 I am somewhat ashamed to admit it, but until a few weeks ago I never witnessed an Ultimate Fighting Championship. Not in person, not on Pay-Per-View, not on video.
Blasphemous, I know, considering I was there was when the UFC burst onto the scene in the late 1980s. I was there during the Art Davie-Rorion Gracie days when they had to settle for high-school gyms in rural North Carolina or Iowa to hold their shows-venues that made the gym in "Hoosiers" look like the Tokyo Dome.
Even more embarrassing, I was editor of the first "official" UFC magazine. Knew the stars, knew the principals, knew the sport, maybe better than anyone at the time. Just not up close and personal. Some contested that it was my allegiance to kung-fu that kept me on the fence. Or that after traveling to the world's exotic locales courtesy of sifu and grandmasters, a road trip to a 7-Eleven parking lot in Dubuque was not on my to-do list.
Or maybe it was as simple as not believing in a sport governed by one family and run by a "secret, ever-changing" set of rules. The Gracies created the UFC in their own image, and then ran roughshod over a bevy of brawlers and club pugs who talked the talk but never walked the walk. Truth be told, they could barely get out of their own way.
Helio and Rorion and Royce brought their family's brand of Brazilian martial arts to America, but never bothered to let anyone know how to play the game. The Tanks and Kimos of the world were beaten before they began. Their size advantage was mitigated by their lack of ground skill. Royce Gracie ruled through the UFC's early years, and then retired.
Until a few months ago, when the sport he created coaxed him back into the ring against a pretty fine opponent in Matt Hughes. My curiosity got the better of me. While the popularity of the UFC has climbed to once-unthinkable proportions, K-1, the sport I regularly cover, is barely treading water. The lack of a solid television deal, coupled with the public's disinterest in stand-up fighting, has given the sport a small but loyal following.
Since executive director Scott Coker took over (from Art Davie, coincidentally) K-1 has become the finest, most-action-packed fighting event in North America. Coker, who recently joined the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" club by producing a pair of sold-out MMA events in San Jose, Calif., refuses to give up on K-1. Each show is better, each card more compelling and competitive. Yet, no one is watching; fewer really care.
I wanted to see, once and for all, why UFC has catapulted to the top of the fight game. Why some are saying that the sport is within two years of eclipsing boxing as the world's most-popular fighting event. Why 18,000-seat arenas are selling out in hours. Why K-1 fighting can't get a nibble from the press, while MMA is being devoured by the world's radio and television contingent. I felt I owed it to the Gracies-all 600 hundred of them-to at least give them an objective look.
Well, I tried. I saw the Gracie show-or should I say, a show in which Royce failed to show. For the $2 million he reportedly was paid for this coming-out-of-retirement party, you'd think the guest of honor would have shown up wearing a new set of clothes. Gracie looked old; he looked confused; he looked powerless. Not sure whether Hughes was that good or Gracie that bad. Not sure whether the long layoff hurt him, or if it was simply a matter of a sport that had passed him by. The Gracie mystique ended with the introductions.
I left the experience with only one question: What's all the fuss about? If this is all MMA has to offer, I'll gladly stick with K-1. The fighters are better, the techniques cleaner, the knockouts more spectacular. There was more action, more excitement, more pure martial arts technique in the Chalid "Die Faust"-Goodridge championship last May than the entire Gracie card.
I've spent the last seven years covering K-1-style fighting, while all but ignoring MMA and the UFC. Seems my time was not wasted after all. |
