I rooted. The crowd rooted.

I cheered. It cheered.

This was Ultimate Fighting Championship 102 at the Rose Garden and we were like a couple of regular Saturday night soulmates, weren't we? Right up until I figured out we weren't.

More on that in a bit.

First, understand, UFC is violent. Bones were broken on Saturday. Brains were boxed. Three fighters lost consciousness --- the first two clubbed silly with fists, the other's brain deprived of oxygen with a chokehold until his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

One of the fighters on the undercard, Chris Tuchscherer, a heavyweight with a blonde-spiked haircut, was kicked in the family jewels so hard that he spit blood. And then after a five-minute recovery period, and some urging to get the fight going from a member of the Oregon State Athletic Commission, the bout continued and the fighter's face was so badly beaten and bloodied his hair turned light pink.

It got so bad that one of the UFC pay-per-view broadcast cameramen outside the fence, flinched and wiped his face after his cheek was with spattered with blood.

Most of crowd loved most of what it saw on Saturday. They must have. Because they stood, and roared, and jumped around and celebrated with back slaps when the knockouts were replayed on one of six jumbo video monitors in the arena. And that's not to say those who loved the show were cavemen. But if we're conducting a sociological study here, the basis for the study could revolve around the level of tolerance each of us has for violence.

No crime there, right?

I hated the Tuchscherer fight because I don't like seeing humans run over by dump trucks. I followed the guy toward the locker room after the fight, and as he disappeared I saw his wobbling legs, and the confusion as he turned the wrong way in the arena halls.

A fan in the arena, leaned over to me as I walked back, saw me cringing, and said, "Don't judge the sport on that fight. I didn't like seeing that one either."

It's true, isn't it?

We judge a sport by its worst moments. Its lowest form is what it is. We talk about the concussions in football, and the drugs in baseball. And in the end, I figure UFC has come a long way since its inception, but still has work to do. Because when we talk about the worst of UFC, we have to talk about its crude nature.

Someone is going to die in the Octagon someday. We're headed straight there, and anyone who saw the damaging blows to the brains on Saturday, including UFC head Dana White, can't ever say they didn't see it coming.

I'd say that the state athletic commission needs to stop worrying about entertainment dollars and start putting the safety of the fighter first. And that the UFC referees need to be quicker to stop fights. And that the gloves of the fighters should have more padding.

But I also think doing any of these things would hurt its popularity with the people who paid to watch on television or bought tickets to be inside the Rose Garden.

Because it turns out most of those in the crowd were rooting for big knockouts and devastating kicks. And as hard as I tried to pull for one fighter or another to win, I always found myself secretly pulling for the fight to be settled by a decision and for everyone to walk away with his marbles intact.

I rooted for brain cells. And for bones to stay whole. And the best moments for me came when I saw two skilled fighters, each too talented to get knocked out by the other, working against each other. And also, I was surprised by the humility in the competitors, especially in the back hallways, away from the crowds, where some of them popped their heads into the opponent's dressing room to make sure nobody got seriously injured.

I gave this sport a chance. And I'll continue to watch it, mostly just to see if it can continue to evolve. But I don't yet understand what it is about the awful violence that sends some witnesses into a merry frenzy.

I left feeling conflicted and sick. And thinking a lot about humankind.

These guys train hard, sure. And they sacrifice. And there's redeeming value in giving all of yourself in pursuit of reaching a goal. That's undeniable evidence that there's something buried in this sport that speaks to all of us.

Todd Duffee, a heavyweight who set an Octagon record by knocking out Tim Hague in 7 seconds with a single punch, said: "With what I'll make tonight, I'll break even. I had to take out a student loan to pay for my travel costs."

A few minutes later, on the 100-level concourse at the Rose Garden, Hague was spotted walking along in a daze all by himself.

These guys became human.

I like the fighters. I just don't like the fights.

-- John Canzano; JohnCanzano@aol.com. Catch him on the radio on "The Bald-Faced Truth," 3-6 p.m. weekdays on KXTG (95.5).