Greetings, friends.
March is shaping up to be quite the interesting month in the world of MMA. Brandon Vera just got his ass handed to him by a Bones Jones who showed us some next level s*** both on the ground and off, in addition to physical attributes which should be a major cause for concern for his fellow light heavies as he continues taking scalps with no sign of slowing. And, at 22, he's just getting started.
Alessio Sakara, clawing his way back from the bowels of MMA obscurity, put an end to his match with a manorexic looking James Irvin with a left hook that pushed the Sandman's eyeball halfway into his skull. Ouch.
Gabriel Gonzaga, while throwing a lead round kick, stepped sloppily into the left of Junior Dos Santos and out of immediate title contention, clearing another rung in Dos Santos' climb to the top of an increasingly compelling heavyweight division.
Bob Arum, God bless that man, gave me some serious belly laughs when he, in an interview with Fanhouse, referred to MMA fighters as skinheaded white guys rolling around like homosexuals. Brilliant. (I know, Bob, if I were a boxing promoter who came to the horrifying realization that all those oodles of money that used to go into my pocket are vaporizing into the MMA infused ether, I would be spewing some panicked gibberish myself).
And finally, we have this weekend's UFC, featuring, among other things, George St. Pierre's title defense against Dan Hardy and Frank Mir vs. Shane Carwin.
Frank Mir is a highly competent, well rounded fighter who shows a consistent dedication to improving and posed a threat to anyone at any time. But I'm going to have to go with Carwin on this one. As technically sound as Mir is, I don't think he will be able to handle the 'X' factor Shane brings to the table. His sheer, brute strength, backed up with enough skill to get the job done, should, by my incredibly precise calculations, result in a knockout within three rounds.
As far as the main event is concerned, I'm not saying anything novel in predicting a St. Pierre victory; he is bringing too much to the table for me to think otherwise. I don't see Hardy out striking him. I don't picture Hardy winning a takedown or ground battle. St. Pierre's sheer physicality is such that I often think that either a) he's juicing, or b) he's one of those genetic freaks that come along once every couple of decades.
With that said, I have to come out and say that Dan Hardy tugs at my MMA heartstrings. He's an underdog who embodies that punk spirit that reminds me of some footage I saw of a Sex Pistols concert in which Sid Vicious flips the bird at the audience as he plays guitar, prompting someone to throw a bottle which hits him dead in the middle of his face. As he watches the ensuing gush of blood land on his chest, he looks up and f*****g SMILES! Now that is hard core.) How can you not love it when he threatens to beat the fake tan off of St. Pierre?
Dan Hardy could give a rat's ass whether people think he can win or not, and he is not about to let anyone else, particularly some UFC golden boy who can jump over your head, keep him from his goals. Sure, it's a long shot, and his strategy of exposing St. Pierre's alleged glass jaw is flimsy at best, but a part of me secretly hopes that, while guys like me are typing opinions on a laptop at Starbuck's and guys like him are fighting, Dan Hardy will show us where we can stick our opinions. Go get 'em.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
KO-Cain
Hellooo, kiddies!! So nice to make the acquaintance of my fellow MMA enthusiasts. I am delighted to be in a forum where I can freely opine on matters MMA and beyond, without having to look over my shoulder as some 'roided up, shaven headed maniac fresh from his jiu-jitsu class has decided that I am some pedantic windbag that needs to be silenced, and it's HIS job to shut my mouth.
Whenever I give my take on the world of MMA, I often ask myself if there is any reason anyone should care about what I think. And I always come up with the same answer-there is none. It doesn't mean a damned thing. I won't even watch award shows because the idea of watching a show about what somebody thinks about what somebody else does is absurd; no one ever built a statue for a critic. So, in addition to pontificating on the gladiatorial spectacle we have all come to love, I will offer tidbits I've amassed from my years as a martial artist, trainer, student of the human condition and overall squirrel tryin' his best to get his greasy little paws on the proverbial nut (that didn't come out right).
Anyways, as I write this, I've just finished watching Cain Velasquez decimate the eminently competent but perhaps long in the tooth Minotauro Nogueira. I can't say I was surprised at Cain's victory, but the emphatic swiftness with which he settled the affair raised more than one eyebrow and moved him closer to a shot the UFC's heavyweight title. The evolution of his standup skills was evident for all the world to see as the renowned wrestler never bothered to wrestle, opting instead to use round kicks and knees that would earn the respect of any Muay Thai practitioner before scrambling his opponent's brain circuitry with some sound, devastating boxing. This skill set should prove problematic, to say the least, for those who stand between him and the title he most certainly covets. But the question remains, can he deal with the explosive bulk of the UFC's resident Drago, Brock Lesnar, or Shane Carwin? Can he kick the crap out of Frank Mir like I think he can? Either way, you've done your job, Cain, 'cause I'd be happy plunk down the fifty bucks to find out.
And now, for my 'MMA for Life' tip.
A few years ago, I used to hang tough with my boy Jeff. Jeff was a record label exec from Long Island. After working with a few gangsta rappers, he became one of those infuriating whiteboys who fancy themselves 'hood rats with credentials because they drive SUV's with tinted windows and speak in some contrived, pathetic version of ebonics. But Jeff was my friend, and I would give him self-defense tips, one of which was the suggestion to wear heavy shoes whenever possible and, at the first sign that things are about to go bad, just kick the shit out of the opponent's shins.
Well, one day, at a night club, someone must have grown weary of Jeff's harmless but irritating charade, and decided he was going to clean his clock. Jeff got shoved, and as his foe wound up to deliver his drunken overhand right, Jeff punts the guy's shin with his boot, which, of course, was a Timberland. The guy stared into Jeff's face for a few long seconds, terrifying my friend, as that kick represented the extent of his martial arsenal. Next thing you know, the guy collapsed in agony, rolling around and screaming about his leg. Whew. Come to think of it, I'm not very proud of that, as I feel, in retrospect, that maybe Jeff deserved to get his ass kicked, because that little Eminem/Vanilla Ice thing he did could really get on your nerves. Oh well. Until next time.
Whenever I give my take on the world of MMA, I often ask myself if there is any reason anyone should care about what I think. And I always come up with the same answer-there is none. It doesn't mean a damned thing. I won't even watch award shows because the idea of watching a show about what somebody thinks about what somebody else does is absurd; no one ever built a statue for a critic. So, in addition to pontificating on the gladiatorial spectacle we have all come to love, I will offer tidbits I've amassed from my years as a martial artist, trainer, student of the human condition and overall squirrel tryin' his best to get his greasy little paws on the proverbial nut (that didn't come out right).
Anyways, as I write this, I've just finished watching Cain Velasquez decimate the eminently competent but perhaps long in the tooth Minotauro Nogueira. I can't say I was surprised at Cain's victory, but the emphatic swiftness with which he settled the affair raised more than one eyebrow and moved him closer to a shot the UFC's heavyweight title. The evolution of his standup skills was evident for all the world to see as the renowned wrestler never bothered to wrestle, opting instead to use round kicks and knees that would earn the respect of any Muay Thai practitioner before scrambling his opponent's brain circuitry with some sound, devastating boxing. This skill set should prove problematic, to say the least, for those who stand between him and the title he most certainly covets. But the question remains, can he deal with the explosive bulk of the UFC's resident Drago, Brock Lesnar, or Shane Carwin? Can he kick the crap out of Frank Mir like I think he can? Either way, you've done your job, Cain, 'cause I'd be happy plunk down the fifty bucks to find out.
And now, for my 'MMA for Life' tip.
A few years ago, I used to hang tough with my boy Jeff. Jeff was a record label exec from Long Island. After working with a few gangsta rappers, he became one of those infuriating whiteboys who fancy themselves 'hood rats with credentials because they drive SUV's with tinted windows and speak in some contrived, pathetic version of ebonics. But Jeff was my friend, and I would give him self-defense tips, one of which was the suggestion to wear heavy shoes whenever possible and, at the first sign that things are about to go bad, just kick the shit out of the opponent's shins.
Well, one day, at a night club, someone must have grown weary of Jeff's harmless but irritating charade, and decided he was going to clean his clock. Jeff got shoved, and as his foe wound up to deliver his drunken overhand right, Jeff punts the guy's shin with his boot, which, of course, was a Timberland. The guy stared into Jeff's face for a few long seconds, terrifying my friend, as that kick represented the extent of his martial arsenal. Next thing you know, the guy collapsed in agony, rolling around and screaming about his leg. Whew. Come to think of it, I'm not very proud of that, as I feel, in retrospect, that maybe Jeff deserved to get his ass kicked, because that little Eminem/Vanilla Ice thing he did could really get on your nerves. Oh well. Until next time.
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