The people in the pit go round and round:
My own days in the pit are long gone. I'm I'm at a show (which is extremely rare nowadays), I'll be content to stand in the back and dig the tunes without all the bloodshed up front. Actually, I got out of even flirting with the edge of the pit early on, maybe by the time I was 20. Gone are the days of my father looking at me the morning after a show with my two black eyes and bloated lips and him wondering if I was in a fight and me telling him, "No Dad, the show was great!"
Though when I was 31 I decided to get back in for old time's sake at a friends' show. Things were going just fine bumping around the spin cycle when I saw it coming. It was a forearm heading straight towards my face. There's something to be said for that feeling when you know you're about to have a collision with something and there's nothing you can do about it.
Meaty forearm meets mouth.
You know, getting hit in the face when you're 31 is a completely different experience than getting hit in the face when you're 19. It's not that getting hit in the face at 19 is a joy or anything, but somehow that forearm smashing your spongy lips into dense tooth enamel just doesn't have the same romance that it did 11 years earlier.