight.

Round One

Yikes.

Amoussou comes out throwing with a fury, but Prangley calmly weathers the storm. The fury seems to have been short-lived because now the strikes have come to a dead stop. The lull lasts about a minute before the fighters renew pleasantries.

Prangley scores a takedown and sits in the Frenchie's half-guard. Still not much scoring for the fans to cheer. Prangley continues to work his position methodically.

Too methodically.

Mr. McCoy (who is rather hefty) stands the fighters up and Amoussou resumes his assault. Prangley joins the party as both men trade pretty good shots.

Prangley lands a right that gets a rise out of the crowd, but it had more show than go.

Oof, THAT was a horrific eye poke from the American. Looked pretty inadvertent, but Amoussou is having serious problems opening the poked eye.

Uh oh, the fight's called and the crowd is restless. Boos cascade upon the octagon as the participants embrace. I can't be too upset since I didn't pay for the price of admission.

Nonetheless, the Frenchman looked like he had been maimed right up until the fight was called. Then the pain magically went away.

Technical draw at 4:14 of the first due to an accidental foul.

A suit is brought in to explain that, in California, when there's an accidental foul and the fouled competitor can't proceed immediately, a doctor gets called in to make the decision and the ref has no authority in the matter. Hence, no five-minute grace period for Amoussou.

In the upset of the night, the crowd remains unmollified. Who'd've thought...

Sarah Kaufman v. Takayo Hashi for the Strike Force Women's World Welterweight Championship (135 pounds)

The main event adds a third and fourth dose of transatlantic flavor—though, technically, that doesn't apply to Kaufman the Canuck. And I guess Japan would be best described as transpacific.

Details, details.

This one's for all the marbles at 135 so it's a potential five-rounder.

Now that I think about it, this is the first title fight I've even seen live. If you'd told me the first title bout I'd be in attendance for was gonna be between girls, I'd've said you were crazy.

Hashi looks extremely uncomfortable in there with the camera on her, but let's see what happens once the lens leaves the cage.

Round One

Are white female fighters required to go with corn-row-esque braids? Or is that just the easiest 'do?

Kaufman's undefeated streak seems secure as Hashi takes a heavy seat courtesy of Kaufman's power. The Canadian works for a trip, but it's defended by the Japanese entrant.

They're backed up against the cage throwing knees to no effect so the ref separates them and restarts the action.

Kaufman continues to take her opposite number apart on the feet. Both hands are landing with ease and she throws in a leg kick for a little extra spice. Hashi's wobbled by another fist as those nerves may not have left her.

I'm well out of my depth as far as technical aspects of the fight game are concerned, but Kaufman's striking looks the crispest of the night. She's keeping her hands tight to her chin and throwing right down the pipe.

Not crisp enough to hold the Diaz Brothers' attention, however, as they make their exit.

Another shots put Hashi to the ground, yet again, and Kaufman pounces, positioning for a guillotine before letting her felled adversary back up.

Leg kick for the Canadian before the bell sounds.

No doubt—10-9 for Kaufman. Maybe even 10-8.

Round Two

The second round picks up where the first left off—with Kaufman dominating as Hashi ends up on her keister yet again. Another over-hand right lands from the British Columbia native.

Hashi looks like she's locked in there playing the Christian to Kaufman's lion as the Canadian just walks her down, waiting for an opening.

Kaufman's proving to be legit, but I'm still not sure I want to sit through three more rounds of this. The outcome has already become a formality barring a magic punch from Hashi.

Now, the Japanese contender has opted for the old "refuse to engage" defense as nothing's been thrown for a good 90 seconds. The crowd's showing more restraint, but the boos are creeping in.

I literally just yawned as the horn went off.

Call it 10-9 for Kaufman, but only because of the first minute or so.

Round Three

It makes for a rather stark contrast when the ring girls are up there in between rounds as the corners are working on the lady fighters. Can you imagine what either side of the fence is thinking?

Feel a little bad for the ladies as the crowd is starting to thin out considerably; I think the fighters would prefer boos.

Can't really blame Kaufman as she's trying to catch Hashi, but the Japanese fighter's interest in the festivities seems luke-warm at best. People are heading for the exits like rats off a sinking ship.

Strikeforce might have to re-think putting a women's bout in the main event, if only for the sake of the competitors. Can't imagine anyone wants to be in a main event with people heading for the exits.

Kaufman keeps landing her jab, but she can't get close enough to register anything with real oomph behind it.

As I type that, Hashi hindquarters kiss the canvas one more time. Can't say I really blame the Japanese fighter—every time she gets close, she ends up on the ground.

Things are getting critical out there. Hashi just threw a leg kick for which Inspector Gadget couldn't've found a home.

Another 10-9 for Kaufman as more and more bodies hit the door.

Round Four

Dear me, I'm trying to be as generous as possible, but this is a snoozer and a half.

The clinch makes it first appearance and it's not helping the situation.

Hashi goes for a shot and it's stuffed easily. We're back in the clinch, though the arena's almost stopped paying attention. This is odd—if it were a men's fight, the boos would be deafening.

Who says chivalry is dead?

Hold up a tick, Kaufman's got a decent choke in, but Hashi escapes.

Some jabs land from Kaufman, but Hashi's just not into the dance.

10-9 for Kaufman.

Round Five

The last championship round starts and I'd say the San Jose Civic Auditorium is down to 60 percent of its capacity. Most of the people left are madly trying to get on camera.

Why? Good question.

I'm really not being an ass here, there just isn't much about which to write.

Kaufman looks good, but she's locked in there with someone who isn't too interested in being a willing foil. To the Canadian's credit, she's sticking to her game plan and not being pressured into making a foolish mistake.

The upper balcony is looking suspiciously empty.

The good news is that baby's still here. Jesus...

Hashi's back on the ground and throwing up kicks—that qualifies as offense from her. The Japanese fighter keeps throwing half-hearted kicks that Kaufman catches easily and then Hashi gets tossed to the ground.

This has happened four or five times, yet Hashi won't stop and Kaufman can't turn it into the stoppage everyone wants.

We're not gonna get it as the horn sounds on the last 10-9 round of the evening.

The unanimous decision for Kaufman is a no-brainer and her undefeated streak is intact.

Make it official.

Kaufman by UD.

The vanquisher keeps up the Georges St. Pierre tradition of incredibly articulate and gracious Canadian champions. Sounds like a good rep for the sport.

No doubt a lackluster finish, but the overall card was pretty entertaining. Still, gonna be tough to rinse the technical draw and finale from the crowd's mouth.

Luckily, that's not my concern.

Time for bed.

**www.pva.org**