Cheap Seats

(originally published on BloodyElbow.com on March 7, 2011)

March 2011, a Saturday night. Illinois is deep in cloud cover, awash with snow and icy rain. Forty minutes west of Chicago, inside the Odeum Expo Center of Villa Park, ex-champion Jens Pulver is hounding local palooka Wade Choate around the ring. It’s the closing minutes of the three-round main event, a mixed martial arts fight, but the arena is already half emptied out.

Pulver can’t bother himself with the audience now, though. He’s been eating jabs the whole round and, with only a few minutes left in the fight, he’s desperate to make an impression. Pulver needs this win. Up until just recently, the featherweight went three years without a single victory, and hasn’t won two consecutive fights in nearly half a decade. Suffice it to say, Jens Pulver has seen better days.

Indeed, around the turn of the century, Pulver, known as “Li’l Evil,” was considered by many to be the best lightweight mixed martial artist in the world. In a combat sport that combines, among other things, the martial disciplines of boxing, wrestling, and Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Pulver excelled, and in February of 2002, he took the lightweight title in the Ultimate Fighting Championship, or UFC, today the world’s biggest and best mixed martial arts organization. Even back then, though, the undersized Pulver was never seen as the most talented fighter. He fought up the ranks tooth and nail, pulling off surprising victories thanks to a granite chin, explosive hook, and the gravel in his guts—that gritty, inexhaustible will that is his trademark. But, where today his will remains vigorous, Jens Pulver’s body betrays him. After so many years of hard competition, Jens Pulver is, at only 35, an old man.

Pulver and Choate fight it out for a final, lonely couple of minutes before a thinning, indifferent crowd. When it comes time to hear the judges’ decision, Pulver heavily favors his left foot as he walks to the referee. It’s a close fight to call, hard to tell who’s ahead on the judges’ scorecards, but people are nevertheless crowding the exits. Win or lose, it’s clear that there’s been no resurgence for Pulver. We may not have known it at the time, but we didn’t buy tickets to witness some great comeback. We’ve come to see the darkening embers of a once great career.

***

Arriving in Villa Park, IL, we are presented with a contrast in prosperity. Three-story houses with large picture windows and sprawling lawns stand across the street from discount clothing outlets and dreary ninety-nine cent stores. We’ve pulled into town with an hour until doors open at the Expo Center, and decide to kill some time at Swap Mart, an indoor flea market.

Rows of booths are set up in an echo-y, cement-floored space. The vendors’ shelves are crowded with squirt guns and stuffed animals, airbrushed portraits and votive candles, soccer cleats and blue jeans with rhinestone butterflies on the rear pockets. Life-size statues of a Roman solider, of Elvis Presley and of John Wayne, are posted around the market, apparently not for sale, but not for taking pictures with, either (that’s prohibited). Today, Swap Mart is hosting something called Metal Fest, a battle of the bands with a metal theme. The sounds of crash cymbals and muddy guitar work emanate from the back of the building, drowning out the vendors’ little radios. It’s time to go.

As it happens, we’re destined to hear the musical stylings of at least one more would-be Metallica. Inside the Odeum Expo Center, a live band is screaming and grunting their way through a cover of “For Whom the Bell Tolls” while, backstage, the fighters warm up. Compared with the makeshift bar set up at Swap Mart, this band got the prime gig.

Men of Illinois, pot-bellied, barrel-chested, carry beer five plastic cups at a time. They take seats next to their wives, and on their knees they bounce little sons and daughters who cover their ears against the arena’s blaring stereo system. Someone’s girlfriend is arguing with a security guard, something about them being caught in the wrong seats, when the house lights dim and a spot light shines on the fenced-in ring, the cage. We settle into our hard, plastic stadium chairs as the evening gets officially underway.

The undercard, the night’s earliest bouts, tend to be populated by inexperienced fighters. The novices tonight are mostly small, pale and slight of frame, skittish but resolute young men fighting out of towns called Northlake, Granite City, and Buffalo Grove. Into the cage they carry the old, hard names of their families: the names Pitz and Graves, Grindstaff and Kreigermier. An aficionado would call them rough, or green, or raw. They take chances, throwing wild punches while leaving their own jaws exposed. Many are wrestlers in the Midwestern tradition, and dive for their opponents’ legs, dragging them to the mat. From there, they latch themselves onto their opponents’ backs before sliding an arm under the chin. With bicep and forearm they constrict the carotid arteries in a popular submission hold called a rear naked choke, forcing their opponents to either tap the mat in surrender or go unconscious.

It becomes immediately apparent that this event is more of a family affair than one might expect. In a small town, at an event like the Chicago Cagefighting Championships tonight, most of the audience can be broken down into factions of family and friends, each dedicated to the support, invested in the fate, of one young fighter, be that a son or nephew, grandchild, neighbor boy, or old high school buddy. With the introduction of each fighter, these groups, in small pockets across the arena, erupt in applause. Across the aisle to our right, elderly men and women cheer for lightweight Will Brooks of Libertyville, Illinois, who, in his second professional fight, obliges the calls of his mother in the stands—“Put him to sleep!”—and submits fellow novice Guillermo Serment with a rear naked in the second round.

Down in the floor seats, Carson Beebe’s mother is less fortunate. The twenty-two year old bantamweight’s family falls silent as the previously unbeaten prospect passes out inside Giovani Moljo’s inverted triangle choke, a complex Brazilian jiu-jitsu maneuver that involves using one’s legs to clamp down on an opponent’s neck. Beebe failed to tap, and now his legs have gone stiff, stuck at a gruesome thirty degree angle in the air.

Such personal stakes, such family drama, lend a strange intimacy to the populous arena, and for a moment I feel like I’m intruding. And it’s the absence of such personal stakes that determines the audience’s boredom in the main event. Now fighting in the lighter featherweight division, Pulver has recently relocated to a new training camp in Illinois with the hopes of rejuvenating his career. However, he’s originally from Nampa, Idaho, and he has no hometown contingent to support him. By the time he makes his entrance, the remaining audience has grown a little chilly.

For Pulver, having just snapped a six-fight losing streak last January, this fight is his first chance in nearly five years to put two wins together and begin to change the story of the end of his career. His opponent Wade Choate is in a hole almost as deep. Dubbed “The Last Dog Man,” he also just recently emerged from a stretch of losses, which saw his record fall to 12 wins and 12 defeats, before a victory last August. He’s a little younger than Pulver, but he’s never reached the heights the former UFC champ has seen. As if he’d like to erase the past two years of his career, Choate’s introduction states his record as it stood in January of 2009, before his five-fight skid: twelve and seven. It’s easy to imagine how desperate he is to string a couple of wins together, and though outside the cage he may have observed Pulver’s recent downward spiral with due sympathy, in the fight it’s every man for himself. Hence Choate’s stubborn adherence to a stick-and-move game plan that sees him make use of his reach advantage, peppering Pulver with jabs while constantly backpedalling out of Pulver’s reach. It’s been surprisingly effective. Pulver’s had trouble chasing him down all night, and the power punches for which he was so famous have come slow and fallen short time and again. It’s enough to draw angry boos from the crowd.

One would think that, having been a former champion, Pulver would excite more fans into attendance. Indeed, if mixed martial arts websites and message boards are any indication, Jens Pulver has almost become more popular, more beloved to the devotees of the sport, since his tumble down the ranks. But it seems that he’s tumbled a little further than most of those hardcore fans would care to admit. The name Pulver holds little weight for these people. His two-tone eyes and crooked grin that so endear him to the diehards fail to tap any vein of sentiment here tonight. Unthinkably, the words “You suck” rain down from somewhere in the audience. Someone behind us asks, “Does the guy in green wrestle much?”

Pulver, in green shorts, limps his way to the final bell. He reveals later that he broke his foot, somewhere in the first round by his reckoning. The handicap nearly sticks him with another loss, but the third judge’s scorecard reads 29-28 Pulver, and “Li’l Evil” scrapes by with a split-decision victory. In his prime, Pulver would have probably flattened Choate in a single round.

Pulver apologizes to the near-empty stands, and confesses that he’s taking small steps to rebuild his career. Strange to see him like this, down in that small-time cage, rendered anonymous before so many small-town Americans. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that Pulver didn’t mind a bit, as he flashes a smile and says he hopes to fight here again real soon. For whatever reason—a pinch in his wallet or the non-stop ruckus in his heart—Jens Pulver can’t walk away.

Report: Cut Throat MMA's Brawl at Bourbon Street

(originally published on MMANuts.com on March 24, 2011)

March 23, Wednesday. It’s amateur night at 115 Bourbon Street, a large bar-and-grille joint 45 minutes outside Chicago, IL. The president of Cut Throat MMA, Mike Davis, is pressing palms when we get to the ticket table. He hands us a couple of passes and with a pat on the shoulder sends us in. “Go wherever you want,” he says, “ just so long as you’re not in the way.” He looks awfully familiar, and I realize that I’ve met him before, a couple of years ago at something called the Wes Sims Fan Expo—a gathering of about four fans and a dozen homeless people under an interstate overpass, where UFC-veteran and modern-day flaneur Wes Sims handed out sandwiches and engaged in arm-wrestling contests. That was the first mixed martial arts event I ever covered. “Oh yeah, that was me, I organized that, ” Davis says. “God, don’t remind me.”

Young men with broad shoulders and ropey forearms, dressed in garish t-shirts, mill around, do mild horseplay. Some of the older men, curious and unwinding after a day of work, stumble in from the bar the next room over. To my left, preternaturally tan young women in form-fitting sweatpants make small talk and inspect the ring cards. I take a spot by the blue corner. It’s the corner typically reserved for the fighter that’s introduced first—almost always the less popular of the two, or the underdog. Sure enough, across the first nine fights, not a single fighter from the blue corner manages a win.

Evan Eckhoff, of watery physique, makes an ill-advised debut at heavyweight against six-foot-seven, 252-pound Quinn Corbett. Corbett, undefeated in his amateur career, is a monster, heavily muscled and surely a head taller than his pot-bellied opponent. If Eckhoff shares my reservations, he doesn’t much show it, as the starting bell sounds and he walks right over to Corbett, clubbing him with an overhand right. It startles Corbett into a double-leg, and he lands in side control. Eckhoff holds onto an ineffective guillotine, and Corbett decides to clamp onto Eckhoff’s neck in turn. They ring each other’s necks until Corbett lets go in favor of some light ground-and-pound. He passes to mount and fires away as Eckhoff turtles up. The referee stops the bout at a minute and forty-six seconds into the first round. Eckhoff’s cornermen maintain a sunny disposition, and one says to the other, “He did good for his first time.”

Spencer Debendetti and Kyle Geary are fighting at a catch-weight of 160 pounds.

Debendetti, representing Victory Martial Arts, comes out trailed by a group of eight or ten, all wearing matching t-shirts. Debendetti’s coach takes a seat next to me, the first of three times he’ll conduct an underdog to the cage tonight. Geary walks out to what’s probably the dirtiest song of the evening. I do believe the n-word was uttered at least four times, along with ample references to fellatio and various forms of intercourse.

The fight is brief. Debendetti eats a jab before finding himself planted on his back. He closes up his guard and locks up what looks like a fight-ending guillotine joke, but Geary explodes out and transitions to side control. He pins Debendetti in the crucifix position and lets loose with short punches. They don’t seem to be doing much damage but, with Debendetti unable to buck out, the referee decides to call it early in the first round.

J.L. George looks uneasy standing across from Jimmy “Slice” Moreno. The heavyweight tilt runs for just over two rounds, and sees Moreno threatening with heavy punches on the feet before swiftly planting George on the mat. George very nearly stages a comeback in the second, taking Moreno’s back in a scramble and almost sinking in a rear naked choke, but he fails to slip the forearm below the chin, and burns himself out. Moreno reverses into George’s full guard, stands, and dives in with a heavy right. George wilts, covering his face and turtling up. Moreno wails away for the remainder of the round.

Moreno looks a little winded coming out for the third, and George advances too zealously, with his chin up in the air. Moreno clips him with a straight right that sends George crashing to the mat only seconds into the final round.

Lightweight Louis Robles makes the mistake of hanging around in Bobby Moffet’s guard. Too intent on ground and pound, Robles ignores the cries from his corner to stand up, and Moffet slaps on an arm bar. Robles can’t punch his way out, and submits in the first.

Bobby Andrews, of Victory Martial Arts, finds himself in over his head against Jason Ignacek, the fourth-ranked featherweight in the promotion. Ignacek’s much-improved striking leaves Andrews desperately working for a double-leg along the fence. Ignaceck takes advantage, jumping into full guard and trapping Andrews in a guillotine choke. The tap comes at 2:10 of Round 1.

Representing Coalition MMA, Zac “Three Piece” Feece, six feet tall and weighing in at a prodigious 245 pounds, wins the award for nickname most resembling a KFC value meal. His opponent, Chris “The Clinch” Hill, weights in at a similarly stupendous 270. Hill immediately dives for a takedown, and the two tumble into the corner right in front of me. Feece tries for a triangle, but Hill shrugs it off. He makes like a jackhammer and forces the referee to stop the fight after 34 seconds.

Lightweight A.J. Masters is the second Coalition MMA fighter to take to the cage, a slight young man tasked with the barrel-chested Jake “The Simian Smasher” Frias. Masters’s corner eggs him on: “He’s a short fucker, come on A.J.” Cold comfort, as Frias shoots in for a single leg right out of the gate, dumping Masters onto the mat before posturing up and unloading with punches. The fight is stopped within the first minute.

Heavyweights Tim Williams and Mike Petersen come out slugging. Petersen, the heaviest fighter of the night at 280 pounds, gets the better of the exchanges, and Williams resorts to a bull rush. He drives Petersen into the fence, and the cage shakes violently. They tumble to the mat, where Williams struggles out of a rear naked choke and into Petersen’s full guard. He postures up and lands a punch before the bell sounds.

Williams starts the second with a couple of lackadaisical kicks. Petersen promptly counters with a right. A second lands flush and Williams slumps to his knees. The doctor cradles the supine William’s head as the fighter answers questions through a mouthful of blood. TKO at seventeen seconds of Round 2.

There’s a distinct pattern developing, where underdogs are consistently drawn from the same training camps, as if these groups yet lack the savvy or clout to put their fighters in favorable matches. Victory Martial Arts has produced three such over-matched fighters this evening. The same goes for Coalition MMA, which suffers it’s third and final loss of the night, as lightweight Brian “Two-Time” Titus falls in the first round to the Uflacher Academy’s Derrik Malert. Titus started the round showing off, with a silly jumping front kick. Malert remained unimpressed, and surged forward with a flurry of punches, throwing Titus off-balance. Malert followed with punches as Titus stumbled to the mat. Titus was unable to scramble away, and Malert continued to level shots to the head, forcing the referee to stop the fight.

An intermission before the title fights get under way. As the night wears on, deciphering the verse tattooed on the ring girl’s upper thigh is becoming an increasingly important mission. Conducting this operation in a fashion both sly and gentlemanly is a tricky business that I handle with great aplomb. Congratulations all around. She’s wearing a skirt that falls far short of her rear end. She seems totally un-phased by this insufficiently tailored garment. A true professional.

In the co-main event, the undersized David “Baby Ruth” Booth takes on the Cut Throat MMA Light Heavyweight Champion, Bill Johnson. Booth draws laughs from the crowd as he walks out to the Lion King soundtrack. Johnson draws approximately zero laughs by walking out with Top-10 bantamweight Miguel Torres in his corner.

Despite the pair’s supposed grappling acumen, the fight takes a quick turn for the riotous. Johnson is strongest at range, with straight rights and uppercuts breaking through Booth’s guard. When Booth manages to collapse the distance, he makes a hockey fight of it, with looping punches in the clinch that frequently stagger the defending champion. He drops Johnson twice, once in the beginning of the second and again in the fourth, but absorbs tremendous punishment in the interim. By the fifth round, chants of “Simba” roll through the crowd, and Johnson is badly gassed. Booth takes the initiative, marching forward with slow but heavy hooks that win him the round and put an exclamation point on the fight.

The crowd is so moved by Booth’s tireless efforts that they forget how handily Johnson folded Booth up with kicks to the body, how often his uppercuts sent Booth’s head snapping back in the first few rounds. The judge’s suffer a similar bit of short-term memory loss, and Booth is awarded a split-decision victory and the Cut Throat MMA light heavyweight title.

Headliner and welterweight champion T.J. Rowley wins the award for best entrance song of the night, walking out to a metal version of Hall of the Mountain King, which has increased the room’s zaniness quotient ten-fold. He’s defending his belt against Ryan Storey. Both sport impressive amateur records—Rowley with nine wins, one loss, and Storey at twelve and three. Storey is the more impressive physical specimen, a rocky 170 pounds, but the more slender Rowley has the distinction of already having beaten Storey once before, by unanimous decision back in January of 2010. Both are poised to make professional debuts.

Rowley opens the fight with a lead-leg kick to Storey’s mouth. Storey doesn’t like the taste and takes the fight to the ground, where Rowley threatens briefly with an omoplata. Rowley cannot sweep, though, and has to content himself with full guard. He inches his legs up towards Storey’s shoulders, but Storey is mindful of any impending submissions and stands up. On the feet he plasters Rowley with a hard right cross that persuades the champ to dive for a takedown. Storey sprawls and slaps on a guillotine, but Rowley remains calm, advancing to half-guard and bruising up Storey’s rib cage until he lets go. They find themselves back on their feet only briefly, as Storey eagerly clinches up and slams Rowley to the mat. He begins to tighten up an arm triangle choke, but he’s short on time, and the round ends just as Rowley pops his head free.

In the second, Rowley again tries to kick and punch at range, but Storey barrels forward and drags Rowley back to the mat. Storey advances to full mount, where he puts Rowley to the guillotine. The choke is in tight, and though Rowley, only some twenty-four inches away, is likely falling into unconsciousness, his eyes are open wide, gazing I guess on some alter-earth, all the good things that must slip away as he taps out. The submission comes at 1:45 of Round 2.

With this victory, Storey has become the new Cut Throat MMA Welterweight Champion, improved his record to 13-3-0, and avenged every loss ever suffered in his amateur career. Before exiting the cage, he announces that, with this final bit of business taken care of, he’s leaving the amateur circuit behind.

Hard to Watch: Fedor Emelianenko and the Fall of MMA's First Great Generation

(originally published on Bloodyelbow.com on February 18, 2011)

Tough year for the diehards. Tough for the old-schoolers and the true-blues. Tough for the midnighters, all of us who stay up to catch a glimpse of PRIDE's glory days, played out in evermore sparsely attended Japanese arenas. And tough for the dearly devoted who swear that the ultimate heavies still have one good ruckus in the tank. Tough for the also-rans and almost-weres we didn’t love enough. Tough for those old champs, the Renaissance bruisers, who bore our sport out into the bright lights of the mainstream, and showed us what mixed martial arts could become.

Saturday night, Fedor Emelianenko, a one-man institution in the world of mixed martial arts, lost for an unprecedented second fight in a row, falling in the first round of Strikeforce’s heavyweight tournament to Antonio Silva. The loss prompted him to seemingly retire before some ten thousand protesting fans. Whether or not he has, in fact, taken his final bow is largely beside the point. Should he enter the ring again, it will be as a different man, diminished in the eyes of many. The man he was, the greatest heavyweight of all time, is an artifact of what we must admit is a bygone age. This last fight of his may act as a sign of the times, a seal, fastening shut the book on his generation’s exploits.

Truth be told: for those of us who rhapsodize about Chuck Liddell's rise to power, Wanderlei Silva's reign of terror, or B.J. Penn's quixotic, multi-division ambitions; for those who envisioned a UFC belt around Cro Cop's waist, kept a soft spot for Tim Sylvia, or relished the twisting of many limbs under Kazushi Sakuraba's hands, this past year merely caps off a near half-decade of disappointments and growing pains. Cruel years, wherein a whole era of heroes--the names Pulver and Arlovski, Sakurai and Silva, Franklin, Ortiz, Yamamoto, Nogueira--has been gradually rendered, not unskilled, never powerless, but suddenly old.

Some, like Pulver and Sylvia, or one-time contenders Hermes Franca and David Louiseau, have stumbled their way into irrelevance, relegated to the obscurity of regional fight promotions. Others, like Hidehiko Yoshida, were able to bow out with relative grace. Most, however, continue to work on the sport’s largest stages, with all their hampered motivations, all their nagging injuries and old wounds there for everyone to see. Consider Cro Cop, whose thoughts wander more and more towards his hometown, a quiet lake, a fishing rod in his hands. Consider deposed middleweight Rich Franklin, rudderless between two weight classes. Consider Rodrigo Nogueira’s softening jaw, Matt Hughes’s slowing double-leg, all that tape holding Sakuraba together. Take a look at the scattered remains of Chute Boxe, the thinned ranks of Brazilian Top Team, the shuttered windows of Miletich Fighting Systems. By degrees, the old standards have relinquished their place, effaced themselves, and our efforts to hold on to the past have been undone, time and again, by the likes of Frankie Edgar and Junior dos Santos. The Strikeforce tournament, itself something of a conceptual relic, looked to be a final chance for Emelianenko, perhaps the finest specimen of his generation, to stake one last claim not only for himself, but for that crop of mixed martial artist that drew tens of thousands of fans to the Saitama Super Arena, and who served as the first coaches on The Ultimate Fighter. Yet, if there was even a sliver of hope that the old guard had one more lesson to teach the up-and-comers, it’s gone now, lost somewhere under the hammer falls of Antonio Silva’s fists upon Emelianenko’s head.

We’re on the edge of an exciting, new time for mixed martial arts. The sport receives greater media attention every year, and tremendous athletes such as Jon Jones and Cain Velasquez prove that MMA is worth all the attention. But for we sentimental knuckleheads—and surely every good fight fan has at least a touch of nostalgia in them—this period of time has been a dirge five years running.

What can you do? Don't look for a comeback. These young bucks and new-fashioned killers are too hungry to let it happen. The new MMA order, it's here. It's been here all along. May it be glorious and violent. May it be worth the bitterness of giving up all our old heroes.

Derp

Blog is on hold for a bit while I put together a couple writing program portfolios. Shorter pieces appearing at BloodyElbow.com.

Big Questions: UFC 113

Though beleaguered with injuries and last-minute replacements, UFC 113 turned out to be one of the most satisfying events the organization has put on in some time. Replete with submissions, TKOs, long-distance struggles, and a bit of controversy, last Saturday's show was also capped off by the best championship fight of the year so far, which saw a brief yet enigmatic title reign come to a close. And like all things interesting, UFC 113 has left us with questions...

Was firing and banning Paul Daley from the UFC the right thing to do?

It all comes off as a bit excessive, frankly, and given how fast the decision came down, smacks of an outraged, knee-jerk reaction. Likewise, I'm not convinced that firing Daley does anything for the mainstream reputation of MMA that a lengthy suspension couldn't have done in kind. Having said that, firing Daley was, if not the right thing to do, certainly the smart thing to do.

Put simply, the UFC has nothing to lose by cutting Paul Daley. During his time with the organization, he merely displayed to a wider audience that which many of us already knew: he's a powerful striker with poor all-around skills. He was dominated by competent wrestlers before and, with little improvement evident in his UFC fights, it seems that he always will be. Daley has little to offer any welterweight with a talent for grappling and a head for game-planning, which basically characterizes the entire upper echelon of the UFC's welterweight division. Combine that with even the slight chance that anyone would accuse the UFC of harboring a criminal guilty of assault and battery, and there seems to be few if any advantages to keeping Daley around.

What about cutting Kimbo?

With an official 1-1- record inside the Octagon, Kimbo Slice could have reasonably stuck around for one more fight. Yet, with Kimbo delivering disappointing performances dating back to his last fight on CBS, it's entirely possible that the casual audience for whom Kimbo is a draw might by now be sufficiently disillusioned. Between the network television fight, the reality show appearance, and two fights in the UFC, it must be clear enough to curious audiences that they aren't going to see the brawling thrill of Kimbo's YouTube career writ large. With this in mind, the UFC has recognized an impending scenario of diminishing returns and rightly put out to pasture a fighter whose high-profile, relative inexperience, and hefty price tag make him a matchmaking migraine.

All's well that ends well, though. Kimbo Slice could very well find some lucrative opportunities in Japan, where sensationalist matchmaking is not so harshly stigmatized, while the UFC makes space on its roster (and budget) for one or two more legitimate prospects.

What's next for Lyoto Machida?

Broadened horizons.

The former champion kept his fight with Mauricio competitive, but seemed undone by his own predictability. So while the takedowns were a welcome addition, Machida's striking seemed largely unchanged since his first meeting with Rua. If the pre-fight footage is any indication, the problem might lie with his training almost exclusively under his father. Extended training camps outside of his dojo in Belem, Brazil, might prove a big help in rebuilding Machida's puzzle-box arsenal.

What's next for Shogun Rua?

Just about anything, it seems.

To any fan, Machida's loss last Saturday was disappointing. The idea that a fighter with a base in karate could become the next great light heavyweight champion was intriguing, and his ascent suggested a lot of interesting things about the changing template of the modern mixed martial artist. At the same time, Rua-a seemingly pleasant guy with a hunger for serious violence between the bells-is as good a champion as any. And he makes for infinitely better light-heavyweight matchmaking.

Consider that while both Anderson Silva and Rogerio Nogueira are emerging forces at 205 pounds, both have preemptively refused a fight with their friend Machida. And with Thiago Silva and Rashad Evans already suffering at his hands, there weren't many compelling contenders for Machida's belt, save for a flaky Quinton Jackson. By contrast, Rua has yet to fight any of these men inside the UFC. Rematches with Nogueira or Jackson would be welcome addenda to their respective fights in Pride, while a meeting with restless middleweight champ Anderson Silva would be as excellent a proposition as I could imagine for this year. I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear Rua suggest a fight with Randy Couture.

Is Alan Belcher out of his mind?

A little, but it's kind of working for him.

Belcher's recent post-fight campaigns have been compelling for the wild ambition and conviction that they reveal. That Belcher wants a fight with Anderson Silva so bad, by any means, even at light-heavyweight, might color him a little unhinged, but in a way Belcher has his head screwed on better than most.

In pushing for a fight with Anderson Silva, middleweight title or no, Alan Belcher seems to understand that a championship belt has no intrinsic value, that it's only a symbol for the fighter upon whose hips it rests. Likewise, while one man might prize the weight of that gold strap, another fighter may enjoy a distinction of greater importance. To this point, Frankie Edgar is the new lightweight champion, but B.J. Penn is likely considered by most as the best lightweight of all time. Similarly, though Anderson Silva might lose or vacate his title, most middleweights for the foreseeable future will labor under Silva's long shadow. That Belcher is more interested in testing himself against the middleweight juggernaut of our time rather than wearing a gold-plated accessory lays bare a focus, drive, and sharpness of mind obscured only a bit by his southern drawl. Unfortunately, Belcher's mission seems yet to land decidedly on the futile side of things, though not for lack of effort.

To his credit, Belcher has shown fair improvement in the last two years, with displays of tenacity in his wins over Ed Herman and Denis Kang, and a gritty, crowd-pleasing style in fights with Yoshihiro Akiyama and Wilson Gouveia. This weekend afforded Belcher the opportunity to flaunt a bit of raw power in his nigh-illegal slam of opponent Patrick Cote, as well as a carefully employed array of punches and kicks that show promise. It's all still a bit raw, though, isn't it? Despite his pleas to the contrary, bringing Belcher up slowly would be best. A few more fights with the likes of Aaron Simpson, Dan Miller and, later, Michael Bisping, Nate Marquardt, or Demian Maia, are essential for this earnest but unproven middleweight.

Suddenly Bananas: Dispatches from the Punch-Drunk Side of Our Fair Sport

For those of us who enjoy a touch of disgrace with our mixed martial arts, this past Spring has bestowed a windfall of weirdness and shame on our confused, collective head. Press on, dear reader, and lay them peepers on this season's best worst mixed martial slag.

Anglo Gentleman of Means Releases Afro-Rhythmic Musical Programme of Rhyme and Fancy

Jared "Skala" Shaw, son of former EliteXC figurehead Gary Shaw, may be most famous for blowing his top on national television after the referee halted the disastrous bout between Kimbo Slice and Seth Petruzelli. With EliteXC collapsing soon after, there followed an exodus of fighting talent and an opening on CBS for any fight organization with enough savvy or interest. That's a lot of balls in the air, but, guys, was Jared Shaw not the biggest ball of all? "What about Jared Shaw?!" we all screamed. No one could stop it (the screaming). "What's to become of the poor little guy?" and "Will we ever hear his sweet voice on a rap album? Please Lord God let him release a rap album before the apocalypse wipes us off the face of this Earth."

Sure enough, Shaw the Younger did turn to poetry in the wake of the EliteXC tragedy, and has ingeniously paired his verse with notes most musical. A snippet, from a lusty little ditty titled "Main Girl," reads thus:

Take the door to the one,
Now times that by three,
Maybe four, maybe more [!]

In this verse, the bard has provided us a riddle. Does he live on the first floor, or the fourth? Or is it twenty-and-seven? Or mayhap Shaw has used the guise of a numbered apartment building to stand in for some finer, erotic point. Such as wiener length or something. At any rate, if you wish to find your way to the end of this winding stair of sexual innuendo, you best make a diligent study of your mathematics, because a true understanding will require that you "times" one integer by another.

Known Maniac Blows a Gasket, World Follows Suit

"If Nick Diaz went crackers, would you go crackers, too?" Somehow, the answer turns out to be "Yes."

When a victory speech by Jake Shields devolved into a bench-clearing brawl (due in part to Shields' middleweight rival Jason Miller cutting into the interview, and in part to Shields' teammates going berserk), it seems nobody knew just what to do, so they all decided to make the worst of it. Commentators Gus Johnson and Mauro Ranallo couldn't stop apologizing for a dust-up no more serious than those witnessed semi-regularly at baseball or hockey games. Making matters worse, Johnson tried to dismiss the whole thing as par for the course: "Sometimes these things happen in MMA." But of course, they don't. With the exception of the Hammer House vs. Chute Boxe fracas of four years ago at a PRIDE event, such lapses in judgment are rare to non-existent.

Unfortunately, lapses in judgment happen to be one of the internet's signature characteristics. CagePotato.com's Mike Russell found himself in the mix after he sent an inflammatory email to Strikeforce president Scott Coker. The message, laden with thinly veiled insults and loaded questions about Johnson (an employee of CBS, not Strikeforce), found its way to the beleaguered commentator, who in turn called Russell's house. A transcript, since removed from Cage Potato's website, documents a conversation that eventually led to Johnson inviting Russell to hop a plane so they could settle their differences mano-a-mano. The last time I heard such a challenge, I was being verbally assaulted by a 14-year-old from a far-flung corner of this great nation thanks to the wonders of online gaming.

As for Strikeforce proper, things didn't fair much better. In anticipation of a ruling by the Tennessee Athletic Commission, Coker and Co. opted to suspend Nick Diaz and Jason Miller from upcoming fights due to their involvement in the post-fight antics.

And while their intentions here are respectable, the fact remains that, in cancelling the appearances by two of their most popular fighters, Strikeforce is thinning an already anemic roster. One can't help but wonder if the problem might not have just faded away had everyone not so promptly lost their marbles.

There is one guy who walked away from that mess without looking like a total goof, and he also just happened to be the saltiest dude in that ring. For Dan Henderson (who lost to Shields that night), I guess the urge to dog-pile and kidney punch someone into oblivion on national TV is just something that fades with age.

I Spent a Couple of Hours Watching King of the Cage

On March 26, 2010, I decided to take a look at King of the Cage "Legacy," which aired on HDNet. Next thing I know, I'm half-awake with drool on my shirt, and I've sat through the entirety of Tony Lopez's championship fight with Tony Johnson, Jr. That's 25 minutes I could have spent comparing shampoo ingredients, petting an animal, becoming acquainted with the King James Bible, or washing myself (with actual soap). Why did I do it? Maybe it's Tony Lopez's braided hair. I guess this is more of a personal problem than anything else.

Concluding remarks?

Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do Jared Shaw things happen to any people?

Savages of the Year

What makes a great fight? A Fight of the Night? Of the Year? We'd ask for something exemplary, a fight that we can hang our banner on ("MMA" it reads). A fight that shows off the best that mixed martial arts has to offer: studied kickboxing, cannonball wrestling, feverish clinch work, python submission attempts, unfailing will, fearlessness. And a violence tactical, and a brutality sporting. Those last bits are important for us. As fans of a developing, occasionally maligned sport, we worry about its perception, and eagerly dismiss whatever might impede MMA's growth and acceptance. We want to impress, and dub mixed martial artists like Georges St. Pierre and Lyoto Machida and B.J. Penn our cultural champions. These are sportsmen, technicians, and artists who promise to erase MMA's reputation for thuggish, talentless cruelty. These are men who bring a form to the otherwise chaotic struggle between two barehanded men. And then there's Leonard Garcia and Chan Sung Jung.

Saturday evening, April 24, 2010. Leonard "Bad Boy" Garcia and "The Korean Zombie" Chan Sung Jung stand before the judges, sweating through their logo-covered t-shirts, waiting for the scorecards. Between the exhausted featherweights is a trash heap of telegraphed kicks, exposed jaws, and reckless haymakers far off the mark, piled one on top of the other, over and over. No otherworldly jiu-jitsu was to be had in their 15-minute fight, and no immaculate boxing, either. Garcia vs. Jung was a dog fight, a game of chicken, a trench war 1914. It was the sloppiest, most reckless, bullheaded display of mixed martial arts we've seen in months. It may be the best fight we've seen all year.

Garcia vs. Jung was bell-to-bell thrilling, but we can still imagine what the MMA skeptic might call the fight: crass, witless, ultra-violent junk. Or something like that. We know better, though. There's a gut feeling: Garcia and Jung's brand of violence is exceptional. Mad, maybe, but not stupid. And while apologists might be tempted to concede that Garcia vs. Jung is something like a guilty pleasure, that would be a mistake.

***

Garcia vs. Jung followed close on the heels of several high-profile, promising, and ultimately stale fights. MMA paragons Georges St. Pierre, Gilbert Melendez, and Jake Shields all, in recent weeks and months, emerged from the ring triumphant, but left us somehow disappointed. Looking back it seems that their performances were so flawless as to become near-lifeless. Their fights were cumbersome with strategy, and formulaic to the extreme. St. Pierre's unending assault of double-leg takedowns, or, say, Frankie Edgar's relentless hit-and-run campaign against B.J. Penn, were game plans followed so carefully as to leave the fighters looking somehow mechanical. There was no apparent passion, and raw fighting spirit in these instances seemed not paired with, but obscured by, technical prowess.

By contrast, Garcia vs. Jung seemed all passion. And while critics might say that any two bums could do what Garcia and Jung did, let me say first that I know for sure, bums cannot. It's a rare person who could throw themselves into battle with Garcia's same gleeful abandon, or slip and wing punches as tirelessly as Jung did that Saturday night. It was rough stuff, to be sure, but it was artful. And so let's take a second to say that, indeed, MMA is more than a sport. That it is, after all, art. And with that in mind, let's consider that whenever someone likens Garcia and Jung to drunken tough guys, they are committing the same error suffered by artists like Matisse and Picasso whenever some incredulous viewer claims "My 8-year-old kid could paint that."

To date, nobody's kid has painted a Guernica, and I have yet to see or hear tell of any Average Joe who can bring a non-stop fury as potent as can Garcia and Jung.

Potent and transformative. Because in showing us the ragged edges of humanity, Garcia and Jung fulfilled that mission of art which is catharsis. In seeing Garcia's swollen grin, or Jung's stoicism in the face of danger, in watching them bravely, unceasingly set to demolishing each other's bodies, our own tensions were purged. That's not New Age bullshit, either. Aristotle called it when he judged the Greek tragedy-replete with insanity and violence-as worthy art.

Fighters like Kenny Florian or Lyoto Machida, fastidious in their game-planning and mindful of all dangers and advantages, represent a triumph of the rational over the whirlwind of chance and hazards that a fight represents. That is art. Garcia and Jung-as if possessed, moved by forces greater and more violent than their own rational nature could generate-chose instead to enact that chaos in as pure a way as we could stomach. They spoke to the nagging suspicion within your hearts and mine that, though our lives are day-to-day sanitary and ordered, the universal struggle for life is still pretty bloody. That, too, is art.

Garcia and Jung are primitivists. On Saturday night they reintroduced the primal-raw, sincere, and violent-into an art form that has become, at the highest levels, occupied with spotless technique. Deceptively amateurish, Garcia vs. Jung is the Art Brut to Lyoto Machida vs. Shogun Rua's Renaissance, Basquiat to Leonardo da Vinci. The fight offered us a peek at total chaos and irrationality. It was in Garcia's bruised, laughing face, and in every one of Jung's footsteps as he marched through a rain of punches. With genuine, ecstatic savagery Leonard Garcia and Chan Sung Jung took the wilds of a brawl, and they made it transcendent.

Big Questions: UFC 112

The Edgar-Penn decision: insane or un-insane?

Scoring Frankie Edgar and B.J. Penn’s championship bout 50-45 in favor of Edgar, despite Penn’s clearly effective counterstriking campaign in the first two rounds, is as poor a judgment as we’ve seen recently. It’d be a shame, however, to let this cloud an otherwise fair victory for Edgar. To explain, we’ll have to crunch some numbers, so brace yourselves, we’re going to get dry and mathematical-like.

Fightmetric, which tracks effective striking and grappling maneuvers, offered some interesting statistics for the fight. Having examined tape and taken into account punches and kicks to the body, legs, and head, they conclude that Penn out-struck Edgar in rounds one and two by scores of 18 to 10 and 17 to 6, respectively. As such, the first two rounds appear clearly in Penn’s favor. The bout’s final, fifth round is also easy to score, with Edgar outstripping Penn’s 13 strikes with 23 of his own, plus a takedown. The real bone of contention, then, lies in the fight’s third and fourth rounds. By Fightmetric’s reckoning, round 3 should be scored for Penn, who out-struck Edgar 11 to 10. Strangely, they consider the fourth round a draw, despite the fact that Edgar landed 14 strikes to Penn’s 13. So, Penn edges ahead by one more punch, and wins round 3, but Edgar does the same in the following five minute period and isn’t given the nod. The confusion generated by such a troubling double-standard is compounded by the fact that many seem to be ignoring the full judging criteria.

While effective striking and grappling should be held in the highest regard when judging a fight, we can’t forget that a victory in the UFC is defined by other qualities as well. Foremost among them is “Octagon control” (read: controlling the space of the fight, and the pitch of its flurries and scrambles). In rounds as closely contested as the third and fourth, then, surely a fighter’s ability to dictate the pace of the fight can be weighed as a sort of tie-breaker. And, given Penn’s extreme passivity in the fight’s latter half, a razor-thin victory for Edgar based on his initiative and engagement in the last three rounds seems appropriate.

Anderson Silva, man, what in the hell?

In a full room at my parents’ house, Anderson Silva’s antics throughout the first five or so minutes of his title fight with Demian Maia were regarded with amusement, delight, and anticipation. As in “What a showman,” and “Boy, is Demian Maia gonna catch a beating, or what?” As the fight wore on, however, dragging into minutes eight, nine, twelve, and so on, there was a change; an almost palpable, collective shift from admiration to confusion, irritation and, ultimately, a sort of caustic apathy. Those of us with something riding on the fight—not a financial investment, but an emotional one—were plunged even deeper. A sense of betrayal remains fresh.

I feel for Anderson Silva the same sort of bitterness we might reserve for a new friend acting a total shit: expecting much, having invited friends and family to meet him, we’re horrified when he displays none of the wit or grace for which we’d begun to love him and, instead, seems to make a dedicated effort to embarrass us. We didn’t know him well enough, and liked the guy too well, too fast. It’s in this way that Silva’s record sixth title defense—in which he taunted Maia, and essentially taunted the audience, for 25 straight minutes—is so disturbing. Following the virtuosity of his early title defenses we thought we had a good estimation of Silva, but it turns out maybe we didn’t know him much at all. And post-fight interrogations have done little to clarify or contextualize Silva’s seemingly malicious, pointlessly spiteful performance that night.

When asked why he treated the ritual of the title fight and the stoic but hapless Maia with such apparent contempt, the middleweight champ could only shrug. In the hours and days that followed, Silva would offer a nest of explanations so tangled, so contradictory, flimsy, and nonsensical, as to be painful. Imagine, if you will, that someone’s words could kick your heart in the testicles, and you have a fair idea of how Silva’s disinterested, blasé reaction to the whole thing feels for a dedicated fan. Anyway, with no real explanation forth-coming, the only thing we can really conclude is that UFC 112’s disaster of a main event was, more than anything, a function of Anderson Silva’s mercurial character. He has become, like many great and volatile artists and athletes, MMA’s l’enfant terrible.

With Silva’s temperamental nature now apparent, what can the UFC do? Nothing, really, except go about their business as usual. Trying to punish Silva with poor match-ups and crumby venues would constitute a game of chicken from which nobody would walk away unscathed (consider: the fans are bored by a poor match-up, the UFC suffers financially as a result, and Silva’s remaining years in the sport are wasted. Nobody wins). At the same time, giving him some big opponent (big in name and size) would almost reward Silva’s behavior. At this point, it seems like the only thing to do is refrain from letting such an unpredictable fighter anchor a high-profile event. As for the fans, maybe we should do our blood pressure a favor, and exercise a bit of Silva-esque detachment ourselves.

For champions new and champions infuriating, what next?

While a wealth of interesting lightweight bouts spring up in the wake of Frankie Edgar’s upset victory, it looks like his first fight as champion will come as a re-match with B.J. Penn. Given that neither fighter looked especially dominant in their 25 minute affair, I guess this makes the most sense. Edgar approached last Saturday’s bout with great verve, but didn’t look as much of a destroyer as we’d probably like in a champion, and an immediate second fight with Penn would go a long way to establishing the title one way or the other.

As for Anderson Silva, a permanent move to light-heavyweight seems obvious. Indeed, given how much people clamor for Georges St. Pierre to pack on the pounds, I’d think that, for Silva, the jump in weight would be almost mandatory. Before he does, though, Silva has one last middleweight problem to solve, albeit an unexpected one. Chael Sonnen, claiming merciless victories over middleweight frontrunners Yushin Okami and Nate Marquardt, is a true number one contender (a hundred times more so than Vitor Belfort, by the way, who has approximately zero wins over any ranked middleweight). Sonnen has earned the right to test his iron against the UFC’s best fighter, and the fans are owed such a quality fight. Afterwards, pending Silva’s success, let him move to 205 and deal with the Thiago Silvas and Quinton Jacksons of the UFC. It’s long overdue.

Wing Chun Man Forever

In a small gym somewhere in New Jersey men gather about a caged ring. Dozens of hopeful bruisers mill around, shoot the shit and size each other up. They take their turns in the ring, one by one working over the mitts, or in pairs, feverishly grappling one another into submission. Sweat flies, the pop of their fists on the pads and the baying of exhausted wrestlers bounces back and forth between the small room's plain white walls and its bare window panes. Scouting talent for the fight organization M-1, a sharp-eyed Russian named Apy Echteld and his crew take notes, shake hands sometimes, pass out walking papers sometimes. I see this on my computer screen, in a video hosted by a man named Bruce Kivo, reporting for the website MMA Confidential. Kivo brings our attention to one would-be prizefighter in particular, an eager young man named Shawn Obasi: "Shawn, why do you want to fight for M-1?"

Standing at some six feet two inches, the hulking 27-year-old explains, "I want to fight because I want to prove to the world that wing chun is a dominant style." Bad comedy ensues. We cut to a scene of Obasi demonstrating some traditional wing chun form, and then cut again. Obasi tosses roundhouse kicks into the muay thai pads. The kicks come out heavy but sluggish and, at some point of course, he slips onto his ass. We're not privy to how the rest of his tryout went, though we can assume not well. Next we see, Echteld, unimpressed with the work, has dismissed an incredulous Obasi.

What comes next isn't pretty. Obasi grows increasingly furious, insisting that he wasn't evaluated fairly. "I'm not a muay thai fighter, I'm not a kick boxer, I'm not a boxer. I'm a wing chun man." The situation seems to devolve rapidly, and in an especially ugly exchange, Obasi, resenting what he sees as arrogance and contemptuousness on Echteld's part, gets down on his knees before the M-1 representative. With great sarcasm he begs for a chance to fight. Obasi carries on for a bit more before his team mates help him out of the gym. Thus the footage ends, and thus it made the rounds late March through the MMA community.

Of course, there's a barely concealed current of derision running through MMA Confidential's myopic report. You need not look any further than the video's title to see it: "WING CHUN FAIL," it reads. There's certainly no excess of professionalism here. No human interest or journalistic objectivity, either. Just off-hand ridicule and a dash of smugness, and this is troubling. Why, having viewed a report on the M-1 tryouts, don't we get a look at any actual prospects? Why, instead, does the video's final cut focus solely on Obasi? Why such fascination, such pleasure at the guy's total meltdown? Rubbernecking aside, a lot of it may have to do with the MMA community's general attitude towards what it calls "traditional martial arts."


If MMA serves as the whipping boy for boxing elitists, so do disciplines like wing chun, an ancient Chinese martial art, serve the self-styled parvenu of MMA. Mention tae kwon do or kung-fu, suggest their viability in mixed martial arts, and feel that hot scorn. To most diehard fans, the template of a mixed martial artist is set: muay thai or kick boxing, wrestling, and jiu-jitsu (or some approximation thereof). Anything else, any traditional martial art, "sucks dick."

The curious vitriol reserved for traditional martial arts is, of course, ironic, and the argument against them is porous to the extreme. Porous because the very history of mixed martial arts and its constant evolution-fight by fight, pay-per-view event by pay-per-view event- serve to dismantle such rigid notions. Ironic because muay thai, jiu-jitsu, and wrestling are themselves, by definition, traditional martial arts.

We can trace muay thai's development from China to Thailand to Brazil, and likewise jiu-jitsu's migration from Japan to that same South American hotbed of MMA. Meanwhile, wrestling (collegiate and Greco-Roman) has its roots in ancient Greece, where it was one of only two sports, next to the footrace, practiced at the first Olympics (and, I suppose, when it comes to America you can't get much more traditional than the cradle of Western democracy). These are ancient fighting systems. If we pay attention, we will find a spiritual element as well; the belief that through intense ritual we might come to master our bodies, and hence our hearts and minds. The difference between these and other martial disciplines is that muay thai, jiu-jitsu, and wrestling have already been widely, effectively repurposed for MMA. And yet we'd do well to remember that it wasn't always like that.

17 years ago Royce Gracie seemed to render anything but jiu-jitsu obsolete. Today we know better. Wrestling remains a brutal instrument when coupled with submission defense. Boxing, despite the early mistakes by the likes of Art Jimmerson and Francois Botha, is as destructive as ever when bolstered by a good sprawl. Why, then, does prejudice against an art like wing chun persist? Why does such a mocking headline accompany that video, and yet no one crowed "Jiu-Jitsu Fail" after Demian Maia's disastrous fight with Nate Marquardt? Why is it so hard to believe that elements of other martial arts might be similarly adapted for MMA competition? It is, after all, already happening. On some mid-decade UFC broadcast you can surely hear Joe Rogan declare karate as good as dead. He howls something different when, a few short years later, Lyoto Machida makes his quick, violent argument for the UFC light-heavyweight championship, knocking out incumbent Rashad Evans in the first, and claiming the title for himself, and for Machida Karate.

So alright, let's make our own quick argument: "traditional martial arts," as we so often use the term, must refer not to any discipline or fighting system, but to a particular frame of mind: that a single art (jiu-jitsu or Shaolin kung-fu or whatever) once mastered, can triumph in any given situation. The difference, then, between mixed martial artists and traditional martial artists is a matter of application. Mixed martial artists accrue, they adopt and synthesize; the rear naked choke, the double leg takedown, elbows, the clinch, the roundhouse kick, the right cross, etcetera. Traditional martial artists-whether from tae kwon do, wing chun, judo, or wrestling backgrounds-insist on a singular approach. And so mark themselves for extinction.

Shawn Obasi's mistake wasn't relying on wing chun. It was relying only on wing chun.


As a seventh grader I was the proud owner of a purple belt in tae kwon do. I trained frequently though not always willingly and, nearly adolescent, both dreaded and anticipated a time when I might have put my manly skills to use. As it happened, the chance presented itself on a class camping trip. With the eyes of my friends on the back of my skull I came face to face with that awful opportunity, and it deadpanned, "You may have a purple belt in tae kwon do, but I have a black belt in ass whooping." This was true. Though we scuffled briefly, pried apart in short order by someone's dad, I could feel it. Though I was allowed to walk away with some measure of dignity, I could feel that, despite the hundreds of roundhouse kicks I had drilled, I had come within an inch of an unceremonious beating.

That was, for a time, a difficult memory to bear. I resented the martial art that I was so furiously, mistakenly, sure had failed me, and I resented the Tank Abbotts of the world who seemed to proffer that failure. I suspect, among MMA fans, that this is a widely familiar pain. I wonder, how often had Shawn Obasi's beloved wing chun been dismissed? What burden of proof did he bear into those tryouts? And when the guys at MMA Confidential scoffed and sneered at Obasi, were they also laughing at some past selves? Were they just trying to bury some kung-fu-loving version of themselves? Were they embarrassed once? Were you, was I? Are we all a bunch of would-be ninja and stillborn karate stars? Are we so compelled to turn our backs on those romanticized martial arts we loved, a bunch of wild kids on some Saturday night? Can't we hope for their return? Yes. Georges St. Pierre's turning back sidekick says yes. Cung Le's roundhouse says yes. Machida's karate says yes. The same old stuff is there, or is getting there. Just a little different, and better.

Big Questions: James Toney Madness

In early January boxer James Toney began angling for a spot in the UFC. After weeks of internet posturing and at least one scuttled contract, a deal had, improbably, been reached. On March 3, James Toney was announced as the newest fighter of the UFC. Questions abound...

Has the UFC crossed into freak show territory?

Without any mixed martial arts experience to his credit, it's reasonable that Toney's signing with the UFC raise some eyebrows, but the affair isn't all circus. We should remember, Toney isn't just an athlete making a high-profile jump to MMA, but one with an appreciable background in combat sports. As accomplished a boxer as he is, Toney's transition is no more bizarre than Abu Dhabi champion Braulio Estima's pending debut, or, having had only three professional fights, Rolles Gracie's appearance in the UFC. So why the gnashing of teeth?

The long-simmering feud between MMA and boxing probably has something to do with it. While other martial arts communities-judo, jiu-jitsu, muay thai, and so on-seem to happily coexist with mixed martial arts, the boxing community has, on the whole, turned its nose up at MMA. Naturally, then, MMA fans grow indignant at the idea that some aging pugilist expects to blow his way through the UFC, and we become yet more frustrated when he's given the chance to try. Yet, the public might also be less critical of Toney's place on the UFC's roster if Dana White hadn't been so vocal in the past about what he's characterized as gimmick fighters and pretenders.

Festooned with f-words aplenty, White's criticisms of competing organizations have, in the last several years, most often zeroed in on their talent pools, and what appeared to him as sideshow attractions masquerading as serious contenders. Pro-wrestlers, Kimbo Slice, and crossover athletes have all drawn his ire, and yet those are what have constituted the UFC's most-high profile signings in the last two years. Hell, the whole last season of the Ultimate Fighter was lousy with NFL benchwarmers. With all this in mind, it'd be fair to say that Dana white has, at times, tossed his standards aside and peddled his share of curios. This, however, isn't one of those times. In James "Lights Out" Toney MMA fans are getting a proven fighter, and that's what counts.

Can James Toney become a true contender?

Nightmare scenarios run through my mind. Randy Couture, laid out within the fight's opening 60 seconds, is retired by the blustering MMA amateur James Toney. Lyoto Machida's championship reign is cut short, his modified karate failing him in the face of a precision previously unheard of in mixed martial arts. Light-heavyweight captains Mauricio Rua and Thiago Silva find their leg kicks countered at blistering speed, and Rashad Evans blindly, desperately shoots for a double-leg, eyes jabbed up and swollen. When considering James Toney in the UFC's light-heavyweight division, these are my greatest fears. That decades of cross-breeding among the martial disciplines can be undone by the striking prowess of even a mediocre boxing champion; that mixed martial artists are, after all, just low-brow, brawling roughnecks, and that the sport we've hailed as the future was, in the end, only a diversion. Certainly, this is what most boxing elitists would like us to believe. Certainly, in my heart, I don't. Like most nightmares, it is unrealistic, illogical, unlikely.

We should remember that Toney has been so effective only within the confines of boxing, against other men working within the same relatively narrow criteria for victory. We should likewise consider the possibility that Toney, in his especially concentrated prowess, may be too specialized a fighter, that his skill set and instincts are so refined, so particular, that there is little room for improvisation or adaptation. So, while he might outbox Chuck Liddell with his eyes closed, James Toney not only lacks a feel for the sprawl, but his long-entrenched ideas of fighting may prevent him from ever learning it. And that goes the same for submissions or clinch work. Supposing he can overcome his own ego as a boxer and commit to cross-training (dubious, if his dismissive online persona is any indication), then he will yet have his inexperience and age to struggle with. There's only so much schooling his 41-year-old body can endure, and even his best efforts will, when weighed against the UFC's light-heavyweight doom patrol, most likely leave him at an insurmountable deficit, tied up in knots or ground to a pulp.

Given so many obstacles, the chance of Toney pursuing any legitimate title shot seems remote. Rather, we might expect his time with the UFC to yield a string of intriguing showcase fights-with Randy Couture, Anderson Silva, or, oh boy, Kimbo Slice.

How will this effect Strikeforce?

With Strikeforce garnering a fair amount of buzz thanks to a successful MMA debut by likeable football legend Herschel Walker, it might be fair to assume that James Toney presented the UFC with a timely counter-maneuver. And while Toney certainly ought to bring more credibility with him, former boxing champion such as he is, neither Walker nor Toney seem to present any long-term value to either promotion.

Should Strikeforce be so lucky as to have Walker fight a second time, there's still the difficult matter of who is opponent will be. Who do you get to face off with such a high-profile yet roughly hewn fighter? On the other hand, Toney's dedication to mixed martial arts is extremely suspect. Given his rather casual regard for the rigors and demands of a full MMA program, one gets the impression that his interest in the sport extends only insofar as it comes relatively easy; as much of a novelty as he might be for us, so might MMA be a novelty for him. What's more, it would appear that the boxing community's attitude towards Toney is, and has been for some time, decidedly ambivalent. This is all to say that Toney's wider appeal might not turn out to be all that remarkable, despite his history of accomplishments.

Signing James Toney seems like a smart move by the UFC to accomplish certain short-term goals: give the promotion a shot in the arm following a sluggish winter, and steal some heat away from Strikeforce. As to long-term ramifications, however, Toney may simply describe an offbeat period in the UFC's history.

But is it bad for the sport?!

There's no way to tell. Time was, Brock Lesnar's debut in the UFC was a skidmark on MMA's flag; we watched in horror as the legless, armless Kyle Maynard took to the cage for an amateur contest that would undoubtedly sully the sport's reputation; Ray Mercer's KO of Tim Sylvia threatened to strip all credibility from our beloved (and not so beloved) champions. Novelty acts, embarrassing reality show antics, and grudge matches fueled by scandalous vitriol-mixed martial arts has been an occasion for all these things, and flourished nonetheless. So why should James Toney's UFC career seem such a killer? Because some smart-mouthed fossil of a boxing aficionado scoffs on his blog? Man, who the hell cares? Fellas, it's time to admit that we may have slight alarmist tendencies.

About Rankings

Mixed martial arts rankings are often, paradoxically over and under valued. Some will maintain that rankings are counter-productive and that arguing about them is pointless since they serve merely to stigmatize lower-ranked fighters and give only the most cursory picture of the state of a weight class; they put a cold and callous emphasis on raw statistics. At the same time, a huge portion of fans will not be satisfied with a title defense unless it comes against a consensus Top 10 fighter, and they frequently gauge the potency of a promotion's roster based solely on how many Top 10 fighters it possesses.

In perhaps typical fashion, my view on the matter falls somewhere in between. First and most practically, I think rankings are useful as an educational tool. They provide new audiences with an idea of a fight's significance, generalized as that idea may be. To maximize their purpose, however, I feel that rankings require context. A narrative, even:

"Restless in his middleweight home, Anderson Silva tries his hand at a heavier weight class, and breaks into the Top 10 at light-heavyweight in brilliant fashion."

"Forrest Griffin is foiled once again by his fragile jaw and an over-willingness to brawl."

"Mamed Khalidov has been quietly climbing the ranks, and is poised for a breakout year."

"Keith Jardine's unique striking habits have stagnated. His opponents have capitalized and he's hit a rough patch."

Narratives like this soften the otherwise harsh nature of numbered rankings, and foster better understanding on the part of all fans, new or old. And this is basically the second potential function of rankings: they build compassion for the fighters. Provided they are accompanied by some sort of narrative, rankings clarify the struggle of a fighter at a given moment, and the trajectory of his or her career become all the more triumphant or tragic.

Such sympathy and understanding on the part of the fans is just as integral to the evolution of the sport as an advanced wrestling regimen or a new striking style. If we offer greater care and respect to fighters, then fighters will offer the same in kind to their martial discipline, and become ever more the artists we know them to be.

Plus, I love lists.

Some Aging Bruiser

Last Saturday night I sat among family and friends, most of them only casually acquainted with the UFC, let alone the larger world of mixed martial arts, and we watched Randy Couture and Mark Coleman. At 46 and 45 years old respectively, both are former champions of mixed martial arts, both should be key figures in any history of the sport, and both are, decidedly, past their prime. My guests wondered aloud: what are those old men doing in the cage? Who is Mark Coleman? Why is this worn-out heavy in the main event? Is this a title fight? And when that answer was “no,” then finally: so what’s the point, what’s at stake? Without being obsessed with the history of the sport, without being enraptured by the drama of the fighting man, they couldn’t know. That Mark Coleman had defeated Couture in collegiate wrestling years before. That he is the UFC’s first heavyweight champion, or that he gave us the game-changing martial style of ground and pound. They didn’t know that Saturday night might have been the last time Mark Coleman fought in the UFC. Maybe the last time Mark Coleman fights, period. I should have told them but, caught up in the popular current of apathy that was running through jaded “hardcore” fans in the weeks leading up to this event, I failed to recognize what was so important about last Saturday night. Were my head not so far up my ass, had I not been so eagerly cynical, I could have told them what was at stake. Damn near everything.

***

Randy Couture and Mark Coleman take to the cage on February 6, 2010 for a serious discussion. A debate made of straining muscle, lactic acid and burning lungs, okay, crackerjack timing, or as near as you can get, and some 20 bulging knuckles. Between Mark Coleman and Randy Couture are the questions of age and will, legacy and future. A climate of pathos and desperation. In all things human, rarely does it get more meaningful then that. And while all fights (all human endeavor, one might argue) are tinged with such consequence, no other fight on the card so palpably embodies the anxiety of tomorrow—what it brings, and how, then, we will be seen. Strange, then, that this fight has been so readily dismissed by the public as a waste. Cruel, I think, that Coleman, the man for whom the most is at stake, should be derided by so many as the most inconsequential part of the whole thing, since between the two men surely Coleman’s struggle to solve these riddles is the more pressing.

With no movie roles, no clothing line, and no training center bearing his name, Coleman, in some considerable contrast to Couture, still makes his living purely by the long minutes in the cage. And while Couture has established himself as an enduring asset to the UFC, Coleman has yet to recapture the imagination of the fans such as he possessed it during his first championship run in the organization over ten years ago. On February 6 there are no impassioned cheers for Mark Coleman. None readily apparent on the broadcast, anyway, and certainly none to rival those that follow Couture into the Octagon. And yet there are no boos or hisses for Coleman, either. Just relatively subdued, obligatory applause. Bad news for someone looking for a foothold in the UFC. If you’re a Coleman fan, the bad news doesn’t stop there.

Randy Couture emerges from his corner looking especially fleet of foot. Mark Coleman, by contrast, appears a little flat, stiff and uncertain in his movement. Rather than gamble that his wrestling has surpassed Coleman’s in the years since their first, collegiate meeting, Couture looks to put his relatively impressive footwork to use, and box. Though Couture’s own chin is suspect, weakened from years of fighting, Coleman never finds a chance to test it. He is beaten to the punch every time, unable to employ any of the feints or combinations that, surely, he drilled with his new coach, kick boxer Shawn Tompkins. Persistently out of sorts, especially compared to his last, rather impressive appearance, he seems over-trained; his body sluggish from excessive drilling and his mind encumbered by one maneuver too many. Like a deer in headlights, which refuses to bound away though it is built and bred for it, Coleman doesn’t tap his instincts, and so he freezes up and suffers a beating. He endures the first round and goes down in the second, submitting to a rear-naked choke.

This may have been the last time Mark Coleman fights in the Octagon, wherein his career was born, but his post-fight interview with Joe Rogan is woefully unceremonious. The evening ends and, though I am assuredly a Couture fan, I’m stuck with a nagging sense, a little anxiety, a little guilt and sorrow.

***

Mark Coleman was cut from the UFC following that defeat. It seems unfair—with a victory over Stephan Bonnar splitting his losses to Mauricio Rua and Couture, he deserved another chance. Yet, having appeared so helpless against a man of his own generation, one shudders to think of the savagery that Rashad Evans or Rogerio Nogueira, men plenty younger than him, would inflict upon Coleman’s venerable head. And though there are a few in the light-heavyweight division against whom I would give Coleman a fair shot, there are none against whom he could be marked as an overwhelming favorite—better to go out losing to Randy Couture than Brian Stann, I’d think.

Ultimately, though, it’s not Coleman’s exit from the promotion that hounds me so much as it is the way he was ushered out. The UFC’s fighters, once they reach a certain age (ring age, if not biological) tend to be treated by most with a sort of sobriety and honor acknowledging their ever more imminent withdrawal from the ring. Matt Hughes, Chuck Liddell, and Couture himself have all gotten the treatment, addressed in tones bespeaking reverence and farewell. I suspect a fighter in the moment might bristle at the implications, though I imagine such decorum might in retrospect prove a compliment.

That Coleman was not offered such custom is (those words again) strange and cruel. Tragic, even, given his contributions to the UFC and to MMA generally. And this is unfortunately appropriate, as Coleman’s career seems to constitute, in nearly the most classical meaning of the term, a tragedy—a man of great potential and bright future brought low. By a little bad luck, maybe, and by the shifting favors of the world and, yes, a bit by his own hand, as well. August as any man he’s ever had the pain or privilege to fight, Coleman is nevertheless dismissed and made sport of by some of those who owe him most: the fans. Maybe it’s that hang-dog expression of his, or the brutish way he has about him. Maybe his frank desperation discomfits people. Maybe this is why some of us like him better.

For those of us turning over the image of the defeated Mark Coleman in our minds, surely the idea of his retirement preoccupies us. As a fan I’m not sure what I want. For him to be healthy, I guess, and strong and sharp and able. Yet, if that should indeed have been Mark Coleman's last fight, then he certainly deserves a champion’s send-off. Slight an offering as this is, I’ll hope instead that he cracks a skull or two more.

Vitor Belfort suffers severe shoulder injury, out of Silva fight.

So who steps in to fight Anderson Silva?

To be honest, I was never much sold on the idea of Belfort as the number one middleweight contender. His middleweight record outside of the UFC--victories over an aged Matt Lindland and the spectacularly inconsistent Terry Martin--was a little slight, and his only win since his return to the UFC came at a catchweight over Rich Franklin. But, regardless of rankings, a fight between Belfort and Silva would have turned out to be a pretty exciting affair, and so Belfort's absence from the card is disappointing, and keenly felt. But then there's the excitement surrounding Belfort's replacement...

There is no opponent at middleweight that makes sense for Silva. Chael Sonnen would be the best choice, but he suffered a severe cut that would keep him out of the gym, shortening an already abbreviated training camp. Former middleweight front-runners Nate Marquardt and Yushin Okami have both suffered recent, embarrassing losses (to Sonnen, ironically enough) and a fight with Silva would be hard to justify to critics and sell to the public. Demain Maia is in a similar position, having rebounded from his KO loss to Marquardt with a lackluster decision victory. Anderson Silva's best potential opponents are at light-heavyweight.

Brandon Vera and Keith Jardine are fair options, though both of their careers are in something of a fragile state, and a highly-possible knockout loss to Silva must not look too appealing. More likely, I think, are match-ups with either Randy Couture or Thiago Silva. And though it is, in my opinion, a more dangerous fight for Anderson and his fans, I would, ultimately, prefer to see a fight between the two Silvas.

If Couture is going to fight, he should do so against similarly well-traveled mixed martial artists (the rumored bout with Rich Franklin is, for this reason, quite appealing), not against one of the three greatest pound-for-pound fighters in the world. And though the UFC risks losing Thiago Silva as a top light-heavyweight contender, it's worth noting that he's already pretty far at the back of the queue anyway, with recent losses to current champ Lyoto Machida and former champ Rashad Evans still fresh in our minds. As such, Thiago Silva remains both a convenient opponent, yet a serious one as well, as per his appreciable and threatening talents.

In a perfect world, we would get to see Thiago Silva scowl his heart out at UFC 112.

Put a Lid on it: Favoritism from the UFC Broadcasting Booth

This article was written in the days following UFC 100, and was originally published on Nokaut.com

This past Saturday Joe Rogan once again demonstrated both his enthusiasm for mixed martial arts and his bad habit of making hyperbolic, biased declarations.

Joe Rogan is a true asset to the UFC and mixed martial arts generally. He brings a definite, infectious excitement to his broadcasts, and his effortless knowledge of the sport's history, composite disciplines, and fighters is impressive. Yet it is this close, personal relationship he has with the world of MMA that seems to be at the heart of a mounting problem. That is, Rogan's increasingly uninhibited partiality while calling action from the broadcast booth and while conducting post-fight interviews.

***

During the UFC 100 broadcast Joe Rogan waxed horrified at the judges' decision ruling Yoshihiro Akiyama the winner over Alan Belcher. As an exhausted Akiyama celebrated, Rogan turned his indignation up to 11 and announced "Alan Belcher knows he got robbed." Such a statement is problematic for several reasons. Most obviously because it assumes that Belcher was, in fact, robbed.

It’s important to be clear. Alan Belcher was not "robbed" in his decision loss. It was a close, competitive, and exciting fight. But before anyone takes Rogan's cue, they should consider: to say Alan Belcher was robbed is to say that in no way, in any reasonable person's mind, should Akiyama have been seen as the victor. To say Belcher was robbed is to claim, essentially, that the fight wasn't even close. Yet, a look at play-by-plays running on three MMA websites proves contrary. Our very own Nokaut.com saw the fight in Belcher's favor, and MMAJunkie and Sherdog.com saw Akiyama as the bout's winner. While this speaks to the extremely narrow margin by which Akiyama won (a fact Akiyama himself seemed to realize given his apparent sense of relief), it also indicates that, as much as the fight could have gone to Belcher, more times than not it would end with Akiyama's hand being raised.

Furthermore, if Rogan was to play back the third round of this fight, he would hear himself commenting that Akiyama, having just taken Belcher down, was scoring points with the judges, and that Belcher needed to get back to his feet, urgently so, in an effort to take the round, if not finish Akiyama in the closing minutes. Why would this even be an issue if Belcher had, to that point, won the fight to such a degree that any conflicting judge's verdict would be called a robbery? In the end, even Rogan's own immediate (and in this way perhaps more honest) assessment of the fight contradicted a subsequent incredulity that, in this light, can only be seen as fueled by favoritism.

Of course, these are easy points to make in retrospect. At the time, on a live broadcast, Rogan couldn't have known what the general consensus was and, once properly contextualized, how little the decision warranted such outrage. However, what he should have realized, as both a long-time fan and someone working within the industry, is the fallibility of his own eyes when evaluating a fight; with this in mind he might have withheld such a definitive, public assertion until he gave himself time to reflect and become better informed. This might seem like a lot to ask of someone so engrossed by the sport as Joe Rogan but, as he is a professional, it's not unwarranted.

***

Joe Rogan's vocal yet unfounded disgust following the Akiyama-Belcher decision wouldn't be such a problem if it weren't indicative of a larger trend. As Rogan has become a fixture within the UFC, he has seemed less concerned with providing an apparently unbiased point of view, all the while relying more and more confidently on his gut feelings, his heart, and his personal preferences when qualifying the action inside the Octagon. Long time fans of MMA might claim that they have always detected a tendency towards favoritism in Joe Rogan. To whatever extent this has been true, it has become all the more pronounced in the last nine to twelve months—a fact that is often obscured by his usual perceptiveness and also by partner Mike Goldberg's more persistent towing of the company line. Yet whereas Goldberg can be excused for being occasionally off the mark on account of naiveté and professional obligation (he is paid to push the UFC brand, after all), Rogan, as a student of the game with a wider range of expression, ought to know better.

Note first the fight between Dong Hyun Kim and Matt Brown at UFC 88. Kim was awarded a split-decision victory following a third round in which neither exhausted fighter was able to deliver an emphatic conclusion. Across the 15 minutes of the fight, however, Joe Rogan couldn't help but enthuse over Matt Brown's notorious grit and dubious in-fight effectiveness. His affinity for Brown reached a fever pitch when, during the post fight interviews, Rogan actually came out and told Brown that he felt he’d won the fight. One may appreciate the emotional investment that would lead to such an outpouring, but the fact remains: with Dong Hyun Kim (who, frankly, worked his ass off) and a large attending audience still present, such an assertion was hugely disrespectful to the Korean fighter and his camp.

Kim had the misfortune of fighting another of Rogan's favorites in Karo Parisyan a few months later, at UFC 94. With both fighters on the ground, Kim worked for an ankle lock. Parisyan, in an attempt to escape, haphazardly kicked Kim in the head. The illegal move was caught by the referee, Parisyan was officially warned, and the fight was restarted. Rogan admonished the break in action, however, and feebly contended that what Parisyan leveled at Kim's head was more of a "shove" than a kick. It's troubling that Rogan would debate an issue of fighter safety on the mere basis of semantics, and yet more troubling since it was in the service of a fighter for whom Rogan has had an admitted fondness; since Parisyan's early days in the UFC Rogan has sung his praises. In this case, though, Rogan's hero-worship consequently belittled Kim's own right to a fair fight.

Shots to the back of the head go unremarked. A stalemate on the ground is seen instead as a tactical advantage that must remain uninterrupted (or vice-versa, depending on who's landed on top, figuratively speaking). These episodes are small, but nevertheless threaten to compromise what has, to date, been otherwise admirable commentating.

***

Let's keep things in perspective. I only dissect Joe Rogan’s work as an announcer because he is an integral member of the mixed martial arts community. He's worth discussing. What's more, I would never go so far as to say that Rogan's partiality is "bad for the sport." This is a concept that gets tossed around far too much in an attempt to lend moral gravity to some issue that only a lunatic fringe really agonizes over (that drawing of a penis on Brock Lesnar's chest is bad for the sport; Dana White's Hot Topic wardrobe is bad for the sport; Kimbo Slice's asymmetrical chest hair is bad for the sport; photos of a bloated Chuck Liddell with no damn shirt on are bad for the sport). In fact, if anything, Joe Rogan is good for MMA--he's articulate, likable, and is trusted by probably thousands of spectators. This last point, though, is why it's important that he become a little more measured in what he says. There are a great many MMA fans, eagerly looking forward to his next comedy special (something like "Screaming Bearded Man with a Passion for Space-Faring Mammals") that readily hang their opinions about MMA on Joe Rogan's own. So, while the fate of mixed martial arts doesn't necessarily rest in Rogan's wildly gesticulating hands, it might be nice if he were to encourage a more thoughtful, fair-minded audience.

And if Joe Rogan doesn’t address the issue, then at least those watching the UFC must acknowledge that there is a problem. No hateful oaths over the internet are necessary. Just please take what the guy says with a grain of salt.