Jonathan Snowden | UFC Betting Sites - The Best MMA Online Bookies

Minute by Minute: How Conor McGregor Beat Eddie Alvarez to Make UFC History

On Saturday night at UFC 205, in the glittering heart of the American empire, an Irishman conquered the combat sports world.
Before, there had always been doubts. In Madison Square Garden, Conor McGregor erased them, winning the UFC lightweight title …

On Saturday night at UFC 205, in the glittering heart of the American empire, an Irishman conquered the combat sports world.

Before, there had always been doubts. In Madison Square Garden, Conor McGregor erased them, winning the UFC lightweight title in a record-setting, history-making performance the likes of which have never been seen in mixed martial arts.

Eddie Alvarez’s lightweight strap looked good on McGregor’s shoulder as he sat perched atop the cage in celebration. Beside it was the featherweight title he won from Jose Aldo in 2015. No fighter had ever held two championships simultaneously before McGregor. Perhaps no one ever will again.

What’s next for McGregor will be written in the years to come. Today, we focus instead on how we got here. How did McGregor manage to move up a weight class and beat a fighter many expected to pose both physical and conceptual challenges?

Bleacher Report Senior Writer Jonathan Snowden and Senior Analyst Patrick Wyman detail how McGregor walked away with dual gold in this minute-by-minute breakdown of a masterful performance.

Pre-Fight

Patrick Wyman: Leaving aside the box-office implications and the historic nature of McGregor’s quest to become the first man to simultaneously hold two UFC belts, this was an outstanding matchup. Alvarez’s ability to stick and move, counter, and fall back on periods of grinding wrestling gave him a series of distinct paths to victory, while McGregor’s chances revolved around his pressure and slick left-hand counterpunching arsenal.

Jonathan Snowden: The pre-fight story was told well in dueling quotes before the bout.

“He’s picked very good style matchups for himself,” Alvarez told the UFC’s pay-per-view audience at home. “The illusion of greatness will soon be over. There is no Santa Claus. He doesn’t exist and he never did.”

McGregor’s response was an older chestnut but perfect for the moment.

“Winners focus on winning. Losers focus on winners,” he said on the broadcast. “They’re focusing on me. I’m focusing on history.”

That unshakeable confidence is either infuriating or intoxicating, depending on which side of the McGregor divide you sit. As Ireland’s colors swirled in bright lights around the arena and Sinead O’Connor’s haunting, aching voice rang loud, thousands standing, chanting and screaming at the Garden knew exactly where their allegiances lie.

McGregor strutted to the center of the Octagon, awash in worship, presenting himself to his adoring fans with arms wide open. Before the first bell rang, this was as much a revival as it was a fight—McGregor the modern fistic god who fit this time, this place like a four-ounce glove.

Round 1

5:00-4:00

Wyman: McGregor opened with some light pressure, while Alvarez tested his wide stance with a trio of forceful low kicks, one of which dropped the featherweight champion to the canvas. Feints and probing jabs gauged the range and timing for the Irishman and stuck the smaller Alvarez on the end of his long reach.

Snowden: McGregor’s stance is fascinating. He stands alternately upright and sideways, the beautiful lines of the traditional martial arts just one of his many contributions to MMA‘s aesthetic.

The featherweight champ began looking for the left hand early. Alvarez knew exactly what Conor wanted. Conor, in turn, knew that he knew. What followed then, was a game of skill and daring. And the stakes couldn’t have been higher.

McGregor’s power allows him to pressure and back an opponent down while throwing almost nothing. Soon enough, Alvarez ceded so much ground that a simple front kick pushed him back almost into the cage.

Wyman: Finally, just as the first minute came to a close, Alvarez made his first rush with a lead right hand. McGregor had his range and timing, however, and tagged him with a counter left hand over the top of Alvarez’s right and then a second left hand a moment later. He took a subtle angle as he did this, which gave him access to the unprotected side of the lightweight champion’s head.

4:00-3:00

Snowden: “He got tagged,” announcer Joe Rogan helpfully exclaimed. “He’s hurt…he hurt him bad, Mike.”

It’s not clear, in retrospect, whether Rogan was right. McGregor prioritized ground-and-pound over control, and Alvarez soon escaped to his feet.

Alvarez was on solid footing immediately, even trying a head kick, which is a difficult motor movement for someone who is rattled.

Let’s consider Alvarez shaken, if not stirred. It got his attention, but Alvarez was distinctly still in the fight.

Wyman: The Irishman followed him, turning up the pressure with a series of jabs and an active lead hand. At the 3:30 mark, Alvarez shot his first takedown, but McGregor had done such a masterful job of setting the distance that he had all the time in the world to defend.

Snowden: Alvarez was having serious issues with the range. He attempted to land an uppercut from distance and was met by a short elbow from McGregor, who has a lot of nifty little tricks for someone who is supposed to be such a one-trick fighter.

Dan Henderson he is not.

Wyman: McGregor went back to pumping the jab, though he backed off the pressure. Alvarez tried another lead right, but once again, he ate a forceful left-hand counter and stumbled to the mat.

Snowden: Every time Alvarez worked up the gumption to try to close the distance, he paid a heavy price. If you’re scoring at home, that’s two minutes gone, two left hands delivered and two knockdowns.

3:00-2:00

Snowden: “No one has ever held two UFC titles simultaneously,” announcer Mike Goldberg, perhaps sensing the result to come, told the viewers at home.

McGregor threw a high kick and a leaning left from so far out that it was just begging to be countered. But—and there is no judgement here—Alvarez seemed too timid to risk it.

Wyman: McGregor turned up the pressure from here on out. For the most part, he had been happy to probe with his jab and front kicks and counter when Alvarez committed, but he began leading the dance. A sharp jab-cross caught the lightweight champion cleanly near the fence and knocked him down yet again.

Snowden: It was an amazing sequence for anyone who is interested in how these things happen. McGregor landed a left that left Alvarez unscathed. The punch was delivered from too far away to do much damage. But he followed with a jab and a tiny shuffle forward.

Most MMA fighters are content to plant their feet there and bang. McGregor would rather move forward, an increment that paid off in huge dividends.

That tiny shuffle was the difference between a left hand that leaves you on your feet and one that puts you on your back. That’s where Alvarez found himself over and over again.

Wyman: Following him to the canvas, McGregor maintained his posture and landed a couple of hard shots, but Alvarez intelligently tied up a leg and forced the Irishman to defend. More hard, postured shots followed.

Snowden: The two men ended up in what is called the “69 position.” I’ll leave that to your imagination. But Alvarez was still fighting. When McGregor postured up in order to land heavier shots, Alvarez took the opportunity to move into guard.

I note that if only to remind readers this isn’t some bum with a manufactured record looking for a place to fall down. Alvarez is a good, veteran professional. He’s just not Conor McGregor.

2:00-1:00

Wyman: Alvarez managed to create space, kick off the cage and scramble back to his feet, but he ate a brutal left hand for his troubles. McGregor didn’t let him get comfortable and immediately turned up the pressure, keeping Alvarez against the fence with a series of jabs.

Snowden: With 1:36 remaining in the first round, Alvarez shot in for a takedown. This was expected to be a difference-maker for him. After all, Chad Mendes had taken McGregor down and Nate Diaz had submitted him.

Alvarez, bigger and more experienced than either, was supposed to use wrestling to his advantage. Instead, McGregor not only grabbed an underhook to defend with ease, but he actually went on the attack.

There are no easy answers to the puzzle McGregor presents.

Wyman: On the break, McGregor drove home a sharp knee to the solar plexus and then an elbow. When they got back to range, McGregor led again, tossing out a long lefts. Alvarez tried to counter one of them, but once again, he was too far away.

1:00-0:00

Wyman: Alvarez landed a lead right hand, but McGregor hit a gorgeous backstepping counter left in response. The featherweight champion’s triggers had been razor-sharp and perfectly timed all night, and the threat of the counter put a stop to Alvarez’s offense before it even started.

Snowden: Every time Alvarez threw his right hand, McGregor was there. They hadn’t even fought for five minutes and he had his opponent’s timing down.

Wyman: Finally, around the 30-second mark, Alvarez landed his first body-head combination of the night and managed to avoid a response. A moment later, he landed another clean right hand to the body as McGregor’s left missed.

McGregor jabbed, and Alvarez came in with a counter right hand that landed cleanly. The lightweight champ was starting to get his timing. McGregor is hittable, especially on the counter, and that’s Alvarez’s best skill set.

Snowden: I don’t want to delve into the realm of conspiracy theory, but I had the sense McGregor wanted to do something to bolster Alvarez’s confidence. He had gotten so deep in his own head that he wasn’t engaging—and McGregor needs that activity to give him something to counter.

The round ended with Alvarez tasting his first success and McGregor, for the first time, talking smack to his overmatched foe. That was a thorough whooping, but there was still hope in Alvarez’s native Philadelphia as the bell rang.

Round 2

5:00-4:00

Wyman: Alvarez came out with a sharp kick to the body as the two fighters circled in the middle of the cage, and McGregor replied with a sharp front kick. McGregor blasted Alvarez with a pull counter, hop-stepping backward, planting his feet and throwing a vicious left hand as Alvarez tried a combination that came up short.

The punch staggered Alvarez, but he recovered quickly and slammed another kick to the Irishman’s body.

Snowden: McGregor spent many of the early moments of the second stanza reaching out with his right hand, grabbing and pawing at Alvarez. He was attempting to gauge distance and to distract. And his reach advantage is such that there was little Alvarez can do in return.

At 4:18, following a prescient discussion by Rogan and Goldberg about Alvarez’s wrestling, he shot once again for a takedown. But he was too far away and had no chance of controlling McGregor’s hips.

In his corner between rounds, Team Alvarez had anticipated just that. They asked Eddie to follow up a failed takedown with another shot. Many nascent MMA wrestlers are good at stopping the first shot. It’s sustained chain wrestling that gives them trouble. But McGregor wasn’t willing to cooperate with that course of action, harassing Alvarez with his own attacks in close.

Wyman: As they broke the clinch, McGregor tagged Alvarez with a left hand. He did an excellent job of sneaking in offense—punches, knees and elbows—whenever Alvarez tried to grind him.

4:00-3:00

Snowden: Having dominated the stand-up and shrugged off every takedown attempt with skill and flair, McGregor was feeling it. He put both hands behind his back, clasped, all but begging Alvarez to respond.

His mastery is so complete that he felt all but untouchable—but not so much so that he didn’t quickly spring back to a fighting stance when Alvarez feinted.

For the first time in the fight, McGregor attempted a series of kicks, including an oblique kick and hard sidekicks to the knee and body. You see this a lot in a McGregor fight—as soon as an opponent gets sucked into the understandably intense game of avoiding the left hand, he sneaks in something else out of the blue.

For an opponent, it has to be both exasperating and demoralizing. There is very little winning.

Wyman: Alvarez tried a bit of pressure, leading with combinations, and managed to land a hard right as McGregor got on his bicycle and circled out. That success was short-lived, however, as McGregor countered the next rush. Alvarez tried a shifting right hand, ending up in the southpaw stance, and landed.

He followed McGregor as the Irishman stepped back, but this time, McGregor rolled under, stepped to the outside, and tagged Alvarez’s exposed temple with a gorgeous left hand. Alvarez recovered quickly and managed to tie up McGregor against the fence, but his takedown attempts were going nowhere.

Snowden: You say, “going nowhere.” Goldberg said, “Alvarez looking to embrace the grind.”

Both are correct. Only one attempts to measure quality rather than quantity.

Point: Wyman.

3:00-2:00

Wyman: McGregor’s takedown defense against the fence was impeccable, using his balance, whizzers and head pressure to great effect. Digging for an underhook, McGregor spun out and made Alvarez eat a couple of sharp knees to the body for his trouble.

When they got back into open space, McGregor opened up with jabs, front kicks and a couple of left hands, one of which snapped Alvarez’s head back.

Snowden: The champion, at least, seemed willing to go down fighting.

“Alvarez is getting loose,” Goldberg said. Unfortunately for the lightweight champion, just as he was getting close, he missed a wild right hand, and McGregor countered with the left that would end the fight.

Wyman: Alvarez tried for a forward-moving lead right, but just as he had all night, McGregor cut a slight angle to the inside and planted a vicious left hand on the side of Alvarez’s jaw. He followed with a right hook that popped Alvarez on the nose, then another left that landed behind the ear and finally a second flush right hook.

Snowden: This was fighting as pure art. Disgusting, violent, calamitous art. But art nonetheless. Every sequence that preceded it led to this moment, to McGregor’s left arcing just over Alvarez’s extended hand, his timing so perfect that it’s as if the two punches were thrown simultaneously.

“He’s done,” Rogan yelled. Referee “Big” John McCarthy agreed, stepping in to stop McGregor from wreaking even more havoc on Alvarez.

The series of punches took fewer than two seconds to complete. In those two clicks, Alvarez added an adjective to his title—now just the former champion. McGregor went from loudmouth to legend.

Postscript

Wyman: That was the best performance of McGregor’s career, the culmination of every improvement he’s made over the last several years. An aggressive puncher with a big left hand and a few crafty tricks at the beginning of his tenure, he transformed into a kick-heavy pressure fighter against the likes of Max Holloway and Dennis Siver and then became a swarming wild man to defeat Chad Mendes.

That approach cost him in the first fight with Nate Diaz, but he reshaped himself into a patient counterpuncher for the rematch, and what we saw against Alvarez was the logical development of that path. He can’t drown his opponents in volume the way he did against lesser opponents early in his career, so he has refined his distance-management game with front kicks and a newfound interest in the jab.

That creates a distance too long for his opponents to comfortably cross, so he can either stick them with straight left after straight left or force them to expose themselves to his counterpunching by rushing forward to cover the gap. The latter is becoming his defined preference. Focusing on counters plays off his exceptional timing and sense of the range and allows him to conserve energy, so it makes sense on multiple levels.

Snowden: After the fight, the brilliant martial artist, the man who had just run circles around a UFC champion, exited the stage. In his place, the other McGregor made his presence felt.

No less brilliant a marketer than he is a fighter, McGregor chastised UFC President Dana White for not having two belts for him to pose with postfight. That was the money shot—and only Conor was savvy enough to realize he couldn’t leave the cage without it.

In between boasts and heartfelt thank yous to his legion of fans, McGregor dropped some hard truths on the man still standing in the cage wondering just how his life had gone so wrong.

“Eddie’s a solid competitor,” he told Rogan. “Eddie’s a warrior. But he shouldn’t have been in here with me. And that’s the truth of it.”

Wyman: McGregor was the favorite going into this bout, and many (both of us included) picked him to win. But this was a brutal beating. He dismantled Alvarez in every possible way and, in doing so, showed just how far he’s come as a fighter. Is he unbeatable? No, but if McGregor continues to improve in this fashion, it will take a phenom of a fighter to overcome him.

Jonathan Snowden and Patrick Wyman cover combat sports for Bleacher Report.

Read more MMA news on BleacherReport.com

Chael Sonnen, Tito Ortiz and Bellator’s Delightful Comedy of Errors

Chael Sonnen signing with Bellator earlier this year was a big deal. Sure, he’s 39 years old. And, yeah, his last gasp of athletic relevance came more than three years ago when Jon Jones drubbed him in less than a round.
But once upon a time, Son…

But once upon a time, Sonnen mattered. And when you’re competing with a Goliath such as the UFC, a has-been is better than nothing at all.

That’s the principle guiding Bellator’s attempt to stay alive in the unforgiving MMA space, and it all but demands Sonnen make his promotional debut against one of the other aging wonders spending his fighting dotage in the hinterlands on Spike TV.

Enter Tito Ortiz.

The former UFC light heavyweight champion, a Hall-of-Famer for his role in keeping the company alive when it struggled early in Dana White’s reign as the king of MMA, is honestly even further removed from his prime than Sonnen.

The last time the 41-year-old Oriz held UFC gold, current lightweight star Sage Northcutt was just seven. Ortiz lost six of seven in the UFC before skedaddling to Bellator, and his most notable appearance in the cage since leaving the world’s top promoter involved sharing time with a former friend in a gimp mask.

It’s not worth the effort to pretend this fight matters in the overall scheme of things. Ten years ago, these would have been two of the top fighters in the world. Today, it’s two old guys with names that Bellator hopes sound familiar to fringe fans looking for something to do on a Saturday night.

Its only hope to attract an increasingly cynical MMA fandom is to push promotional boundaries—and that’s going to require both men to be at their most charismatic and most eloquent. MMA fans have shown they are willing to accept past-their-prime legends and freak-show fights as long as they are entertaining.

Based on Sonnen and Ortiz’s first back-and-forth interview Friday night on Spike, Bellator is either in trouble or really on to something. To call this exchange a train wreck is an insult to derailments and disasters.

What follows is the complete transcript of their tete-a-tete, annotated throughout with analysis and my best guess about what each man was actually thinking.

Bellator Color Commentator Jimmy Smith: I’m in a very unsafe place right now, between Chael Sonnen and Tito Ortiz. I’m going to start with you, Chael. January 21st, the Forum in Los Angeles, big venue, big fighter. It doesn’t get a lot bigger as opponents than Tito Ortiz. Tell us about the fight, man.

What He Was Actually Thinking: If I say ‘big’ a lot, perhaps someone—anyone—will actually believe it. Hey, do you think they’ll notice that I’m cageside and both fighters are in two different studios?

Chael Sonnen: Well Mr. TV announcer, I think you got that right. January 21st. The Bad Boy versus the Bad Guy. It’s been 20 years in the waiting for the rematch. Tito’s car just got repossessed a week ago. Tito has a Rolls Royce. Now in fairness, that’s a beautiful car. I wouldn’t own one because I’m not that big of a prick. But it just got repossessed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get this match before. I heard he tried to sell some suits to make due on the car, but nobody had a size 52 stupid.

What He Was Actually Thinking: Do you think anyone knows that we once wrestled when we were in college, back before kids who are actually starting college were born? Better move on to making fun of this poor sap spending all his money like a chump.

‘Nobody had a size 52 stupid?’ Damn it! Nobody needed a size 52 stupid. Just smile and go with it! No one will notice.

Smith: Tito, all I can ask is what your rebuttal is to that man?

What He Was Actually Thinking: Crap. Do you think Tito knows what ‘rebuttal’ means?

Tito Ortiz: Ah, go ahead and check my Instagram at TitoOrtiz1999, and that’ll answer that fool’s complete gas.

(Chael flexing, pointing to muscles)

All I hear is gas coming out of his ass. And it’s not his butt.

What He Was Actually Thinking: And. It’s. Not. His. Butt.

Nailed it!

Smith: Now, we’re coming up to the light heavyweight division, 205. That’s where you’ve spent your entire career, Tito. That’s where you’ve made your mark as a professional. Him coming up to face you at your weight class, what does that mean to you? How is that to your advantage?

What He Was Actually Thinking: If we emphasize the weight difference, even though both are roughly the same size and Chael has used plenty of PEDs in the past, maybe fans will believe this is a competitive fight.

Ortiz: Well, of course. You know, he’s been dominated by Hall of Famers, former world champions. And it’s going to happen again on January 21st. He’s picked the wrong guy. I’ve been waiting for this fight to happen. I’m happy that he’s going to come up to 205. Finally he has enough balls to step up and do it. Now he has enough balls to call me out. And on January 21st, Chael Sonnen’s going to feel what Tito Ortiz feels like. And you know what? It’s going to be painful.

What He Was Actually Thinking: He is going to feel what I feel like! I am owning this thing! But should I have mentioned the troops? People love the troops.

Smith: Chael, this is a fight—when you joined Bellator—the first fight everybody asked me about was ‘Is he going to fight Tito Ortiz?’ You say you don’t care what the fans think, but they’re getting a big, huge fight January 21st. A fight they all wanted. What are you going to show them?

What He Was Actually Thinking: We’ve only said the date four times so far. Better throw that in a few hundred more times. Everyone watching has either been hit in the head a lot or is super high and wondering why Cops isn’t on.

Sonnen: Listen, Tito Ortiz was the world champion when my father passed away. And I made him one final promise on his death bed. Hand to God, this is a true story. I said ‘Dad, I’m going to beat Tito Ortiz and I’m going to be the world champion.’

(Tito furiously shaking his head no).

It’s the one promise I never kept of mine. On January 21st, I’m going to make that right.

What He Was Actually Thinking: Did he really say I was going to feel what he feels like? Maybe he really did break his skull! Oh well—better hit that date again.

Smith: Tito, I’m going to end with you. This is in your backyard, Southern California. How do you welcome Chael Sonnen to it?

What He Was Actually Thinking: This may be terrible, but at least most people watching think I’m actually Joe Rogan.

Ortiz: Well, you know what? Actually, let me go ahead and find Chael Sonnen for you.

(Reaches down and pulls up a “Juicy Juice” box).

I think I’ve got him right about here. And on January 21st, Chael Sonnen (smashes juice box) is going to get smashed.

(Sonnen flexing his muscles and smirking)

As the way I do inside the cage. Kicking ass and taking names. And Chael Sonnen—you’re next.

What He Was Actually Thinking: Nailed it. As the way I do. The old juice-box gimmick gets them every time. God, I’m good. And this guy couldn’t even beat Seraldo Babalu!

Smith: Can’t wait to see it. January 21st at the Forum in Los Angeles, California.

What He Was Actually Thinking: Can’t wait to see it. January 21st at the Forum in Los Angeles, California.

So say we all, Jimmy Smith. So say we all. Bring on the train wreck. We’re ready to smile.

Jonathan Snowden covers combat sports for Bleacher Report.

Read more MMA news on BleacherReport.com

The Question: Does Dan Henderson Belong Among the MMA Immortals?

On Saturday, at UFC 204, the 46-year-old Dan Henderson will try to fill the only hole in his formidable MMA resume: UFC champion.
Despite losing three of his last five fights, Henderson finds himself with one last shot at championship gold, mostly on …

On Saturday, at UFC 204, the 46-year-old Dan Henderson will try to fill the only hole in his formidable MMA resume: UFC champion.

Despite losing three of his last five fights, Henderson finds himself with one last shot at championship gold, mostly on the strength of his name and his yearslong feud with new middleweight kingpin Michael Bisping.

Henderson clearly belongs in any Hall of Fame. His list of opponents reads like an MMA who’s who, and he vanquished many of them, often in spectacular fashion. But where does he rank among the best of the best?

Is he a fringe figure destined to be forgotten with time, or is his a face you might consider carving on the Mount Rushmore of MMA’s formative years? Two of Bleacher Report’s longest-tenured MMA writers, former ESPN scribe Josh Gross and The MMA Encyclopedia author Jonathan Snowden have different takes on the subject and were more than happy to discuss it at length.

Jonathan: Dan Henderson irks me. Every time the old man fights, a flock of think pieces deluge the internet, most of them singing his praises. They claim he’s emblematic of the “right way” of doing things and even that he deserves a place on MMA’s Mount Rushmore beside the best to ever lace up the gloves.

Hogwash, I say.

As a longtime fan and professional historian, I find such claims preposterous. But as they are repeated, year after year and fight after fight, the pushback against Henderson Mania becomes more and more difficult.

In my mind, Henderson symbolizes everything that’s wrong with mixed martial arts. From his early days as the beneficiary of some truly preposterous decisions and his pioneering choice to use exogenous testosterone to power his aging body to his complete disregard for the well-being of his opponents in the cage, Henderson has been bad for the sport for a decade. But over and over again, he gets a pass for each and every indiscretion.

Reasonable people can disagree, and plenty of folks I respect are proud, boisterous Henderson supporters. Josh, who has covered Henderson for much of his career, heads that list. So how about it, Mr. Gross—what is it about Henderson you find so compelling and admirable?

Josh: I’m glad to answer your question, Jonathan.

Henderson is a hell of a fighter, one of the best Americans ever to step into a cage over the last 20 years. Call him Decision Dan or Hollywood or Hendo—whichever way you slice it, there aren’t many fighters who possess the body of work that he does.

I say this fully aware of a few things:

1. Henderson spent a career that began in 1997 fighting in the wild west of sports. Performance-enhancing drugs were rife. Basically everyone dabbled in one way or another. Henderson, through it all, has never once tested positive in the way so many of his colleagues did.

2. Henderson fought for several years under a therapeutic-use exemption for TRT. Criticize him for this all you like. TRT was sordid and a black mark against anyone associated with it, including the UFC and state athletic commissions that at best didn’t seem to care and at worst turned a blind eye.

Context matters, though.

If, like Jonathan, you hold TRT against Henderson, it behooves you. You should recognize that Henderson’s TRT use was not the same as Chael Sonnen’s TRT use or Vitor Belfort’s TRT use.

Unlike Sonnen or Belfort, Henderson sought and received use exemptions from athletic commissions from the very beginning. He did not hide a thing from regulators. Unlike Sonnen or Belfort, Henderson has not tested positive for elevated levels of testosterone. He did not attempt to take advantage of the system.

Jonathan: It’s easy to excuse Henderson’s TRT use. But a closer look kind of shoots holes in the idea that he operated admirably. At best you can credit him with being at the forefront of the doping movement, of successfully playing all the angles. There is something quite American about that.

You’re right that Henderson never tested positive for PEDs prior to his request for a chemical boost. How could he have? He never once fought a bout in which he was subject to drug testing of any kind until he was already the proud holder of a TRT hall pass.

His first 25 fights were all contested in the wild and woolly world of prehistoric MMA. Years after fighters in the UFC were subject to athletic commission testing, Henderson was in Japan, operating under a contract that expressly allowed for doping.

That’s notable but not exclusive to Dan. I’m OK with saying Henderson was a product of his time. But I don’t think he holds any moral high ground—especially considering a professional athlete, by almost all accounts, doesn’t require testosterone replacement without having dabbled extensively in anabolic steroids.

If you’re willing to put that aside, I am too. The sport was and is rife with PED use. Let’s assume usage by both Henderson and his historical peers—I still believe he falls short of true excellence.

In his 19 years in the sport, I don’t believe Henderson has spent a single day as the best fighter in MMA. More than that, I don’t think he has spent a single second as the best fighter in any particular weight class. Henderson was a great fighter, but he doesn’t belong in the conversation with the true immortals. And I think his record shows that.

Josh: Well, Henderson doesn’t deserve a pass for his TRT use. I’m just of the opinion that it wasn’t egregious like notorious users. I mean, TRT use is TRT use any way you look at it, but elevated-over-the-limit TRT use is bordering on criminal. The fact is Henderson never went there so far as we know.

I’m certainly on board with you regarding the reality of lax anti-doping standards in Japan for many years. But Mark Kerr wasn’t just juicing in Pride. Right or wrong, every fighter who competed in that era will be tainted as a likely user for the simple fact that despite woefully inadequate testing, many fighters were still caught, including more than a few of Henderson’s Pride compatriots.

But not Henderson, so there’s that.

As for what Henderson did in competition, well, it was impressive as far as I’m concerned. To me, this is hard to argue the other way. He won all manner of MMA fights, from Vale Tudo style in Brazil and highly stylized bouts in RINGs to rough, single-night UFC tournaments, the wild showcases in Pride and to homogenized Unified Rules contests we see in the Octagon today.

And then there is the way he went about it, morphing from a strong wrestler reliant on control to a gunslinger with a reputation for delivering an H Bomb. Just look at the win against Hector Lombard. I mean, who does that sort of stuff?

Henderson’s record is littered with famous names. He fought all comers in three weight classes. He won way more than he lost, and like many legends, he fell a lot. Taken together, Henderson’s resume is one of a great fighter worth remembering when he finally decides enough is enough.

I don’t know whether Henderson was ever the best fighter in the sport at any particular time, but he certainly ranked alongside the best for long stretches, especially among American competitors. His longevity matters. Whether he was 26 or 46, almost every time Henderson stepped in a ring or cage to fight, there was no doubt that the man standing in the other corner had an extremely difficult challenge in front of him.

So if Hendo doesn’t meet your standards, which fighters over the last 20 years have done it so much better as to qualify as immortal?

Jonathan: The debate about Henderson’s relative merits as a fighter should feel familiar to longtime sports fans, even if they are new to MMA. There’s frequently a divide between those who value short bursts of excellence and observers who prefer consistent performance, even if that performance never reaches such lofty heights.

As a full-time fighter in actual MMA bouts, Henderson has never once won more than four fights in a row. He was certainly consistent—consistently up and down, unable to put together the kind of run that truly defines an athlete built for immortality.

Some of that is a product of his opposition. Lord knows you can’t deny Henderson’s courage and willingness to engage the best fighters of multiple eras. He fought 24 opponents who once carried championship gold for Pride, Strikeforce, Bellator or UFC. That’s amazing.

Here’s the thing, though—he fell short against that top opposition time and time again. Against those top foes, he went just 13-11. That’s the difference between Henderson and someone such as Jon Jones, Fedor Emelianenko or Anderson Silva, fighters who more often than not rose to the occasion.

Even Henderson’s most notable achievement, holding two Pride title belts at the same time, feels hollow. He lost his last fight at 185 pounds before jumping to UFC.

Nothing about Dan Henderson is exactly as it seems.

These kinds of conversations tend to devolve and lose complexity. No doubt by this point, I’ve been cast as a Henderson hater. But that’s not quite right. I recognize his achievements and that he’s a fighter many hold close to their hearts. I think the discussion is more about where he ranks among the best of the best. It’s only against this high standard that Henderson fails to measure up.

On Saturday, he will once again have a chance to win an elusive UFC championship. He didn’t exactly earn this opportunity, but when the cage door closes, that won’t matter one bit. Final word to you, Josh—will Henderson win? And if he does, will it change his legacy in any significant way? When he walks away one last time, what will you remember about one of the few fighters standing who predates you in this sport?

Josh: Randy Couture never won more than four fights in a row, either, by the way. MMA is a wild sport because some of the best—to Jonathan’s point, perceived best—sometimes carry a bunch of losses, particularly if they competed in earlier eras of the sport and kept working past their expiration date.

Couture walked away with a 19-11 record, and perhaps 20 years from now, people will wonder what the big deal was about him or Henderson (32-14) or BJ Penn (16-10-2) or Chuck Liddell (21-8) or Kerr (15-11). Well, they were incredibly important in their day, and we shouldn’t dismiss that because of the parity of cage fighting.

Some mixed martial artists deserve to be considered special, even if they’re blemished in or out of the Octagon. Henderson is in that class.

So will he grab the only thing that’s eluded him thus far, a UFC belt? He was so close against Quinton Jackson in 2007—and not so close against Anderson Silva one bout later. Nine years later, at the age of 46, he’s set to try again. As undeserving as he may be, according to a variety of metrics, the reality is Hendo’s right where he’s always been: toiling away with a huge competitive prize in front of him.

The last time we saw him against Bisping, in 2009, Henderson, aided by TRT, produced perhaps the most iconic knockout of his career. Age and the fight game have since taken their toll. He’s slow. His back is a mess. He can barely work through a proper training camp. Yet he shows up and somehow manages to win, even when no one thinks he will.

I’ve picked against him in recent fights, and I’m doing it again. I favor Bisping to retain the title in Manchester, England. But if anyone is prone to playing spoiler, it’s Hendo. A win or a loss here won’t do much for the wrestler’s legacy. Some people may view a shocking UFC title win as the capper to his career. I’d see it as another day in Hendo’s life.

As for lasting memories, it’s pretty easy. Henderson never avoided anyone and went to war whenever it was called for. Also, his dentures. It’s hard to forget those.

Jonathan Snowden and Josh Gross cover combat sports for Bleacher Report. Gross is the author of Ali vs. Inoki, and Snowden has written three books about the martial arts, most recently Shooters: The Toughest Men in Professional Wrestling.

Read more MMA news on BleacherReport.com

Saying Goodbye to a Friend: MMA Bids Farewell to Josh Samman

I wanted to write something beautiful for my friend Josh Samman, a UFC fighter who died Wednesday at 28. After lingering for days in a coma that was both heartening and terrifying at the same time, Josh slipped from this world to the next. He was…

These traits are rare in isolation. In combination they are almost impossible to find in any one human being. But Josh was that special. It’s easy to fall into trite platitudes. With Josh, they were true. He lived, hard, every minute. This was a guy who, during his last training camp, spent time hundreds of miles away from home teaching martial arts to blind kids.

If you made up Josh Samman for a story, no one would believe you.

He deserves art, certainly something better than I can give. But beauty requires truth, always. And truth is hard. It takes no prisoners and asks no mercy. None of us who knew him, and we are legion in this insular world of mixed martial arts, is quite ready for that.

Josh knew beauty and he knew truth better than most—let his autobiography, The Housekeeper: Love, Death, and Prizefighting, serve as his calling card if my word is not enough. He also knew pain. Too much pain for such a short life.

Twenty-eight-year-old professional athletes rarely drop dead as an act of God. Even the most capricious of deities wouldn’t be so cruel as to remove Josh from this world.

No, his death was worse in a way. Predictable. Pitiable. Preventable.

According to a statement from the Hollywood Police Department, police were called to the scene of a possible drug overdose last Thursday. Samman and his friend Troy Kirkingburg were found in Kirkingburg’s home. Kirkingburg was pronounced dead. Samman was breathing and had a pulse but was unresponsive. He was taken to a nearby hospital.

He never left.

Josh is dead, and drugs were likely the culprit. Likely is a journalistic term of art, designed to negate legal liability. It’s easy. Truth is hard.

Josh felt pain. It crept into his life, metaphorically and literally. The death of his girlfriend Hailey Bevis haunted him. Twinges from injuries old and new lingered. Psychic pain we bury deep, in places we hope never to find. Physical pain, for an athlete, must too be ignored or masked.

Josh, like many fighters, masked his with drugs. Those close to him say Fentanyl patches weren’t far behind when he trained. And, while I can only speculate whether or not pain killers or their opioid cousins from the street corner ended Josh’s life, I can say for certain he’d be far from alone.

Pain killer abuse is ravaging the nation—and inside the world of mixed martial arts, it’s the silent scourge. While steroids and designer performance enhancers receive the bulk of the media attention, many fighters would be unable to perform without that little boost a prescription drug provides.

It’s easy to ignore the sacrifices fighters make, the pain they endure to entertain in the cage. Fighters ignore it too, making unthinkable agony just another part of their daily routine, their grind in the parlance of the sport. It’s tragic all around, but especially when it takes someone like Josh who had so much to offer.

If we’re being honest, Josh was never going to be a UFC champion. He was finding his level in this sport. It appeared, no matter how much we loved him or wanted him to succeed, to be on the fringes. And he knew it on some level, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Josh talked with me often about what was next. Unlike most former fighters, his options were myriad and they were bright. He dabbled in so many things—promotion, music and writing. It’s the later, I believe, where he was destined to thrive.

Disappointed in his book sales, he was looking for guidance about how to capitalize on his gift. I suggested he turn his gaze outward at the world that surrounded him.

Writing about himself was never going to be a cottage industry. Writing about the sport he knew so well could be. Josh began writing about others in his world and, predictably, was good at it right out of the gate. A media career seemed destined. But nothing in this world is—save death.

In the past few days, the one bright light in the darkness that engulfs you after losing a friend has been the realization that my special relationship with Josh was just run-of-the-mill for him. He touched many of us with his kindness, insight and intelligence. While we live, a part of him will too.

Jonathan Snowden covers combat sports for Bleacher Report.

Read more MMA news on BleacherReport.com

The Case Against CM Punk: Why His UFC Dream Deserved to Die

On Saturday night, a smug look seemingly perma-etched on his handsome face as 37-year-old former professional wrestler Phil “CM Punk” Brooks made the long walk to the UFC’s Octagon. As Living Colour’s “Cult of Personality” blared, he soaked in the cheers from an enthusiastic Cleveland crowd, with his tattoos, short hair and extreme dad bod making him look every bit the professional fighter he wanted so desperately to be.

And then the bell rang.

We expected a harsh welcome from rookie Mickey Gall—but no one expected the shellacking that occurred. Once the fight started and the actor was forced into action, the truth emerged. Inside the cage, it always does.

There was never a second Punk looked like he belonged. From his awkwardly upright stance and terrible takedown defense to his desperate flailing on the ground, Punk spent the entire two minutes and 14 seconds of the fight simply trying to make it look respectable. There was no apparent thought of winning—all of his effort was devoted to saving face.

He didn’t pull it off.

Gall manhandled him, beat him mercilessly, then forced him to tap out to a choke. Punk didn’t manage a single significant strike and cried afterward when addressing the media.

It turns out Punk didn’t belong any closer to the cage than the front-row seats he had so often occupied before making his abrupt career change. For Punk and his fans, this was a harsh reality, but it was one that even the most partisan fan found hard to deny in the face of demonstrable proof.

Shame on the media who treated this CM Punk fight like anything other than comedy. Shame on UFC for promoting it and Ohio for licensing it. And shame on coach Duke Roufus for not finding a nice way to tell Punk that perhaps a fight in the UFC wasn’t the greatest idea.

That he was there at all was an embarrassment—to him, to real fighters looking to build their own names in the sport and to the UFC, a promotion that has spent 15 years establishing a reputation for excellence.

After the fight, Punk himself spun a different kind of story, one he had been building to throughout the fight week. In this fairy tale, winning and losing didn’t matter. That he, an all-important wealthy celebrity, was willing to step into the cage at all was its own victory, regardless of outcome.

“In life, you go big or go home,” Punk told UFC color commentator Joe Rogan after the fight. “I just like to take challenges. This was a hell of a mountain to try to climb. I didn’t get to the summit today, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. It doesn’t mean I’m going to stop. …

“I know there’s a lot of doubters, but listen, life is about falling down and getting up. It doesn’t matter how many times you get knocked down, it’s about getting back up.”

CM Punk gave himself a participation trophy after a dismal performance—and many in the media bought into it. With due respect, the least possible amount of respect, I declare that to be complete hogwash.

Much was made of Punk’s “dream” of being a professional cagefighter. Leaving aside the fact that the UFC was a thriving enterprise for all of his athletic prime and he miraculously only discovered this dream after being cut from his seven-figure WWE contract—not every dream is destined to come true.

Punk is hardly alone in dreaming of professional athletic success, though usually those dreams fade after childhood. But sports is the ultimate meritocracy. You make it on to the main card of a UFC pay-per-view, into the starting lineup of an NFL team or to the finals of the U.S. Open based on your success on the field of play.

Trying hard isn’t enough. Wanting it real, real bad isn’t enough, even if you’re a niche celebrity with a fanbase.

It’s not just about good form or fairness or any of the niceties that fall to the wayside when money is there to be made. In combat sports, an overmatched fighter is a danger to themselves, especially an aged, injury-prone fighter like Punk. Lots of people have dreams. But if your dream involves leaping in front of a freight train or a pro fighter, I hope someone stops you.

If CM Punk had taken an amateur fight or fought on a small card to really help a local promoter, no one would have cheered harder than me. Wanting to test himself in an unscripted fight is admirable. It’s the hubris involved in demanding the fight be in the UFC that rankles.

Every earnest plea that this was some kind of martial arts journey was proved a lie by his insistence on inserting himself among the world’s best fighters. This wasn’t someone wanting to establish his place in a new sport—this was a rich guy buying his way into an elite club, an extended fantasy camp with the world watching.

Punk wanted to skip the journey entirely and start from the very top of the ladder. His arrogance was stunning—that he might not get exactly what he wanted never even seemed to occur to him. Before signing with the UFC, he talked with former contender Chael Sonnen about filming a reality show building a fight between the two. He talked openly of possible title shots.

But there’s a difference between a fan who dabbles and the kind of animal who makes it in the cutthroat world of professional fighting. Gall explained that to Punk, letting his fists do the talking, but it’s not clear the lesson sunk in.

Starting from the top doesn’t demand courage. Having the resources to devote years of his life to cosplaying pro fighter isn’t admirable. Earning your spot is admirable. Overcoming obstacles is admirable. Punk skipped all of that inconvenient work and simply showed up. Worse, he wanted a pat on the back for even that questionable achievement.

Before the fight, he claimed just showing up to fight was a win. That should have been a red flag. Real fighters are driven by an unquenchable desire to dominate. They feed their families by winning. Pay their rents by winning. Make it to the UFC by winning.

Punk can’t recreate that feeling or manufacture a drive that doesn’t exist. Being a fighter is about more than strapping on gloves and engaging in carefully controlled violence. On Saturday, Punk learned that the hard way.

Jonathan Snowden covers combat sports for Bleacher Report.

Read more MMA news on BleacherReport.com

UFC’s Secret Weapon: Matchmaker Joe Silva Leaves Giant Shoes to Fill

Joe Silva doesn’t like attention. After 21 years spent crafting the UFC into a promotional machine beyond compare in the world of combat sports, the brains of the operation wanted simply to disappear into retirement by the end of the year.
When I …

When I told him my intention to share his story with the world, he texted back immediately.

“Please don’t. I would prefer to quietly ride off into the sunset.”

For once, Silva isn’t going to get his way. He may not like it, but he deserves a spot in MMA lore.

You may have never heard of Silva, the UFC’s vice president of talent relations, and that’s just the way he wants it. While a spirited conversationalist and forceful personality behind the scenes, Silva doesn’t talk to the media. As a result, many of his contributions to the sport he loves have been lost or, more often, credited to his boss, Dana White.

Before Silva joined the company in 1995, the UFC was in the freak-show business, a bloodsport that had lost its way once it determined which martial art were superior in a real fight. Silva, who entered a “UFC SuperFan” contest prior to the promotion’s third event, had a different idea for the future of what was then called “no holds barred” fighting.

Campbell McLaren, the maverick pay-per-view visionary who helped launch the UFC, had no intention of creating a sport. Silva helped convince him and then-owner Bob Meyrowitz otherwise, providing a legal pad filled with ideas. When you think about a UFC card and the top-to-bottom, evenly matched fights that have come to define them, you’re looking at Silva’s grand vision for the sport of MMA.

McLaren likes to tell people he discovered Silva “handing out quarters in an arcade.” Though he was actually a manager at a video game shop in the mall, it’s close enough to the truth not to matter. Soon enough, however, superfan Silva was on the UFC payroll, providing feedback in his trademark direct and unflinching style.

Silva made himself an integral part of the promotion, so important, in fact, that he is one of the few employees to survive Zuffa‘s purchase of the company in 2001. The official matchmaker at the time was John Peretti, a bad fit for the new regime for any number of reasons. It was former UFC champion Tito Ortiz who told new owner Lorenzo Fertitta about Silva, inadvertently saving his new boss a number of potential headaches.

“Tito said, ‘There’s this kid nobody really knows about—his name is Joe Silva. He’s smarter than anybody in the business. You should talk to him,'” Fertitta remembered. “We flew Joe Silva out and had an instant connection. We couldn’t believe how smart he was. He was like a walking encyclopedia of the history of the UFC. He’s a very strategic thinker and he puts on great fights.”

Silva was a firm believer in logical, merit-based matchmaking. While boxing promoters are famous for manufacturing impressive-looking records that are made of little more than papier-mache, Silva insisted on matching everyone hard. No one was going to advance to the top of the UFC in any weight class without running a gauntlet of the sport’s best.

“You match two talented fighters up,” Silva’s protege Sean Shelby explained to me in a 2009 interview. “The best fighter wins, and you match him with another talented fighter who won. It’s a natural progression for the fighters. They, essentially, make their own destiny. We’re just giving them the platform. If you give talented fighters enough opportunities, at some point in their careers they tell you by their fighting that they are ready. And in my mind it’s easy to see which fighters are one shot, two shots or some time away.”

It sounds simple, but running a promotion as big as the UFC required endless hours tracking a roster that soon numbered in the hundreds. While many amateur matchmakers attempted to wear Silva’s shoes, they weren’t required to manage the delicate personalities of prickly fighters and aggressive managers always looking for a leg up. Silva juggled it all from his home in Richmond, Virginia, keeping track of every fighter above 155 pounds on the UFC roster.

“There’s so much more that goes into matchmaking than just throwing darts at a dartboard,” Shelby said. “The easiest part of the job is deciding who should fight who. It’s like you are playing chess 24 hours a day in your head. But you don’t just get to move the chess pieces where you want to. Like in life, there are so many other factors involved when you try to make moves. And the chess pieces are moving on their own, too. They are alive and have emotions and families. Money is involved. There are so many variables.”

Much of a matchmaker’s job involves getting alpha personalities to bend to your will. Silva was seemingly born for the fray.

Although rarely seen without a smile on his face, he had a fierce intellect, bordering on fearsome. I once answered the phone to be greeted by Silva in mid-rage.

“You are the stupidest motherf–ker in the sport,” he said by way of hello, debating the finer parts of an article he believed had gone awry.

That hardly makes me exceptional in the world of MMA. Silva could and will argue about anything, from the existence of God to the faux science that informed herbal medicine. Around the Zuffa offices he was known as Mr. Sunshine for his constant predictions of doom and gloom.

Silva doesn’t like to lose, and that bled over into his professional life, where managers soon learn to dread any interaction with the UFC’s consigliere. Making fights was just a small part of his job. Managing the UFC’s roster and keeping costs to a minimum was key, and Silva did his work with brutal efficiency.

“He knew that there weren’t many options for fighters,” one manager told Bleacher Report. “And he took ruthless advantage of that fact. If you rejected one of his fights, he would find an even tougher opponent instead. If you didn’t want to fight when he called, it was made clear he would make you wait months for another opportunity. Silva played hardball every time. It’s the only way he knew how to play.”

While that didn’t always make him a fighter’s best friend, it did help UFC turn an incredible profit year after year. The company sold for billions earlier this year, and Silva, according to a source close to him, made seven figures when the UFC changed hands.

That made retirement an easy choice. While his passion for MMA never entirely faded, his energy did. I used to talk to him weekly, and every week, invariably, he would be on the verge of quitting. Each day was filled with dozens of small battles, with Silva often cast in the villain’s role. It wore on him, and he seems happy to walk away.

Silva is the most important employee in UFC history. His imprint was felt all the way down to the company’s DNA. Though he’s never pushed for more recognition, he certainly deserves it. While the sport will move on, it will never be quite the same.

Someone will try to fill Silva’s job—but no one will ever manage to fill his shoes.

Read more MMA news on BleacherReport.com