WILMINGTON, Mass. -- “Rampage in the house. I just saw him.”

I’d hear this several times, in several forms, over the next five hours. The first time it came from World Championship Fighting promoter Joe Cavallaro, who I’d asked about getting interview time with one of the mixed martial arts’ biggest stars. Quinton “Rampage” Jackson was at the Aleppo Shriners Auditorium on Saturday to corner Mike Dolce, whose fight was one of 13 that took place in front of nearly 4,000 people.

I set up shop at ringside to report on the fight outcomes, confident that an opening to speak to Jackson would present itself organically. All I wanted was an update on his reportedly injured jaw and a few other pressing matters.

He first surfaced in the front row during the evening’s fifth bout. He sipped drinks that were brought to him in white plastic cups and chatted with an entourage seated beside him. The crew included a stocky dreadlocked gentleman in a yellow security shirt and a skinny guy with a thick drawl, two prominent gold teeth and a tilted baseball cap. Also seated next to Jackson were two rather stoic Asian women; it was tough to tell if they were rolling with “Rampage” or just spectators.

After the fight wrapped, I darted to where Jackson was sitting. He had a bit of a buffer zone around him, so I determined that it was of prime importance to seize the interview as soon as an opportunity presented itself. I stood by as a horde of camera phone-toting females took turns sitting on Jackson’s lap like he was Santa. He danced suggestively with several of them. I saw him at least once smile wide for a camera and then, a split second before the flash, change his expression to an annoyed one. There were, after all, many more eyes on him than just the camera’s lens.

It became clear that I was to cover two shows that night: the one in the ring and the one Rampage would unwittingly put on all night.

I was positioned behind him when he rose from his seat, and I caught his attention. Did he have five minutes for Sherdog? Not right now, maybe later. He was mellow about it, not dismissive. I took note of his facial features. Jackson is one of those television stars who looks exactly the same in person as he does on the screen. I did not note a swollen jaw or compromised speech, so the injury about which people have been talking did not appear too severe. He parted the crowd toward the concessions.

When he returned, I approached him again. The scorecards for the final fight before intermission were being tallied. He mumbled something to me about checking with him again at intermission. Just as I thought, “but intermission is starting right now,” the camera-toting masses closed in again.

I realized Rampage’s magnetism was going to prevent me from getting any time with him while he was amongst the people. He took part in an intermission ceremony Cavallaro always puts together at his shows, where UFC veterans with local ties enter the ring and wave to the crowd. Kenny Florian, Marcus Davis, Dan and Joe Lauzon and Sean Gannon are usually there, as is boxing great Mickey Ward. Jackson playfully tried to trip or block every fighter as he climbed the steps and through the ropes.

Then Jackson was introduced, the ring announcer referring to him as “perhaps the greatest MMA fighter of all time,” or something like that. Jackson slung over the top rope like a professional wrestler and played to the crowd. He then grabbed the microphone and said something about Florian once tapping him in training. The bespectacled lightweight was soon roped into going up for a playful Rampage slam and half-hearted ground-and-pound. Only after all this did the announcer realize he’d forgotten to introduce Jorge Rivera.

The intermission lull set in, and I figured I had plenty of time to catch him. I walked up to a VIP doorway behind which people gathered at a bar. I asked a yellow-shirted guard about Rampage. Last he heard, he was outside smoking. I went outside. There were plenty of cigarette tips glowing in the brisk darkness, but no sign of Rampage in his black-as-night short-sleeve collared shirt, jeans, Nikes and hat.

Someone involved with the event advised me that Rampage was a little drunk, so he figured I wouldn’t get a very good interview even if I caught up to him. I figured the exact opposite.

I went around back to the media entrance and opened the door. There he was, inching through a small hallway with yet another camera in his face. I gave chase. He didn’t see me and ducked behind a curtain to sit with Dolce. Another yellow shirt was in my way. He told me to try Jackson at the end of the show. As it turned out, the down time was extended a bit after a fighter, about a minute into the first bout after the break, suffered a shoulder injury and was taken away in an ambulance. The event was on hold until another one could arrive. Perfect opportunity, I thought. I scanned the landscape anxiously for several minutes, like a father who’d lost his child at Disney World. Several minutes later, an ambulance bleeped into the back garage entrance, and I still had no interview.