Tonight in Anaheim, with the UFC debuting on Fox to millions of new viewers, with all the eyes of the sport upon him, Junior dos Santos said, "This is MMA." With reflexive anticipation of Cain Velasquez's left hook, he ducked down and launched an overhand right - the most famous move in the sport, popularized by vintage Chuck Liddell - landing flush on his opponent's temple. With Velasquez's equilibrium scrambled, dos Santos followed his severely dazed opponent to the mat and unleashed a series of devastating blows that forced referee John McCarthy to step in and save the champion.

It took just over one minute for "Cigano" to make his statement. Hailing from the best fight camp in all the sport, his eloquence should never have been in question. This, after all, is the most persistently violent sport in all of North America. And, though some may be hesitant to admit so, we all watch it for the violence. Perhaps that isn't one's primary motive, but it must be part of the appeal of the sport. The oft-drawn, trite parallel between mixed martial artists and Roman gladiators is actually quite valid; to some degree, we watch to see one man draw blood from another.

It's a primal urge, something we lack in our daily lives. One of the most thrilling scenes in all of film comes from Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, when the primate realizes he can reclaim his territory via violence - he uses a weapon, and sets himself down the path to humanity. It's a stunning look at what sets us apart from the lesser species. It's a statement to our superiority. And so we have these combative athletes who, bound by the laws of civilization, turn their bodies into weapons, embodying physical dominance. It's what made boxing a fixture of this culture for more than a century. And now it is what brings MMA to the widest audience possible.

Boxing, of which I am a fan, has become heavy, laden with egos, pretentions, and flawed ethics that seem to seep into the raw sport far too often. There are no ethics in Junior dos Santos leaping atop his downed foe, raining down blow upon blow, expressing poetry by motion, and claiming to another man, "I am your superior." If nothing else can be said of MMA, then let it be known that this is the most honest of all sport, and tonight, "Cigano" gave all the nation a lesson in truth.

It almost wasn't fair to Yushin Okami (AKA "The Last Man To Beat Anderson Silva") that his first title shot came against the man who strolled in to the HSBC Arena last night, nonchalant as ever, to defend his championship for a record ninth consecutive time. It didn't matter that he'd already face the same namesake before, or even that he'd been scheduled to meet the champ back in 2008. The Anderson Silva across from him at UFC 134 was simply better than all the previous ones we've seen. And, as far as I can tell, the distance between Silva and the rest of the pack widens with every match. 

I've come to realize I no longer watch Silva fights to see if he wins; I watch to see if he does something never before seen. It's like Jordan in the Finals -- you only bet against him if you don't like money. With all of his foreseeable matchups devoid of intrigue, it's becoming apparent: aside from Silva drawing more paychecks - and who can blame him for doing so - there's simply no reason for him to continue competing.

If he doesn't fight Georges St. Pierre, there's no one I'd like to see him face anymore. If he faces Brian Stann orMichael Bisping, it could be as laughable as the Forrest Griffin fight. Chael Sonnen gave Silva everything in his arsenal and still lost, decisively. If they were to rematch, I fully expect a healthy Silva to finish him sooner and in more devastating fashion. Surely, no sane person is demanding Silva go on a crusade of vengeance against the likes of Daiju Takase.

Perhaps the best thing for boxing's heavyweight division would be the retirement of the Klitschsos, and we may be seeing a similar scenario with Anderson Silva. Unlike the the nearly undisputed (his brother is the only competition) champion Wladimir Klitschko, Silva does employ an aesthetically pleasing style. But when the division has no intrigue, one must manufacture storylines in the vein of Floyd Mayweather Jr., whose entire box office appeal is comprised of a trash-talking ability first put upon the public in the lead-up to a fight with superstar Oscar De La Hoya. Silva doesn't talk trash; he's goofy and, if anything, a nerd. He dances around the ring like Muhammad Ali, but if he's speaking to an Ernie Terrell in the cage it's in Portuguese and we aren't privy to the conversation. Silva only has his championship streak, his unblemished UFC record, and with vain customers like myself, sometimes that isn't enough.

That's not to say that I'll stop watching -- I'm a fiend and this is my dope. Every time Silva enters the cage, I'll be watching on the off chance he pulls another Matrix-esque move. But I can't comprehend him losing, and that takes away much of the enjoyable tension inherent to combat sports fandom.
This situation reminds me of tennis during the last decade. Only since the ascent of Nadal and the arrival of Djokovic has my interest in tennis been rekindled to former heights when Federer first supplanted Pete Sampras in the early 2000s. There was about a four-year stretch where I didn't care about mens' tennis simply because I knew what was going to happen. And though MMA has different weight classes and hundreds of other storylines outside the middleweight championship picture, I'll still yearn for the intrigue of title fights when Anderson Silva competes. He's so good that he hinders my imagination -- a rare feat lofting him to the greatest heights of athletic pantheon.

I'm still a young man, and though it's right there on my driver's license, my student identification, my birth certificate, and so many other things, I often struggle to remember my youth. Such is the way of a Pace, to feel older than you are and, in many cases, even look it. Everyday, I see it in my mother, her modest years seeming to pile on her shoulders and weigh her down; it was in my grandmother, and is in my aunts as well. My uncles have deep lines in their faces, and nary a conversation is had without intonations that youth has long past, with troubles taking its place. I think it's something of a way to cope with this ever-changing world, a mentality that forgives the speed of life and reduces certain darkenings to the inevitability of mortality: it isn't so much that the world is speeding up as it is we're falling behind.

It's a bit of 21st Century Syndrome, so to speak. If you're reading this now, your life has transpired in the most rapidly advancing culture in the history of civilization. If one tries to grasp all the revolutions, be they technological or democratic, all the upheaval, be it social or economic, all the development, from the highest towers to the right of same-sex lovers being lawfully wed, well, you'll lose your breath. Everything changes everyday and, frankly, it's dizzying. So, I think I can understand that mentality, that notion of "I'm just getting too old" in the context of coping mechanisms, finding ways not to be overwhelmed by the whirlwind of modernity. But thinking such things allows time to slip by without savoring the finer points, the moments that may be transient but nevertheless invaluable. I struggle because this mentality is in my blood, a venom I'm continually draining out so as not to forget the present, so as to enjoy my youth without the lamentation of its brevity.

I like to get a little bit of whisky in me, to let the old firewater burn down the wall between the dancefloor and myself. I like walking with a girl I'm sweet on, carried along by that lightness of uncertainty and daring that must always have been in honest courtship. I even like the simple exhilaration of playing catch, when I put all I have into a throw and feel the echo of boyhood fantasy, the dream of roaming a big league outfield. I take note of all these things and I savor them. These sensations are the pillars of my youth; I do my damndest not to let them decay.

That intransigent corrosion can only be forestalled, however, not overcome. The unencumbered joy of youth goes from near perpetuity to grating intermittence, revisiting you in spurts, "just enough to piss you off", as the saying goes. I won't be able to drink like I used to. I'll wind up with one girl, finally at the end of the chase. My body will begin to betray me and that fantasy in the outfield will become a farce.

Of course, there will be the adult joys: promotions and other such victories; the first kiss of my new bride and the enrichment of holding my newborn child. But those unrestrained joys, the almost (and, sometimes, absolutely) hedonistic joys of youth, when the troubles of the world have no infringement on your ecstasy -- those reduce like water trickling from a spout. The joys where -- in the boldness of youth -- you tell the rest of the world to shove off (perhaps for the better) always begin to dissipate.

But by some chance or the grace of a merciful God, at some point in my childhood, maybe even the day I was born, I stumbled into a delight beholden only to the seasons, which it follows like clockwork, coming and going, but always there when I expect it to be. It requires none of my renovations, none of my fallible machinations. Of me, it requires only passion, a symbiotic requisite that serves me just as much. And if I ever think it might abandon me, if I ever think it might fail me, if I ever think the magic might have faded, it comes calling to me. It calls to me with the pounding of a hundred drums and the blaring of a hundred horns, a fight song to get the blood boiling. It calls to me with the echo of a hundred thousand voices, chanting religiously, summoning a mighty spirit. It calls to me with a collage of countless colors, of flags flying, faces crying, bodies colliding, seas of humanity swelling in united purpose.

And as soon as a whistle blows, and that low thud of foot to ball sends the locus of a million dreams hurtling through the air, and a nation of men and women and boys and girls simultaneously reproduce some drooling, lazy, squat little mutt's woof, I know it has me again. It has me like it had me in my little red sweater, in my little rocking chair, cheering with my grandfather; it has me on the couch with my best friend, debating greatness with the nonchalance typical of adolescence; it has me at the bar, glad that beautiful girl across the way also gave a jovial howl toward the television screen. It has me in youth. And one of the greatest comforts I can carry going forward, going into the uncertainty of manhood, going forward through the swift currents of the modern world, is the assurance that come Saturdays in the fall I will be shouting and cursing and cheering and jumping and frustrated by endless hurts that only sweeten the eventual triumphs, and this joy will feel no age, it will only have colors -- of the richest red and the darkest black -- that will never, ever fade.

If you're reading this right now, you probably know more about MMA than any of your friends (unless, of course, your friends are also reading this, in which case you're rolling with a tight crew). Much like the infamous internet wrestling community, we gather online for the most comprehensive and erudite coverage of a sport that for so long has existed on the fringes of North American mainstream culture. Because we slogged through the murky sports landscape to discover the Head Kick Legends and Bloody Elbows and MMA Manias of the world, we are entitled to a deeper understanding than our less involved peers. It's almost as if we're in a special club, and -- deep down -- we all kind of enjoy elitism.

As such, earlier this week when it leaked that the UFC has signed a massive deal with Fox to bring the most well-known and talent-rich MMA promotion to network television, I was more reticent than I would have imagined. After all, this is supposed to be the final nail of the coffin of the myth of "human cockfighting", wherein metaphorical and literal trolls like Tony Kornheiser declare our sport "repulsive". This is supposed to bring the best of MMA to the masses, on a platform available to anyone with a functioning television set. This is supposed to be what catapults our nobly savage sport into the pantheon of American athletic relevance!

But... I kind of don't want that. And I'm not even sure why. Of course, I'm thrilled for the fighters, the combatants who shed blood for my entertainment, above all else. This new stage will put more money into their pockets as well as attract a higher caliber of athlete to the sport, even improving my own enjoyment of the product. But as often as we malign detritus like Keith Jardine and Leonard Garcia, do we really want them squeezed out of the picture entirely? Isn't that part of the charm of the sport, that a gym rat who thinks he's training for a bar fight can compete under the brightest of lights? Isn't it a positive being the opposite of whatever Kornheiser thinks is good?

And don't you feel an air of superiority when someone asks you to list the greatest fighters of all time and they think you want hibachi at the mention of Sakuraba? Realistically, my friends who do follow the sport and who do watch most pay-per-views with me couldn't list 1/10 of the consensus ranked fighters that I can. While I do enjoy educating them on such matters, my pleasure stems more from the fact that it is I who passes on the knowledge rather than that they are learning more. I know that's incredibly self-centered, but I can't help it!

It really is hipster syndrome. I like knowing where all the good music is while everyone else listens to trash on the radio. I like knowing who all the good fighters are and which are the matchups to watch and what's going on behind the scenes with contracts and feuds and the myriad other delights I've discovered in my fandom. So while I'm overjoyed for the fighters who have so long deserved a bigger spotlight, it's somewhat bittersweet. I'll watch with glee the first bout in sterling Fox HD, but you can bet I'll later cross my arms and pitch a fit when Neil Everett tries to sound like he knows something about MMA on SportsCenter that night. And I have a feeling many of you will be doing the same along with me.

The current issue of ESPN the Magazine has a nice piece on incoming freshman tight end Jay Rome out of Valdosta, as well as his father, former Kansas City Chiefs wide receiver Stan Rome. From the story:

At 6'6" and 250 pounds, Jay, an honor student with premed ambitions and the yes-sir, no-sir demeanor still standard in this part of the world, was courted by some of college football's best - Alabama, Notre Dame, Florida, Michigan - before deciding to stay home and become a tight end for the Bulldogs.

But none of that matters to Jay Rome on this lousy night. It's his final game for Valdosta, the winningest high school football program in the United States, with six national championships and 40 regional championships to round out those 23 state trophies. Teams here have won so often, for so long, that Valdosta could lose every game for the next 65 seasons and still stay above .500. Wherever a Wildcat goes on to play - and a dozen have played on Sundays in the League - wearing the black and gold remains as good as it gets. Just not tonight.

"It hurts. I know it hurts," Stan Rome tells Jay, one arm draped over his shoulder. The man who long ago epitomized what it takes to play and win on this rarified landscape, who had been left for dead, stands on the sideline, consoling his son. Then Stan lights up. "That pass you caught, all that spinning and turning," he says, referring to one of Valdosta's few highlights. "You looked like - me." A quick smile creases Jay's face. "Now go out and shake hands," Stan tells him, clapping his son's pads. "Show some sportsmanship."

In a team photo from 1971, the young Stan Rome, almost a head taller than everyone else, is a dead ringer for Jay: same alert eyes, same soft, open face, same sure-of-himself posture. Even the number 11. These days, however, Stan's body is bent; he stands almost a head shorter than his teenage son. The [drug] dealer's bullet left one side of his face partially paralyzed. His voice sometimes catches on a word, like a needle stuck on scratched vinyl. A constant reminder for Jay, now beginning his workouts in Athens, Ga, of the traps and temptations that lie ahead.

That's why no one is a closer reader of the Stan Rome story than 18-year-old Jay. In a region where football is king, the Rome name is royalty. Old-timers often look at Jay and see "the Stan we knew when he played for the Wildcats," says longtime Touchdown Club board member David Waller, who has missed just five Valdosta games since 1947. "But I think his daddy is going to be awfully cautious with Jay. He knows what can happen to anybody"...

"Knowing what my dad's been through, his upbringing and everything, it tells me anything is possible," Jay says. "He's teaching me from his mistakes. I know everything he went through made him a better man, and him being a better man is making me better."

It's well worth a read, and signals Jay Rome as someone Bulldog Nation can look upon with great interest and pride in the coming seasons.

Prior to UFC 133, Tito Ortiz was the beneficiary of a groundswell of support very uncommon in this cocky, brash fighter's career, but far from rare in the canon of American sports or general history, for that matter. America simply loves a comeback story. Ortiz's story hit all the customary plot points: a once-great champion fallen on hard times, his personal life in turmoil, his legacy crumbling, and the only confidence in Ortiz coming from the man himself.

And then, in his last shot, with his career on the line, he beats a talented young fighter in Ryan Bader. It was straight out of a movie. And if it was a movie, it would've stopped right there because what comes afterward is never up to par.

On Saturday night, Rashad Evans illustrated the divide between "elite" and wherever Tito Ortiz currently stands. Ortiz can't throw those combos Evans was stringing together; he can't smother opponents the way Evans smothered him; he has neither the speed nor the stamina to hang with the younger lions, like Evans, any longer.

Tito Ortiz isn't a shot fighter by any stretch of the imagination, but it has become apparent that there's a certain tier in which he can no longer compete. And though there is a place for him in the division, it isn't where he's accustomed to being, it isn't where he wants to be, and it may not even be where fans want to see him. Those fans had gotten behind Ortiz in an unprecedented way prior to the Bader fight-people just love the redemption story, and wanted to see him reach the mountaintop once more.

But as I've noted, the movie script tends to stop a little short. Fans, including myself, couldn't help being swept up in the Bader win, although we could have taken cues from history as to what was truly occurring. In combat sports, it's a remarkable but not unusual phenomenon that a great fighter can almost always pull off his "last great win", no matter how poorly he's performed, how perception has turned against him, or how fearsome his opponent is considered.

Every truly great fighter has it in them, and we've seen it quite often in recent years. When it seemed the wars had finally caught up to him, Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira notched a glorious victory over Randy Couture. Shane Mosley wiped the floor with Antonio Margarito when most thought he was washed up and offered nothing to "The Tijuana Tornado". Hardly anyone gave 40-year-old Peter Aerts a chance to pull the upset against Semmy Schilt in last year'sK-1 Grand Prix, but that didn't stop him from winning a vicious battle.

And then, from lofty heights, those fighters fell back down to the earth. For Nogueira, it was the greased lightning quickness of Cain Velasquez. For Mosley, it was Floyd Mayweather's defensive brilliance. For Aerts, it was Alistair Overeem's iron fist.

So while Ortiz's defeat may seem somewhat deflating, it was following the script of reality and history rather than some Hollywood trope. But that doesn't diminish what the former light heavyweight king did against Ryan Bader. The "last great fight" of a champion is to remind you that while they may not be what they once were, what they once were was a mighty force. It's to let you know that although there may no longer be a belt strapped around their waists, they are still champions. It's to let you know who they are one last time, so that you'll never forget.

SBN coverage of UFC 133: Evans vs. Ortiz

Josh Nason posted this gem the other day, and I couldn't let it go without a response:

If there was ever a day that illustrated the vast chasm between MMA and boxing, it was Saturday, July 2nd. If this was a war, boxing would have waved the white flag. Over. Done. Kaput...

Among a myriad of issues, that is ultimately the problem with boxing. Their stars simply don't give a shit. Haye had been pining for a shot at either Klitschko brother for years, even making up shirts of him holding both Klitschko brothers' severed heads. He then gets his shot and lays a giant stinky egg in Germany. What the h? Does boxing want fans? Where's the passion? I don't get it.

You don't need to me to sit here and tell you that MMA surpassed boxing years ago, but here's what you need to remember any time these charlatans attempt to sell you a boxing fight that "matters": July 2, 2011 -- a day when two sets of fighters with blood feuds went to war with one set actually remembering what they were supposed to do.

It's a piece that echoes the sort of superficial, barely cognizant fandom normally reserved for the likes of PTI. This ever-growing sentiment that boxing "ain't what it used to be" is preposterous really. These sorts of folks come across like the people who think there hasn't been any good, innovative rock music for years, despite bands like My Morning Jacket, Arcade Fire, and Radiohead regularly releasing albums. It's not that there isn't a good product anymore. It's that you aren't paying attention.

Within just the past half decade, there been absolute battles, from Rafa Marquez's classic series with Israel Vasquez and his last stab at glory against JuanMa Lopez, to Juan Manuel Marquez's epic contests against Manny Pacquiao and Juan Diaz (at least in their first fight). People want to say it's just the lower weights entertaining, how about Sergio Martinez's ascent to stardom or Bernard Hopkins proving his greatness once again against Jean Pascal? The Super Six had its bumps in the road, but it was worth it just to see the rise of Andre Ward and the war that was Kessler vs Froch. I'm only 21 years old, but I'm willing to say boxing has been better in the past few years than at any other point in my lifetime. And that's coming from a guy whose favorite boxers are Evander Holyfield and Tito Trinidad.

Since the "age of heavyweights" waned, Mr. Nason and so many others seem to demarcate that as the last time boxing was good. Have they not seen Barerra and Morales and Castillo? MMA fans, you may laugh now at James Toney but go back and see the brilliance that is Toney/Jirov.  

We are fortunate to see Floyd Mayweather Jr., one of the greatest defensive tacticians of all time, and Manny Pacquiao, who has an offensive arsenal that rivals Sugar Ray Robinson. If they fight, wonderful; if they don't, life goes on. MMA fans so often point to this as a reason why boxing is slipping, but remember Georges St. Pierre apparently "isn't big enough" to fight Anderson Silva.

Right now there are young studs like Yuriorkis Gamboa and Nonito Donaire set to dazzle us for years. If anything, boxing is, top-to-bottom, as healthy now as I've ever known it to be.

Antonio Margarito and Miguel Cotto will pack the house in a fierce rematch later this year at Madison Square Garden, the Mecca of North American athletic competition. Guess what isn't allowed at the Garden, and won't be for the forseeable future? Mixed martial arts.

I'm not telling you need to be a boxing fan. I'm just telling you that if you think boxing hasn't been good since Tyson or De La Hoya, you just don't what you're talking about. This "war" is a fiction I don't really understand. I love MMA for the diversity of skills on display, the "anything can happen" aspect. But I also love boxing for the drama inherent to the sport, drama that will never go away. One doesn't need to crowd the other out, and if you think so, you deserve to be rabbit punched by the Executioner.

Alright, here’s something I’m sure we’ve all seen a variation on somewhere else, but I haven’t seen it here so I’m going to do it. Why? It’s a Thursday, I’m bored as hell, and it’s too early for me to start drinking. (Hint: no it isn’t.)

So, if you had $6 million and could pull body parts/skill sets from any fighters in their prime, then reassemble them into the ultimate fighter (hurr durr durr), from who would you take what?

Here’s how I would do it:

 

            Chin: B.J. Penn

            Dexterity: BJ Penn

            Body frame: Jon Jones

            Striking offense: Anderson Silva

            Striking defense: Anderson Silva

            Stance: Lyoto Machida

            Timing: Anderson Silva

            Clinch: Dan Henderson

            Takedown defense: BJ Penn

            Takedowns: Georges St. Pierre

            Top control: Georges St. Pierre

            Ground ‘n’ Pound: (Tie) Jon Jones and Fedor Emelianenko

            Trips: Lyoto Machida

            Throws: Karo Parisyan

            Guard: BJ Penn

            Submissions from bottom: Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira

            Submissions from top/back: BJ Penn

            Submission defense: Kazushi Sakuraba

            Transitions: Fedor Emelianenko

            "Ring Generalship": Fedor Emelianenko

            Fight IQ: Randy Couture

            Stamina: Clay Guida

            Heart: Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira

            Groin: Georges St. Pierre

 

Share with me any facets you think I left out, choices you think are preposterous/ignorant, and whether or not you think a fighter assembled with these abilities would still lose to Rickson (by armbar).

Over the past two decades, mixed martial arts has carved a highly sustainable niche in the North American sports market due to one primary factor: its product is eminently digested by the coveted young, male demographic. MMA is fast-paced, (relatively) simple to understand, and hyper-violent, appealing to a primal instinct often ignored or repressed in our everyday lives. The glossy packaging of the UFC has allowed this product to creep up to the very edge of mainstream popularity, a fact that members of the astute Internet fan community constantly obsess over, making it a sort of Holy Grail to be constantly pursued.

Whatever constitutes being "mainstream" - be it a lucrative network television deal or simply top billing on the evening's SportsCenter - has been positioned by MMA fans as the ultimate desire for the sport's consumers, athletes, and businessmen. "Mainstream" is a status that will surely validate the fandom of many who were with the sport in its dark ages, bring much greater revenue to the fighters who risk their health for our entertainment while also bringing in higher-caliber athletes, and maybe even purge the sport of unwanted tropes such as hideous fan apparel and Nu-Metal theme songs.

As MMA has gradually drawn nearer to mainstream acceptance, however, the culture of the sport seems to have developed an identity crisis.

North America's first real crossover star fighter was Chuck Liddell, with his mohawk, beer belly, and thunderous overhand right. Liddell's notoriety was as much a product of his rugged appearance and playboy lifestyle as it was his knockout prowess. The vacuum created by Liddell's decline and eventual retirement was filled by two fighters who couldn't be more different: Brock Lesnar, a brash, hillbilly former pro-wrestler; and Georges St. Pierre, a handsome yet quiet French-Canadian. Pulling in his wake a massive pro-wrestling fan base, Lesnar took the sport to new heights as its most charismatic, if controversial, figure. Through a combination of dominance, charm, and a rabid Canadian fan base, St. Pierre has become a massive draw in his own right, albeit not to the extent of Lesnar.

Over the past eight months, however, Lesnar has become somewhat marginalized. His dismantling at the hands of Cain Velasquez last October as well as recurrent intestinal problems have made him an afterthought in the heavyweight division. As for St. Pierre, well, he fights roughly twice a year for a promotion that runs ten times as many events. Neither man really carries the banner of MMA in North America. That task is left to - or, rather, commandeered - by the president of the UFC, one Dana White. And as the face of the UFC, he's cultivated an image that many fans loathe. More importantly, though, his personality has permitted or maybe even created an environment in which the sport's best fighters and biggest stars are prone to public relations nightmares the likes of which most major sports executives desperately try to avoid.

Therein lies the identity crisis to which I alluded earlier. The young male demographic that makes up MMA's "base", so to speak, generally disregards the frequent PR mishaps in the sport. Rather than condemning such actions, many of them enjoy Dana White calling Loretta Hunt a "fucking dumb bitch" or Joe Rogan calling Tomas Rios a "fag". Indeed, it's not a stretch to assume such expletives are a part of the "casual" fan's lexicon. But what is said amongst a dozen friends drinking beers and what comes from the mouths of two of the sport's most recognizable faces are completely separate matters. The UFC is a product, and as a sport it is attempting to be as widely palatable as possible without fundamentally changing the athletic competition itself. So, while the "base" rabidly eats up such snafus, it runs counter to the objective of making as many fans as possible, thereby going mainstream.

This topic has seen renewed interest in recent days after Quinton Jackson 's interview with Karyn Bryant following UFC 130. In that interview, "Rampage" flirted suggestively with Bryant, as he's done quite often with female reporters in the past. Most who saw the interview greeted it with laughter, though some went far into bigoted extremes that need not be repeated. Needless to say, the interview sparked quite a bit of controversy, with writers from Brent Brookhouse to Maggie Hendricks opining on the subject. To Hendricks, Jackson responded with claims that she must be "ass ugly." Joe Rogan chimed in by calling her "cunty". Unfortunately, most fans aware of the situation are in agreement with Jackson and Rogan and encourage such remarks as if they're some hard truth that needs to be spoken.

While these comments are certainly unsavory, the fact is that they alone will not inhibit the growth of MMA. What may, however, is the environment that fosters and encourages them, which has been cultivated ever since Dana White famously asked, "Do you wanna be a fucking fighter?" It's an environment in which vulgarity and insensitivity are commonplace, dismissed as the obvious, inevitable by-product of men who fight in a cage for a living.

Just two weeks ago, Kobe Bryant was fined six figures for using the same term that Rogan used. And while the two certainly aren't comparable in stature, the NBA is nowhere near the precarious position MMA currently is. What happens when families attempt to get into the sport, only to find a culture that not only allows but also extols such slander? If his own half-hearted apologies in the past are any indication, White doesn't want to risk losing his legions of fans over keeping his employees and fighters on the straight and narrow. After all, here is a man whose sympathies go out to convicted felon, cheater, and racist Chael Sonnen.

In the age we live, political correctness is very often an obstruction to honest discourse. It is, however, a fact of life, and one that must be dealt with to achieve any monumental task. Getting such a violent sport as MMA to the mainstream is one such monumental task. So when downright disgraceful statements are permitted, a stain is rubbed ever deeper into the fabric of the sport, and the image to be presented to the masses is increasingly vandalized. Stamping out this bigoted, insensitive culture is vital to the progression of MMA, and no one has more responsibility or capability to do so than Dana White himself. Too bad he seems to be as absorbed by the culture as any shirtless meathead with "JUST BLEED" plastered across his chest.

Photo via www.opposingviews.com

When longtime star and current Strikeforce Welterweight Champion Nick Diaz meets Paul Daley tonight (April 9, 2011) in San Diego, it will be his first fight under the Zuffa banner in more than four years.

Diaz left the UFC in 2006, amassing a 10-1 record (with the infamous no contest against Takanori Gomi) outside the confines of the MMA behemoth. Throughout the interceding years, Diaz has sustained a level of popularity typically reserved for those deemed worthy of a push by Dana White. Now, he finds himself back in the fold with Zuffa and their massive marketing capabilities.

It's a comfortable situation for a fighter of Nick Diaz's ability and demeanor. Although his shortcomings against wrestlers will likely exclude him from the very top of the 170-pound division, he's established a reputation as a fighter who always "brings it," so to speak.

Despite a jiu jitsu game honed by Cesar Gracie, he's never hesitant to engage in a firefight. And when he does choose to strike, his reach and ability to throw snapping combos typically finds him winning most exchanges.

On top of all that, he wears a mean mug straight out of an early-2000s hip-hop video and speaks with the harshness a childhood in Stockton can so deeply ingrain. Diaz is a polarizing figure, the most desirable kind of a fighter from a promotional standpoint.

In short, he's a star.

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As mixed martial arts (MMA) fans and pundits sought a legitimate threat to Jon Jones following his championship victory over Mauricio Rua, a lot of attention was directed toward a similar young phenom competing last night (Sat., March 26, 2011) in Seattle.

The questions were asked: Does he have physical tools on par with the new champ? Is he learning the sport with such rapidity? Does he possess the wrestling prowess most are assuming is the key to dethroning Jones?

Today, it's uncertain whether Phil Davis struggled to take down Antonio Rogerio Nogueira because of his limitations in his MMA wrestling or Nogueira's improvement in his own takedown defense, but one thing was made clear last night at UFC Fight Night 24:

Phil Davis is not a top tier 205-pound fighter in the UFC ... yet.

That's not to say he can't or won't be, and I'm certainly not aiming to demean a win over Nogueira. But examine Davis in regard to the high-watermark of the division, champion Jon Jones. The comparison is laughable and a match up between the two anytime soon wouldn't be pretty.

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Saturday night in San Jose, legendary Georgia Bulldog Herschel Walker (1-0) faces veteran journeyman Scott Carson (4-1) in what is the 1982 Heisman Trophy winner's second professional MMA bout. Airing live on Showtime, the fight co-headlines the Strikeforce: Diaz vs Cyborg welterweight championship card. Carson is a moderate challenge for the football great whose career is - rightly - being handled as if he is a prospect, despite him being 48 years old. Walker won his first contest against the unheralded Greg Nagy last January in Miami.

In that match with Nagy, Walker demonstrated rare cardio for the heavyweight division (205-265 lbs), dishing out a sustained beating for more than two rounds until securing a stoppage. Despite it being his first match, Walker found himself the aggressor, shooting in for clinches and takedowns after prodding with leg kicks. When he was able to get Nagy to the mat, Herschel showed a somewhat novice understanding of Brazilian jiu-jitsu in that he should have had an easier time advancing position and fishing for submissions on his physically outmatched opponent. Nevertheless, the football great dished out effective ground-and-pound with a barrage of hammerfists and clubbing blows from top control throughout.

It's been a year since that match, a year that could only benefit the progression of Walker as a fighter. He trains at the highly regarded American Kickboxing Academy under the tutelage of master trainers such as Javier Mendez and Dave Camarillo, alongside top pound-for-pound fighters such as Cain Velasquez and Jon Fitch. Mendez has surely spent considerable time weaning the flashy, ineffective Tae Kwon Do tendencies from Walker's kickboxing into a more focused, eight-point Muay Thai attack. While I'm certain Herschel's kickboxing has been polished, what I'm most interested in is the development of his wrestling, especially considering that Daniel Cormier, former US Olympic wrestling team captain and himself a fast-rising fighter in MMA's heavyweight division, also calls AKA home. If Walker has gleaned anything from his time with top-tier wrestlers like Velasquez, Fitch, and Cormier, his natural athleticism could provide us with the great spectacle of a nearly 50-year-old-man shooting for explosive power doubles and knee-taps.

As for Carson, he's the underdog here despite a decade in the fight business. He is a veteran of the old WEC organization, but only recently returned from a lengthy sojourn, losing by knockout to a no-name fighter. Walker, for all of his inexperience, should be the favorite on sheer athleticism. The wild card is that we don't know anything about Herschel's chin - how well he will respond to getting hit. My best estimation of how this will go is that it will be similar to the Nagy fight: use leg kicks to slow his opponent down and find his distance before closing in for the takedown. Perhaps we'll see a bit of Herschel's submission game in this one, if that's something he's been working on, but I expect the Goal Line Stalker to win via TKO in round two or three.

"We're not that far away."

I must have heard it a dozen times on the postgame radio show with Jeff Dantzler and David Greene. It's the ambiguous, naïve, oft-declared mantra that programs and their supporters turn to in low times. It's a way of reassuring ourselves that we aren't that bad. You know - a couple of bounces go our way, a few bad flags get picked up, a few good flags get thrown, and this season wouldn't have been so endlessly dour. It reeks of self-pity and foolish optimism. Now, I'm hearing it in regard to my beloved Georgia Bulldogs.

We're not that far away.

I suppose that's true. Those highly valued recruiting rankings suggest we don't lack talent. We send a bevy of top quality players to the NFL - often in the first round of the draft - every year. At no point this season were we shellacked in the manner some of our previous, more highly regarded teams have been. So all signs would point to us being "not that far away." As such, the question arises: If we're not that far away, what the hell is keeping us from getting there?

The old states of the Confederacy have become the mecca of college football, darlings of primetime television and mainstream media. The best players want to come to the South because that's where the best programs and the most exposure reside; such is the era of satellite television and signing bonuses for NFL draftees. Teams with sterling national perceptions such as Alabama, Florida, Auburn, and LSU will always be stocked with talent, while overflow will occasionally stock the cupboards of a Mississippi State, a South Carolina, or an Arkansas. This means that Georgia, with its own perpetually full cupboard, will never have an easy path to success.

But the tools are there, or so we're told. After all, we're not that far away. If the issue isn't the tools, it is the craftsman. In his later years, my grandfather, a carpenter, would look at his jig saw in disgust, wondering why it didn't give him a clean line. He didn't realize it was the Parkinson's until he could no longer drive straight on the road.

Look, I'm not advocating the firing of Mark Richt. Over the time he's been with the program, I've become a young man and grown to love the Bulldogs more than any team in any sport; that's due largely to the brilliant success he had with the team for seven years. But the past three years have been woeful, a precipitous fall from lofty heights blindsiding all of Bulldog Nation. And with the way this conference is, it only takes one year to go from "not that far away" to "Damn, that's a long way off".

That's the hard truth of the situation. Almost every team in the SEC is "not that far way". It's going to take Mark Richt finding something within himself that he has lost, getting rid of something that he has added (Mike Bobo), or Greg McGarity starting from scratch. And that has to happen soon because whatever it is that isn't far away is not a static thing; it is moving and we are being left behind.

With 2010 hanging on by a thread, this is totally unsurprising:

The Georgia Bulldogs arrived in Memphis on Sunday without three players, including tailback Caleb King, who are academically ineligible for Friday afternoon's Liberty Bowl against Central Florida.

King's absence caps a subpar year for the 5-foot-11, 217-pound junior, who missed four games during Georgia's 6-6 regular season. An ankle injury caused him to miss September losses to South Carolina and Arkansas, and he was suspended for October victories over Vanderbilt and Kentucky as the result of missing a court date this past summer to address a speeding ticket.

"We've played some games without him before, and we'll do it again," Bulldogs coach Mark Richt told reporters in Memphis.

The Bulldogs are scheduled to practice this morning at Memphis University School.

Also ineligible for the bowl are redshirt sophomore offensive tackle A.J. Harmon and freshman cornerback Derek Owens. Harmon played in four games this season, the four Georgia won by 25 or more points (Louisiana-Lafayette, Tennessee, Vanderbilt and Idaho State).

Owens saw action in all 12 games, mostly on special teams. His biggest play was recovering an Eric Gordon fumble midway through the first quarter of the 41-14 win over the Volunteers.

Harmon and Owens failed to meet the NCAA's requirement of passing six semester hours in order to compete in the postseason. Richt said King's ineligibility is university-related, specifically that he violated class attendance policy as well as academic appointments.

"Caleb had missed his fifth academic appointment," Richt told reporters. "He won't be at the bowl. He won't be here."

All three have a chance to be in good standing by the start of spring practice.

Festivus is over, but I won't hold it against you if you want to air your grievances. It should be noted that King wasn't overwhelmingly featured in the offense this year, being handed just under 19% of the team's carries and pulling in 430 yards with a pair of touchdowns. Indeed, he was clearly relegated behind Washaun Ealey as the season progressed, but having our second-leading rusher out against the nation's 10th-ranked rush defense isn't a good thing.

Among fans of combat sports, it's become chic to declare boxing "dead" and MMA the new sheriff in town. With UFC cards frequently selling 500,000+ pay-per-views and boxing's pulse in America only registering whenever Pacquiao or Mayweather lace up the gloves, it's easy to see why.

I deeply love both sports, so I want them both to be in good health. It seems, though, that most fight fans want to win at something (since they suck at life) and consequently draw a line in the sand and sling feces at the other side. For so long, boxing fans have held the high ground, but now MMA seems poised to secure a permanent advantage (PPV sales, media presence, merchandise, etc).

Still, there will always be debate about the intangibles of each sport: Which is more technical? Who has the greater athletes? Which has greater drama?

It's that last question I find most intriguing. Kid Nate recently cited an Inside Fights piece I found interesting:

 

UFC fans simply don't know what kind of warrior spirit most of their favorites have because the sport has been structured away from the long, grueling wars that have defined boxing over the last century or so. It's easy for a skilled athlete to be tough for a couple of minutes at a time; The real test begins after exhaustion has set in and the fighter can no longer rely on pure athleticism.

It's a sure thing that there are UFC stars just as mentally tough as Arturo Gatti or Jake LaMotta, but the fans will never be allowed to see that side of their MMA stars. The UFC bouts are designed to be short and quick, appealing to the diminishing attention span of the American public.

As a result, the fans have no idea whether a "Baddest Man on the Planet" is simply a tough-looking poser or a true warrior. In boxing, the truth always comes out and pretenders are well-exposed long before reaching superstar status.

 

Nate goes on to add:

But Magno does have one interesting point about MMA fights and boxing matches. MMA bouts tend to be shorter than boxing bouts because of the smaller number of rounds and the increased ways to finish fights. That means we see fewer of the epic battles of endurance and heart that makes boxing so great. From my point of view that is the reason I still watch boxing. 

This got me to thinking about what I considered were the most dramatic boxing matches (of those I've seen, at least) and what would be their MMA counterparts. The result is this list, in no particular order.

As you will see, I've only added videos of the boxing matches under the assumption that since you are on this site you must've seen the MMA fights to which I'm referring. If you haven't seen all of the MMA fights listed here, then you're not a real fan and I hate your guts. I've also only added either highlights or finishes of the fights mentioned herein, but they are easy to find in their entirety on YouTube. As such, let us begin with "The War".

Hagler vs. Hearns = Liddell vs. Silva

In each instance: Three rounds. Two all-time greats. One for the ages.

 

Foreman vs. Moorer = Couture vs. Sylvia

Could once-great fighters take a last grasp at glory, at ages where their peers are usually deep into retirement? Granted, Sylvia was overwhelmed by great strategy and Moorer, while winning, got clipped by the hardest hitter of all-time; both these fights were still crazy and electrifying.

 

Conn vs. Lewis I = Silva vs. Sonnen

Everything was going marvelously until nasty old habits reasserted themselves: Sonnen went back to being stupid, Conn went back to being Irish.

 

Gatti vs. Ward I = Bonnar vs. Griffin I

Bonnar/Griffin might have more relative significance, but both of these are what they are: somewhat ugly fights, but the most goddamned entertaining thing you could ever want to see.

 

Ali vs. Frazier III = Fedor vs. Cro Cop

Both bouts hold a permanent place of honor in each sport for a litany of reasons, but most importantly the grandeur of each bout can never be understated. Both were also pretty damn brutal.

 

Hearns/Leonard I = Hughes vs. Trigg II

These are probably my favorite comebacks from each sport.

 

Chavez vs. Taylor I = Shogun vs. Nogueira

Shogun Rua is to Chute Boxe what Julio Cesar Chavez was to the "Mexican Fighter". Both fighters epitomized the fearless assault their backgrounds demanded of them and were blessed with peerless offensive dynamism. Their opponents, Nogueira and Taylor, were also quite similar: though neither was gifted with prodigious talent, they didn't lack ability or shy away from brawls. Nogueira and Taylor both take early control of their fights, only to see it wrested away as an all-out war develops. Some would still give the decision to Lil' Nog; some think Taylor should've been allowed to finish the fight.

 

Leonard vs. Benitez = Barnett vs. Nogueira I

Fans of technique, eat your fucking heart out.

 

Jones Jr. vs. Ruiz = Velasquez vs. Lesnar

I did this one just to piss people off.

 

Lewis vs. Klitchsko = Rampage vs. Griffin

No one considered Griffin or Klitchsko "chumps", per say. It's just that Lewis and ‘Page were the undisputable class of their divisions at the time of each fight. Whereas Griffin secured the narrow upset, Klitchsko had a slight lead in the fight before it was stopped.

 

Clay/Ali vs. Liston II = Rampage vs. Arona

Because I'm a huge Rampage nuthugger, I couldn't have him on this list with only a loss. But seriously, I think there's a great comparison here in providing each sport's greatest image; The Taunt and The Slam.

 

Robinson vs. LaMotta Series = Fedor vs. Nogueira Series

Nog never notched the win over Fedor that LaMotta did (twice) against Sugar Ray, but I think he could have if the second fight wasn't stopped. No matter what, every fight between these men was epic, with Nogueira and LaMotta's heart shining through against superior fighters.

 

Corrales vs. Castillo I = Frye vs. Takiyama

Both of these fights are just stupid. All of the fighters involved were good but not great (well, Takiyama wasn't really good) and seemed to have thrown all pretensions out the window to agree on one thing: pain.

 

Holmes vs. Michael Spinks I = Fedor vs. Werdum

Each signifying the end of a glorious reign, no one saw either of these happening.

 

Douglas vs. Tyson = Serra vs. St. Pierre

The Nobody beads The Young King... ‘nuff said.

 

Ali vs. Foreman = Bob Sapp vs. Nogueira

If you want to make someone a fan of either sport, you show him one of these matches. Nogueira hadn't had his Ken Norton moment and Sapp hadn't done half of what Foreman did (except in K-1), but both Sapp and Foreman seemed like unstoppable wrecking machines up until the referees waved off these fights.

 

Notable exceptions: Barrera/Morales trilogy, Robinson/Turpin, Clay/Liston I, Holyfield/Tyson, Randall/Chavez, Chavez/Whitaker, Marquez/Diaz, Toney/Jirov, Leonard/Hagler, Holyfield/Bowe, Jones Jr. vs. Tarver, Hopkins/Trinidad, Judah/Mayweather Jr., Pacquiao/ Marquez, Shogun/Machida I, Le/Smith I, Couture/Nogueira, Parisyan/Sanchez, Hughes/Penn II, Faber/Brown II, Garcia/Jung, Nogueira/Sylvia, Mir/Lesnar I, Couture/Lesnar, Rampage/Henderson, Cro Cop/Nogueira

There seems to be more on the line in most of the boxing matches here, which makes me favor the old sport as having higher drama. What's also striking is MMA's lack of one truly great trilogy.

Do you guys have any better comparisons? What are some of your favorite fights in either sport? Please share in the comments.

Also posted here.

Preface: There will be rambling herein, as well as baseless accusations and unfounded speculation. I ask forgiveness for neither, but instead tolerance of what might be considered inanity.

As a college football fan, it sucks going to my school. I'm not joking when I say that tailgating is a bigger event than the actual game. Routinely, there are about 500 people down at the lake near the stadium parking lot, grilling hotdogs and chugging beers. Rarely are there 250 students in the stadium during the game. There are usually twice as many "Townies" in attendance as there are students. But the only time we ever really feel embarrassed is when the likes of mighty Colgate show up and have about 2,000 people on the visitor's side.

I don't complain. I understand there are certain factors at play: we've never participated in postseason football and stopped giving athletic scholarships many decades ago. But you'd think a school that participated in the sport's very first contest way back in 1869, a school that actually claims more national championships than anyone else, might give the slightest damn about its football program.

Nope. We only care about lacrosse. For a boy who was raised in the country with football in his heart, this is death. But I understand why there is general apathy toward the football team: it's irrelevant.

I must say, that's the worst part about it, worse than any poor performance. No one cares whether we win or lose. It sucks, because I'm one of the few who splits off from the pack walking in a drunken stupor back to the dorms; I'm one of the few who heads into that ugly concrete monstrosity (imagine if Sanford Stadium was a malnourished person, living in famine in Mogadishu) and cheers on the football squad.

I suspect there are a lot of people who feel apathy toward the Georgia Bulldogs football team right now. Those are the fair-weather fans, the ones who wore their t-shirts and drove around with their vanity license plates when there were double-digit wins every year, endless offers of prestigious bowls. They are the ones who measure a program's success and failure by how much ESPN talks about the team. They are the ones that Bulldog Nation must fight off.

Disaffection is a program's worst enemy. It starts at the perimeter and creeps its way toward the center. It is the water that leaks in the ship, that sends boosters and recruits jumping overboard over a long enough arc. A program like UGA's won't ever be dregs. The Dawgs won't ever be forgotten like my school's team has been. Hell, the Georgia program isn't even really at risk right now, I just have this horrible vision in my head that I must let free into the ether. This vision exists because not in the years that I've followed Georgia has the mood been so godawful.

If UGA ever became a sort of less-pedigreed Notre Dame, that would just be horrible.

For all of my 21 years I've lived in the quiet, dusty town of Monroe, about thirty miles from Sanford Stadium. My life and my love of the Georgia Bulldogs are continuous and parallel; they are constant, from my beginning to whenever my end may be.

Amongst the fondest memories of my childhood are chilly fall days in my puffy UGA sweatshirt, pulling my miniature rocking chair squarely in front of the television as a wave of red and silver washed over a vivid green field. My mother would be at work, so it was just my grandfather and myself in the stifling heat of our country home. He, smelling of Red Man chewing tobacco and Barbasol shaving cream, would stand over the stove stirring a pot of chicken stew to go with biscuits in the oven. I would rock back and forth in my little chair, dazzled by the feats occurring in the living mural of color and pageantry before me.

Once, I was very ill and hot with fever. My sickness had come on at the tail end of the school semester and was surging on through the holidays. For almost a month, my days consisted of tossing and turning in bed, a few trips to the restroom, the consumption of easily digested foods. And then there was a day when I felt less miserable, a day when the room wasn't so hot; it was a day I could pull my rocking chair in front of the television again, if only for a few hours. On that day, the Georgia Bulldogs defeated the Wisconsin Badgers in a classic rout. I returned to bed as soon as the final whistle blew.

A couple years passed in which my understanding of sports blossomed and the intricacies of each game were consolidated to me. In playing baseball, my taste for competition was refined and I began to understand rivalries, desperation, and the euphoria that can only accompany victory. In these intermediate years, Mark Richt took hold of the UGA football program and would guide the program to success I could now fully comprehend, and to which I was indelibly invested in.

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The word per MMAJunkie:

A long-rumored matchup between Dan Henderson (25-8 MMA, 0-1 SF) and Renato "Babalu" Sobral (36-8 MMA, 2-1 SF) will headline a currently unannounced Strikeforce event slated for Dec. 4 at the Scottrade Center in St. Louis.

The fight is set for the light-heavyweight division and will air live on Showtime, according to multiple sources close to the event, who told MMAjunkie.com (www.mmajunkie.com) that the promotion formally will announce the event early next week.

Additionally, Herschel Walker (1-0 MMA, 1-0 SF) is expected to fight in the event's co-headliner against an opponent to be determined...

Walker, a former star NFL running back, recently returned to San Jose, Calif.'s American Kickboxing Academy, the gym which prepared him for his professional MMA debut in January at "Strikeforce: Miami." The 48-year-old newcomer and lifelong martial artist made good on his training and stopped the unheralded Greg Nagy by second-round TKO. Walker's MMA debut drew considerable media attention for Strikeforce, and it also scored its biggest Showtime ratings of 2010.

For those unfamiliar with MMA, Strikeforce is the second largest MMA promotion in North America behind the more popular UFC. Walker has always trained martial arts such as Tae Kwan Do, but Tae Kwan Do isn't really applicable to modern MMA competition as western kickboxing and Muay Thai kickboxing really stifle the TKD stance and attack. Walker was largely brought into the Strikeforce organization to bring them mainstream attention, which he did by giving their Strikeforce: Miami fight card a strong number on Showtime.

Doubters of the Dawg legend were silenced first by his training at American Kickboxing Academy -- which houses a number of top MMA talent such as current UFC contenders Josh Koshcheck and Cain Velasquez -- and then by his performance against Greg Nagy. Nagy is nothing more than a club fighter, to use boxing parlance, but Walker's takedowns and relentless ground-and-pound proved even at 48 years old he has more stamina than the average heavyweight in MMA. With almost another full year under his belt at AKA, it should be interesting to see what new skills the Greatest College Football Player Ever can bring into his next fight.

Going into the 2010 season, there weren't too many things national pundits were high on for the Dawgs. A litany of off-the-field fiascos, a redshirt freshman quarterback, and Todd Grantham's new defensive scheme left many wondering what might go well for the Red and Black this year. There was one thing no one wondered about, however-our stud wide out, AJ Green.

That is, no one wondered about him until mysterious rumblings of a soirée in Miami, wherein multiple high profile college footballers fraternized with pro agents, emerged. A subsequent witch-hunt turned up nothing more than a trifling infraction now notorious for the excessive punishment it incurred. And here we are now: our stud, our one sure thing has been yanked from us by a draconian overlord.

But all is not lost, my fellow Dawgs. This might, as it so often does, rally the troops. College football teams love any reason to assume an "Us Against the World" mentality, to circle the wagons, so to speak. If off-season flack has failed to do so, this latest setback certainly will. It must, if we are to have anything resembling a successful season. And yet still, there is a highly volatile aspect being overlooked in this conundrum.

Aaron Murray will be forced to walk before he can crawl. It's sink or swim, and the kid is being thrown into the pool without "floaties". Without AJ Green, options 2-5 for the young quarterback become essential. Green is the type of player who can salvage a broken play or pull off a dazzling catch in double coverage; he is the type of player so many inexperienced quarterbacks have come to use as a crutch.

In the early stages of his SEC career, it might have been commonplace for Murray to stare down Green for five seconds before heaving a predictable ball to the All-American. Green is one of a few transcendent wide receivers in the past decade--Calvin Johnson at Tech and Larry Fitzgerald at Pitt come to mind--who can snag anything within arm's reach. But with that type of playmaker confined to the sidelines, Murray must come to rely on his checkdowns, his second and third options. With Washaun Ealey and Caleb King now the focal point of the offense (if they already weren't), they will become the fixation of every defense heretofore faced. As such, Murray's play-action must be refined to the point of unfairness, like David Greene's. But most importantly, he must avoid the bane of all young quarterbacks: staring down your receivers. With a ball-vacuum like Green, such lapses can be salvaged.

The gang of Tavarres King, Kris Durham, and Logan Gray are talented, to be sure, but something in me doesn't believe they have the variables to make a first-year quarterback's life any easier. AJ Green did, but he'll be watching the next three contests (two against ranked SEC foes) from the sidelines. If it turns out Aaron Murray can swim without his "floaties", it will be a wonderful talisman for the next few years of the Georgia Bulldogs football program.

"When I first started fighting I thought I was God's gift to fighting... I thought I would go 100-0 with 100 knockouts. I look at my record and I can't believe that I have six losses. It just blows me away." - BJ Penn

When BJ Penn enters the Octagon Saturday night in Boston, it will be the first time in more than two-and-a-half years he has done so without being the UFC Lightweight Champion. Penn first claimed the vacant title at UFC 80 back in 2008, eviscerating Joe Stevenson over two brutal rounds before sinking in a rear naked choke. The current champion, Frankie Edgar, took the title from Penn with a razor-thin decision victory at UFC 112 in April.

That loss in Abu Dhabi was Penn's second defeat in his natural weight class, the first in seven years and nine fights since the young "Prodigy" lost to Jens Pulver in 2002. Now standing at 11-2-1, Penn's record at 155 pounds is still by far the strongest in the history of the division. He has defeated lightweight champions of three distinct eras: Sean Sherk, Takanori Gomi, and Pulver in a rematch. Up until the loss to Edgar, it seemed as if Penn's grip on the division was ironclad. Using speed and deft footwork, Edgar scored enough points in the judges' eyes to defeat a lethargic champ in the stifling heat of Dubai.

Many are of the mind that it was that Middle Eastern heat, or perhaps a fluky illness that kept Penn from delivering one of his usual electrifying performances at 155 pounds. But what role might lack of motivation have played in Penn's atypically sluggish performance? Is it possible that "The Prodigy" overlooked Edgar as just another stepping stone in the crafting of his legacy?

It is commonly known that BJ Penn is a fighter who places great credence on how grandiose his chapter in MMA's history will be. Prior to his title defense against Diego Sanchez last December, Penn said:

"My motivation, at first, it was about the belt. Every champion, after holding the belt for so long, they start to look for other goals, other belts. You really want to go down (in history)...

"They talk about the great boxers in the past. You want them to talk about, when UFC is very big and everybody's making millions of dollars a fight, you want to be one of those guys that they say ‘It's because of him, it's because of guys like this, is the reason we're all making millions.' "

Penn has long felt that his path to immortality requires conquering multiple weight classes. His wanderlust among the disparate divisions of Mixed Martial Arts can be largely attributed to a fight more than six years ago. In 2004, a young, fresh-faced Penn dethroned the greatest welterweight fighter of all time-Matt Hughes. The victory came at a time when Hughes was ranked near the top of any estimable pound-for-pound list.

Five of Penn's next six fights were outside the lightweight division; he amassed a middling record of 3-3 during that two-year span. The wins came against Duane Ludwig (the only fight at lightweight), Renzo Gracie, and Rodrigo Gracie (the latter two at middleweight). His losses were in a rematch with Hughes, a hotly contested fight with Georges St. Pierre, and an open-weight match with future light-heavyweight titlist Lyoto Machida.

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TMZ takes a break from Lindsay Lohan and Mel Gibson to inform us:

TMZ has learned the University of Georgia is investigating whether football star A.J. Green partied onSouth Beach at the same bash that's launched investigations at three other colleges

A source closely connected to Georgia's athletic department tells TMZ the wide receiver allegedly attended a party at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami on Memorial Day weekend.  Partying alone isn't a crime under NCAA rules -- Green is 21 years old -- but if someone (like an agent or financial advisor) paid for anything related to Green's trip ... that could be a violation.

We're told a member of the coaching staff spoke directly to Green to ask him about the party -- and he denied being in Miami at all that weekend.

According to si.com the NCAA plans to look into sports agent violations at UGA. It's unclear if Green is part of that investigation.

The University's Compliance Department told TMZ on Tuesday, "This is the first we've heard of anything involving A.J. Green."

After I light a candle at church tonight, I'll come home and pray at my Herschel Walker shrine that this does pan out...

That's what Bleacher Report thinks, listing the UGA program as one of the most covered schools in the nation that least deserves it. Really guys? Really? You're going to lump us in with USC and Notre Dame? As much as I'd love it, we don't have a broadcast network dedicating to showing only our games. All I have to say is: You guys suck! The more Red-and-Black on my TV, the better.

And besides, it's not that horrible being equated to Kim Kardashian, et al...

via nickcoman.com

The sordid details have just been released, and it ain't pretty:

University of Georgia athletic director Damon Evans repeatedly referred to his position at the school before his arrest on a drunken driving charge and asked the patrol officer if there was "anything you can do without arresting me," according to a police report released Friday.

Evans told the Georgia State Patrol officer several times he was the school's athletic director before he was arrested late Wednesday and charged with DUI and failure to maintain a lane, according to the report. Also arrested with him was 28-year-old Courtney Fuhrmann, who was charged with disorderly conduct.

"I am not trying to bribe you but I am the athletic director of the University of Georgia," Evans said, according to the officer identified in the report as M. Cabe.

The officer also said that Evans asked to be taken to a motel instead of jail or to be let off with a warning. According to the report, Evans later said: "I am not trying to bribe you, but is there anything you can do without arresting me?"

In the report, the officer noted he found a "red pair of lady's panties between (Evans') legs." When he asked Evans, a 40-year-old married father of two children, what he was doing with the underwear, Evans said: "She took them off and I held them because I was just trying to get her home," according to the report.

Evans told the officer that Fuhrmann was nothing more than a friend, according to the report. But the officer said that Fuhrmann later told him that the two had been seeing each other for "only a week or so."

"Just to let you know, it will be erased because he is the athletic director of UGA and he has that power," Fuhrmann told the officer, according to the report.

She was charged with disorderly conduct after police said she repeatedly ignored warnings to stay inside the 2009 BMW while the trooper was conducting the field sobriety test and later acting "combative" in the back seat of the patrol car," according to the report.

"I apologize and don't want to use my influence but she is trying to protect me," the officer said Evans told him.
Fuhrmann told the Associated Press on Friday the charges against her are a "misunderstanding from what the media is portraying it as" but declined to speak further.

Emphasis mine. I fully expect three dead hookers to turn up buried in Evans' back yard by the end of the week, as well as a notebook with "WILLIE MARTINEZ NON-COVER 2 PLAYBOOK" on its cover.

When Chuck Liddell faced Wanderlei Silva at UFC 79, most people didn’t know quite what to expect. It was a fight MMA fans had anticipated to a fever pitch in 2003, during that year’s PRIDE Light Heavyweight Grand Prix. Quinton "Rampage" Jackson had his own plans that year, however, thoroughly beating Liddell before the two superstars could meet in the tournament’s finals. As Liddell and Silva finally entered the Octagon in December 2007, four years, a dead promotion, and an ocean had been traversed to get to the actual match.

If anticipation had withered in the hardcore MMA fanbase (these were the only followers truly aware of Silva), the opposite was true for the fighters themselves. Both had been unceremoniously dumped from perches that once seemed insuperable and both desperately needed to reassert themselves at the other’s expense. Silva fell to a left hook from Dan Henderson and Mirko Cro Cop’s dreaded high kick; Liddell fell to the right hand of his nemesis Jackson and perhaps his own ego, as Keith Jardine rummaged his way to a decision victory over the former UFC champion. Neither man knew what destiny held for them after that night in December, but both knew a tragic story had gotten them to that very point.

As much as Liddell could blame his ego and idleness, Silva could blame his recklessness. With each man possessing -- or perhaps, possessed by -- glaring faults, their previous invincibility seemed almost unreal, mythical. And thus they finally met in combat not as gods but as men.

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This is from a piece I did about a month ago right after King Mo took Gegard Mousasi's Strikeforce LHW title.

A very interesting thought came to me Saturday night, a thought that had been stewing for some time. As I drank my fourth gin and tonic, I had the unfortunate duty of slurring an explanation to my roommates about why King Mo was victorious over Gegard Mousasi. Granted, both of them are "casuals" in the most extreme sense of the term; two are only enamored with fencing and soccer and the other hasn’t been into sports since he quit the football team freshman year.

But, they oblige me when I watch MMA and are always down for me to show them a sick knockout highlight. Hell, one of the fencers has two Cro Cop montages in his YouTube favorites and the other fencer wants to go to the first UFC in New York with me. So they are aware of the sport and know the main card-type fighters, but never actively seek out MMA. That should give you an accurate estimate of what I’m dealing with here.

As I’m telling them about how big a factor this thing called "positional dominance" is on a judge’s scorecard, a drunken fencer says to me, "But it looks like Moo-sassy fucked up Mo way worse than vice versa." And that was indisputable. But, as GSP-Penn I, Sonnen-Marquardt, and any number of other fights can attest, aesthetic damage does not tell the whole story.

An argument ensued when we went out and got dumber and dumber as we kept drinking. The next morning, however, I started thinking about it in the malaise of a hangover and deduced the following:

That oaf had a point.

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