if i had my way, justice would play out like this.
FIGHT ANNOUNCEMENT - Our fight is scheduled for UFC 150 in Toronto, Ontario, where MMA has finally been legalized after a protracted litigation battle. Tickets sell out in 27 minutes, a new record for a UFC event. Everybody loves a good grudge match.
PRESS TELECONFERENCE - He talks about how I've distorted everything, turned the public against him, made him look like the bad guy when I'm actually the villain. He talks about how he doesn't need people like me in his life, and how he's going to prove it come fight night. I don't bother attending the call.
PRE-FIGHT PRESS CONFERENCE - Same song and dance from his end. I answer every question thrown my way with the same statement, "I'm going to fuck him up." We stand nose-to-nose at the end of the press conference. Neither one of us flinches. I refuse to back down. He shakes his head and moves the other way. I'm still scowling at him even as he sits back down; I have to be ushered into my seat by my team. Dana White is loving every second of this. The press is eating it all up.
WEIGH-INS - I clock it at a shade over 160. He's at 170. It was a catch-weight fight to begin with, so the weight difference doesn't matter. Neither does the slight height difference. He could be Andre the fucking Giant and I still wouldn't care. We face off, as is customary. After the traditional "fists up" pose, I bang my forehead into his. Dana and our respective teams have to separate us. Still scowling. Media outlets are having a blast.
FIGHT NIGHT: OPENING VIDEO MONTAGE - He says all the cliche things: he knows his hand is going to be raised at the end, blah blah blah. This isn't going to go to the judges, blah blah blah. Tonight I'm going to get knocked out or submitted, blah blah blah. It's all very cut and dried, nothing fight fans haven't heard before.
My turn.
"Ortiz-Shamrock. Liddell-Ortiz. Hughes-Serra. Lesnar-Mir. Davis-Hardy. Penn-GSP. Rampage-Rashad. All those feuds put together still aren't as bad as this one."
"There's no way I'm losing in that Octagon tonight, not to him. I could lose to anybody else on the planet, but no fucking way am I losing to that piece of shit. You're going to have to fucking kill me before I lose to that motherfucker."
"He's right about one thing: this isn't going to the judges. The ref's going to have to pull my ass off him, because if he doesn't then I'm going to kill that motherfucker."
FIGHT NIGHT: WALK-IN - The Rogers Center sound system starts playing Tomoyasu Hotei's "Battle Without Honor or Humanity", the track from Kill Bill. The camera shows me in the back, making my way to the curtains with my team in tow. Crowd erupts. Scowl's on. Once I get to the curtains, the music stops. Arena goes dark. Then it's Roy Jones Jr., "Can't Be Touched". A nod to Rampage Jackson.
I've got tunnel vision as I make my way to the Harley Davidson prep point. Make out some faces in the crowd, but no one really registers. Just staring at the cage and him standing on the opposite side, jumping up and down, limbering up, getting loose.
I get to the prep point. Stitch checks my gloves. Checks if I'm wearing a cup. Checks mouthpiece: custom-made black, with "Relentless" detail. Puts Vaseline on my face. I'm good to go. Give my coaches a pound and a hug. Slowly stalk up the steps, never taking my eyes off him for an instant. Make the sign of the cross. Then the thumb across the neck, just in case people out there think I'm getting soft.
FIGHT NIGHT: INTRODUCTIONS - Small round of applause when Bruce Buffer announces his name: probably brought in friends and family from Brampton. Plus mutual friends who are trying to remain impartial. Bigger pop when I'm introduced, because I've got friends from the Philippines in town to see me murder this motherfucker. Plus mutual friends who have my back and got off the fence a long time ago.
Herb Dean calls us to the center of the cage. Tells us we've been over the instructions in the back. Tells us to fight clean and protect ourselves at all times. Tells us to touch gloves to make it official. He tentatively holds one fist out. I'm still scowling. No fist bump from my end, fuck sportsmanship. Walk backwards to my corner. Think about flipping him both birds, manage to keep myself from doing so. But not without extreme difficulty.
Herb asks if he's ready. He is, but doesn't look so confident all of a sudden. Herb asks if I'm ready. I give a slight nod. We're off.
FIGHT NIGHT: ROUND 1 - I'm headed towards the center of the cage like a bat out of hell. No feeling out process here. He circles back and forth, left and right. I stalk throughout, throwing out jabs, mixing it up with kicks to his left and right legs. Every kick has a full torso rotation from me, so when it lands it feels like a baseball bat each time. After three his wheels are turning red. I have to keep myself from making him tap due to leg kicks like Pat Barry would... that would be too easy. He's no slouch, so he tags me a couple of times. Don't really feel them, too fueled by hate and adrenaline to notice. I catch him with a right hook to the temple, he loses balance and falls backward. Mike Goldberg is screaming that he's just been rocked. I don't follow him to the ground though. I motion to him to get his ass back up. The crowd roars in approval. Bell sounds, and the first round's over. Two judges have it 10-9, one has it 10-8.
FIGHT NIGHT: ROUND 2 - Same thing, charge straight to the center. Diego Sanchez would've been proud. Still peppering him with one combination after another, but not really swinging for the fences. Still unloading on his legs, which are now slightly starting to swell. He's not moving around as fluidly, not as fresh as he was in the first round. A few more hits to the head open up a cut on his eyebrow. Just for the hell of it, I shoot in for a takedown to put him on the mat. He covers up well, so I can't really ground and pound him out. Not that I was planning to. I talk shit loud enough for the camera man to hear. "Let's see your GPA get you out of this, you piece of shit." I let him back up, but not before a stiff kick to the ribs. Bell sounds, and the second round's over. One judge has it 10-9, the other two have it 10-8. Total domination.
FIGHT NIGHT: ROUND 3 - In between rounds, his corner tells him all the right things: that he's still in this, that he just needs to land that one shot. My corner is telling me to stop fucking around and put this shit away. I nod. I'm off to the center, and this time I'm winging them from left field. Mike Goldberg picks up on it, Joe Rogan picks up on it. I'm swinging for the fences now, they say. Almost as if I were just playing with him the first two rounds. Not going to lie, I was. I catch him with a left uppercut that rocks him. Mike Goldberg is screaming that he's hurt. I follow up with a right hook that catches him on the jaw. Joe Rogan is screaming that it was on the button. He's out before he hits the canvas. But I'm not done. In a move reminiscent of Dan Henderson on Mike Bisping, I follow him with a divebomb of a right. It connects just seconds after he falls. Unnecessary for many, very necessary for me. I'm about to unload another bevy of fists when something huge tackles me from behind. It's Herb pulling me off. Fight's done. I win by KO. As soon as Herb gets off of me to check on him, I get to my feet, walk over to his prone body, and scowl over him, like he's still got more payback from me on the way. My team has to rush the cage and lift me up to give me the victory lap. Everybody's on their feet.
FIGHT NIGHT: POST-FIGHT - Joe Rogan comes in for the victory interview. He says that there was a lot of bad blood heading into this fight, and that I have to not only be pleased with my performance but with the outcome. I grab the microphone from him, stare straight into the camera, and say one thing before dropping the mic and walking back.
"Told you I'd fuck him up."
***
Yeah, that's never going to happen. But damn, it'd be pretty fucking awesome if it did. And it was pretty fucking awesome to write.
PRESS TELECONFERENCE - He talks about how I've distorted everything, turned the public against him, made him look like the bad guy when I'm actually the villain. He talks about how he doesn't need people like me in his life, and how he's going to prove it come fight night. I don't bother attending the call.
PRE-FIGHT PRESS CONFERENCE - Same song and dance from his end. I answer every question thrown my way with the same statement, "I'm going to fuck him up." We stand nose-to-nose at the end of the press conference. Neither one of us flinches. I refuse to back down. He shakes his head and moves the other way. I'm still scowling at him even as he sits back down; I have to be ushered into my seat by my team. Dana White is loving every second of this. The press is eating it all up.
WEIGH-INS - I clock it at a shade over 160. He's at 170. It was a catch-weight fight to begin with, so the weight difference doesn't matter. Neither does the slight height difference. He could be Andre the fucking Giant and I still wouldn't care. We face off, as is customary. After the traditional "fists up" pose, I bang my forehead into his. Dana and our respective teams have to separate us. Still scowling. Media outlets are having a blast.
FIGHT NIGHT: OPENING VIDEO MONTAGE - He says all the cliche things: he knows his hand is going to be raised at the end, blah blah blah. This isn't going to go to the judges, blah blah blah. Tonight I'm going to get knocked out or submitted, blah blah blah. It's all very cut and dried, nothing fight fans haven't heard before.
My turn.
"Ortiz-Shamrock. Liddell-Ortiz. Hughes-Serra. Lesnar-Mir. Davis-Hardy. Penn-GSP. Rampage-Rashad. All those feuds put together still aren't as bad as this one."
"There's no way I'm losing in that Octagon tonight, not to him. I could lose to anybody else on the planet, but no fucking way am I losing to that piece of shit. You're going to have to fucking kill me before I lose to that motherfucker."
"He's right about one thing: this isn't going to the judges. The ref's going to have to pull my ass off him, because if he doesn't then I'm going to kill that motherfucker."
FIGHT NIGHT: WALK-IN - The Rogers Center sound system starts playing Tomoyasu Hotei's "Battle Without Honor or Humanity", the track from Kill Bill. The camera shows me in the back, making my way to the curtains with my team in tow. Crowd erupts. Scowl's on. Once I get to the curtains, the music stops. Arena goes dark. Then it's Roy Jones Jr., "Can't Be Touched". A nod to Rampage Jackson.
I've got tunnel vision as I make my way to the Harley Davidson prep point. Make out some faces in the crowd, but no one really registers. Just staring at the cage and him standing on the opposite side, jumping up and down, limbering up, getting loose.
I get to the prep point. Stitch checks my gloves. Checks if I'm wearing a cup. Checks mouthpiece: custom-made black, with "Relentless" detail. Puts Vaseline on my face. I'm good to go. Give my coaches a pound and a hug. Slowly stalk up the steps, never taking my eyes off him for an instant. Make the sign of the cross. Then the thumb across the neck, just in case people out there think I'm getting soft.
FIGHT NIGHT: INTRODUCTIONS - Small round of applause when Bruce Buffer announces his name: probably brought in friends and family from Brampton. Plus mutual friends who are trying to remain impartial. Bigger pop when I'm introduced, because I've got friends from the Philippines in town to see me murder this motherfucker. Plus mutual friends who have my back and got off the fence a long time ago.
Herb Dean calls us to the center of the cage. Tells us we've been over the instructions in the back. Tells us to fight clean and protect ourselves at all times. Tells us to touch gloves to make it official. He tentatively holds one fist out. I'm still scowling. No fist bump from my end, fuck sportsmanship. Walk backwards to my corner. Think about flipping him both birds, manage to keep myself from doing so. But not without extreme difficulty.
Herb asks if he's ready. He is, but doesn't look so confident all of a sudden. Herb asks if I'm ready. I give a slight nod. We're off.
FIGHT NIGHT: ROUND 1 - I'm headed towards the center of the cage like a bat out of hell. No feeling out process here. He circles back and forth, left and right. I stalk throughout, throwing out jabs, mixing it up with kicks to his left and right legs. Every kick has a full torso rotation from me, so when it lands it feels like a baseball bat each time. After three his wheels are turning red. I have to keep myself from making him tap due to leg kicks like Pat Barry would... that would be too easy. He's no slouch, so he tags me a couple of times. Don't really feel them, too fueled by hate and adrenaline to notice. I catch him with a right hook to the temple, he loses balance and falls backward. Mike Goldberg is screaming that he's just been rocked. I don't follow him to the ground though. I motion to him to get his ass back up. The crowd roars in approval. Bell sounds, and the first round's over. Two judges have it 10-9, one has it 10-8.
FIGHT NIGHT: ROUND 2 - Same thing, charge straight to the center. Diego Sanchez would've been proud. Still peppering him with one combination after another, but not really swinging for the fences. Still unloading on his legs, which are now slightly starting to swell. He's not moving around as fluidly, not as fresh as he was in the first round. A few more hits to the head open up a cut on his eyebrow. Just for the hell of it, I shoot in for a takedown to put him on the mat. He covers up well, so I can't really ground and pound him out. Not that I was planning to. I talk shit loud enough for the camera man to hear. "Let's see your GPA get you out of this, you piece of shit." I let him back up, but not before a stiff kick to the ribs. Bell sounds, and the second round's over. One judge has it 10-9, the other two have it 10-8. Total domination.
FIGHT NIGHT: ROUND 3 - In between rounds, his corner tells him all the right things: that he's still in this, that he just needs to land that one shot. My corner is telling me to stop fucking around and put this shit away. I nod. I'm off to the center, and this time I'm winging them from left field. Mike Goldberg picks up on it, Joe Rogan picks up on it. I'm swinging for the fences now, they say. Almost as if I were just playing with him the first two rounds. Not going to lie, I was. I catch him with a left uppercut that rocks him. Mike Goldberg is screaming that he's hurt. I follow up with a right hook that catches him on the jaw. Joe Rogan is screaming that it was on the button. He's out before he hits the canvas. But I'm not done. In a move reminiscent of Dan Henderson on Mike Bisping, I follow him with a divebomb of a right. It connects just seconds after he falls. Unnecessary for many, very necessary for me. I'm about to unload another bevy of fists when something huge tackles me from behind. It's Herb pulling me off. Fight's done. I win by KO. As soon as Herb gets off of me to check on him, I get to my feet, walk over to his prone body, and scowl over him, like he's still got more payback from me on the way. My team has to rush the cage and lift me up to give me the victory lap. Everybody's on their feet.
FIGHT NIGHT: POST-FIGHT - Joe Rogan comes in for the victory interview. He says that there was a lot of bad blood heading into this fight, and that I have to not only be pleased with my performance but with the outcome. I grab the microphone from him, stare straight into the camera, and say one thing before dropping the mic and walking back.
"Told you I'd fuck him up."
***
Yeah, that's never going to happen. But damn, it'd be pretty fucking awesome if it did. And it was pretty fucking awesome to write.