(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.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Derp
Blog is on hold for a bit while I put together a couple writing program portfolios. Shorter pieces appearing at BloodyElbow.com.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
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.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
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?
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
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.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
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.
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.
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