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.

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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.

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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.

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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.