Yesterday, two MMA writers got into a heated discussion at the UFC open media workouts in Las Vegas. Aaron “Tru” Teweles and Wade Eck, the proprietor of MMA Heat, couldn’t decide who was tougher or who would beat whom. Tru has a sanctioned fight under his belt, while Eck trains “full contact four days a week bro.”
Much was made of this confrontation (televised to the world via UStream) on Twitter and around the MMA sites. But it should come as a surprise to no one. It’s the Diaz effect. When the Diaz brothers are around, say within a 25-mile radius of your location, it’s about to pop off. Universal law bro.
The Diaz brothers (Nick main-events this weekend’s UFC 143 card; brother Nate will headline the next UFC on Fox show) aren’t built like other fighters. The Stockton, California, natives radiate anger. And wherever they go, violence and controversy seem to follow.
Remember the brawl in Nashville on live national television? Fighter Jason “Mayhem” Miller made the mistake of sneaking into the cage to challenge then Strikeforce middleweight champion Jake Shields. Miller was expecting a nice bit of publicity, maybe even a rematch with Shields for the shiny gold belt.
What he wasn’t expecting was the Diaz brothers. What he wasn’t expecting was something akin to a gang initiation. It was an important lesson, one Miller learned the hard way. The Diazs are not like other fighters. Problems others solve with words and mean mugging; they solve with fists and boots.
The UFC has spent millions of dollars and devoted countless hours to convincing the world—advertisers, state governments, casual sports fans—that this is more than a violent spectacle. It’s a sporting contest, complete with rules and respect. But the Diaz brothers show that to be a long con every time they step into a cage. To them, it’s a fight, not a sport. I’ll let Nick Diaz explain:
You see me. What you see is what you get. You get real martial arts, you get real fighting, you get a real warrior mentality. Some people aren’t mature enough to handle it. This isn’t soccer…To me this is a fight…I don’t worry about looking good. I do what I’ve got to do to survive, to keep my teeth in my head, and my head on my shoulders. I apologize to whoever can’t put that together and understand that.
The best thing you can say about Nick Diaz‘s act is that it isn’t an act at all. It’s not a calculated play for media attention like Chael Sonnen’s antics. Nick Diaz is a pitbull. He’s a darting-eyed, snarling manifestation of rage. Pure energy. He’s the anti-establishment face of an already anti-establishment sport. There is no “off” switch. This is who Nick Diaz is. And it is awesome.
To an assembled media at the open workouts yesterday, Diaz added:
People try to say, ‘Nick Diaz, he’s crazy or not crazy or fake crazy.’ ” I’m like, ‘Hey, bro, what you see is what you get.’ I’m not out here trying putting on an act like I’m crazy. In my opinion, everyone else is crazy. They’re the ones who put on an act for you, doing what they’re told in front of the camera…They turn these guys into robots. I’m just not going to be that guy. Don’t tell me I’m crazy. I’m out here acting natural. I’m the only one here being realistic out here about this sort of thing.
Diaz doesn’t just shoot hard looks at opponents and talk a lot of trash. He delivers on those promises and that talk—that’s what makes him so special. Some fighters talk a good game, about all the harm they mean to do to an opponent, then when the fight starts, turn it immediately into a cautious wrestling match. That’s not Diaz.
Diaz is the man who started a brawl in Nashville. He’s the guy who once fought opponent Joe Riggs—not just in the cage, but while both were being treated at the hospital after the fight. He’s an amazing human being, a 170-pound wrecking ball coming to crush your favorite fighter. And he’s the most entertaining man in the entire sport.
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