The Greatest Fight I've Ever Seen
He would punch, then get punched. Punch, then get punched. One more time – throw a punch and get smacked in the face in return. It was a vicious routine. A violent dance. The most brutal ballet you had ever seen. He had other weapons at his disposal, other options he could have chosen. Perhaps a wiser man would have changed tactics. But not tonight. Not this fight. As the blood stained the canvas, and the crowd roared its approval, it began to dawn on everyone that they were watching something special. If you were there, you remember. If you were watching, you knew the feeling. This is the greatest fight I’ve ever seen. Everyone was thinking it. Everyone. How many times can you say that? How many times can you know it deep down in your bones? Two men, trying with all their heart and soul to hurt each other. It was primitive. It was primal. It was gladiatorial. It was absolutely everything I have ever wanted from sports. So there he was. Punching, and getting punched. Again. And again. Giving as good as he got. Head down, common sense in the wind, he was charging hard. Charging hard towards his opponent. Charging hard towards his destiny. And at the end of the night, when all was said and done, and the crowd had risen to its feet, and television had invented a new sport, after all the chaos had dissipated – “The American Psycho” Stephan Bonnar finally found himself flattened, face-first on the ground, a battered warrior, attached to the losing end of history.
Let’s make it clear: no punches could knock out Stephan Bonnar on that night. He was crumpled on the ground only after the end of the fight, when the judges’ decision was announced. He was lying on the canvas because of exhaustion, because of disappointment, because of dejection. He was lying face-first on the ground because it turned out that the judges hit much harder than his opponent ever did.
Launching A Sport
That was a big fight. Let me tell you how big. It helped create a sport. That’s the truth. It is. Forrest Griffin won the fight. Dana White promoted the fight. The UFC sanctioned the fight. Spike TV televised the fight. The sport of Mixed Martial Arts provided the fight. These were the principals involved. They hit the jackpot. They won big. Each and every one of them skyrocketed to success based on that one event. A rising tide lifts all ships. The winner, the promoter, the organization, the broadcast partner, and the very sport itself all rose to unprecedented levels of success. Nobody even argues this. Everyone accepts it as common knowledge. It’s gospel.
What does it like when everyone moves forward, and you’re left behind? What does it feel like when everyone moves ahead, and you’re left in the dust? What does it feel like when everyone builds empires off your back, off your foundation, off the blood that came spilling out of your head, and you don’t get to come along for the ride? Ask Stephan Bonnar. Because he would know. Because he lost “The Fight That Changed The Sport Forever” by the slimmest of margins. A margin so slim as to be invisible. A margin so slim as to be non-existent. Because when that fight was over, my friends and I all thought that Stephan Bonnar had won.
At the end of the night, the judges handed in their scorecard, and the decision was read. Every judge scored it identically, 29-28. In each case, Stephan Bonnar lost by a single point. A single round. It could not have been any closer.
When I watched the fight, I thought Bonnar won. When I watched the replay, I changed my mind and thought that Griffin won. Bonnar looked better than Griffin, but Griffin scored more often. That was the beauty of the fight. You could have a million people watch it a million different times and still not reach a definitive conclusion.
(Actually, I understate the case. Many more than a million people have watched this fight. And still, the uncertainty lives.)
The Fork in the Road
The last time Forrest Griffin walked into the cage on Dec. 27, 2008, he was in the main event, featured on the biggest show of the year, defending the most prestigious championship in the sport -- his 205 lb. light heavyweight title. He had become the most popular fighter in the sport. He was making millions for his fights.
The last time Stephan Bonnar walked into the cage two weeks ago on Jan. 31, 2009, he was buried on the undercard, facing a 21 year-old kid fighting in the UFC for only the second time. His opponent hit him with a vicious illegal elbow to the back of the head that the referee didn't call. Bonnar looked slow, outclassed, and was tossed around like a rag doll. He was defeated soundly. Bonnar took an unholy beating and was paid $22,000 for the privilege.
At one time, Griffin and Bonnar were inseparable – identical fighters with identical skills. Two men with big hearts and unbelievable courage. But one man took his win and rose to the top of the profession. The other took his loss and sank to the bottom. This is the difference between one point from the judges, less than four years in the past.
Anatomy of a Fighter
Stephan Bonnar doesn’t have knockout power. Some men have that gift. Mike Tyson, for example. Igor Vovchanchyn would touch you on the chin, and you would go to sleep. Mirko Crocop fractured skulls with frightening ease. These men were Reggie Jacksons, Mike Schmidts, and Mark McGwires of their profession, muscular sluggers who wouldn’t merely hit ordinary home runs, but would launch majestic, towering shots deep into the upper decks. Stephan Bonnar couldn’t do that. His punches were quick and crisp, but he could hit you and you would stay standing.
Bonnar has a good chin. He’s tough as nails. This is both a curse and a blessing. It is advantageous for a fighter to be able to take a good shot. But it is also an invitation to incur punishment. And Stephan Bonnar absorbs a lot of punishment. It is almost a trademark of his fights.
Watching “The American Psycho” Stephan Bonnar losing a one-sided match, I feel awful for him. Fate has discarded him. He has fallen by the wayside, and missed out on his shot at glory.
Watching “The American Psycho” Stephan Bonnar losing a one-sided match, I feel envious of him. I realize that I would trade places with him. He faces down his enemies, and he fights valiantly against his opposition.
I think I would like a chance to face my demons. I think I would like the chance to be in the cage, to know what I'm fighting. To have a man try to beat me unconscious. I do. I could make sense of that. I could wrap my arms around it. It would be real. Instead, in my life, I am often fighting Uncertainty and Confusion. Loneliness. Sometimes, I fight loneliness. And in these battles, I don’t get a chance to punch, then get punched. In these battles, I just let the waves wash over me, formless and vague, doing my best to come to grips with them, trying not to break down. In these moments, what I would give to be in Stephan Bonnar’s shoes. In these moments, what I would give to see another man with anger in his heart and malice in his fists, violently trying to separate me from my senses. It seems a blessing. It seems a gift to be able to face and know your enemy. But that’s not my life. That’s not me.
I'm thirty-six years old. I've spent the last eight years of my life working as a financial officer at Harvard. And I know that I will never be a professional cagefighter. Never. But I also know in my heart that I will watch professional cagefighting until the day I die. Because cagefighting is The Truth. To me, it is the purest essence of sports. No bats, no balls, no gloves, no helmets, no pads, no pucks, no sticks. Just two men, stepping into a cage, trying to see who is tougher. Answering the question, who is the better man. That makes sense to me. And I'm appreciative for that – because it seems that very few things in life make sense to me these days.
“The American Psycho” Stephan Bonnar has plenty of fighting left ahead of him. He'll win some. He'll lose some. He will probably get beat up something fierce in the process. Maybe he'll never become the main eventer, the world champion, the most popular man in the sport like Forrest Griffin, his opponent on that epic night of April 9, 2005. But the important thing is, he'll keep fighting. And in the end, that's all we can ever ask out of anyone.
If you have any thoughts you want to share, I would love to hear from you. I can be contacted at roeltorres@post.harvard.edu. Thank you.