MMA and the ‘small pond’ paradox

Photo by Etsuo Hara/Getty Images

Jordan Breen looks back on a busy weekend in combat sports and the finer details that drew him to promotions other than the UFC.

This past weekend reminded me of the reason, or at least one of the reasons, I love MMA. And if for those that know me, this might not be the reason they’d expect.

It was a weekend jam-packed full of MMA the globe over; highlighted by UFC Fight Night 161, Professional Fight League continuing its 2019 playoffs, Bellator continuing to expand its European footprint, a One Championship double header as the promotion hit the century mark on its numbered events, and Rizin getting its lightweight grand prix cooking. It goes without saying (as per usual) the UFC’s card in Tampa was the biggest, most important and pressing MMA card on the slate. Nonetheless, to my personal taste, it wasn’t the card I enjoyed the most. No, for a series of idiosyncratic preferences, that designation went to Rizin. And frankly, to a Rizin card that was top-to-bottom among the weakest they’ve staged. Let me try to explain.

To start, this is no indictment of any of the other card that week. It was spiriting to see an all-time great in Joanna Jedrzejczyk right her ship and get back to winning—and, in Demetrious Johnson’s case, continue his run of ONE success. It was intriguing to see the first early career failures of jiu-jitsu aces Kron Gracie and Mackenzie Dern, while a 36-year-old Shinya Aoki is still flexing sublime, sub-minute submissions. Plus, it’s only once in a blue moon you get an upset upkick knockout as spicy as Niko Price’s on James Vick. From Friday night to Sunday morning, I was consistently entertained by the product being put forth by MMA’s most noteworthy promotions. So, why my particular, comparative affinity for the Rizin card?

After 20 years of watching this sport, I think people’s enjoyment of MMA boils down to essential elements that coexist in different mixes, matches and medleys. First, there’s the concept of inquiry, which is constituted by questions like ‘Who is the best fighter in the world?’ and ‘What martial arts techniques are most effective, when and why?’ It’s the competitive, sporting aspect that magnetizes us, keeps us wondering, begets surprises and upsets and teaches us about the modalities of hand-to-hand combat.

Secondly and unsurprisingly, is entertainment. Of course, we don’t all perfectly agree on what elements and attributes make any given fighter or fight ‘entertaining.’ For instance, some might bemoan a sloppy, wild and woolly brawl while others love that car-crash type violence, but I think it’s safe to say we’ve got a pretty consistent rubric on what makes a fight particularly noteworthy and thrilling.

These are the broad strokes that inform our love for combat sports, but there are more granular components that are unique to the individual. To my mind, I’ve always been most motivated and compelled by the question of ‘Who is the best?’ I’m a fairly competitive person, and in turn, I love watching other people compete—no matter the medium. I watch the Scripps National Spelling Bee every year. I’ve streamed high-level Scrabble tournaments while intoxicated, screaming at my computer screen over perceived strategic failings of players who would assuredly trounce me with a rack of seven tiles. Sometimes I google recent competitive eating events, and assess what makes some competitive eaters better at eating particular foods.

Even in the current climate of MMA free agency and the UFC being more willing to let notable, popular or accomplished fighters hit the market and ply their trade elsewhere, I think we can still agree the promotion has the bulk of the world’s best mixed martial artists. And as such, it would seem like a theoretical no-brainer that I would always find a UFC card more engrossing than any other on a given weekend. But, as I said, this isn’t the case and had me thinking about my own personal, pugilistic paradox.

So, consider this past Saturday’s Rizin card. Take or leave the kickboxing matches shoehorned in, though obviously, I still very much enjoy kick-fighting. I could easily do without under-skilled heavyweight train-wrecks like ShomaShibisai and Chang Hee Kim. And, I can safely say all of our lives and viewing experiences would be better without two or three 30 to 60-minute intermissions. Still, there are little quirks that somehow inveigle my fighting brain and give me a different sort of thrill that every so often feels quaint, cozy and more enjoyable than a UFC Fight Night card—which admittedly has, on the whole, a higher calibre of talent and competition.

Consider Rizin’s lightweight grand prix. Is it anywhere near as great in terms of starpower and relevance as Pride’s 2005 lightweight tournament? Not a chance. Does it sting to watch an all-time, underrated great like Tatsuya Kawajiri wither away and atrophy? Absolutely. At the same time, there’s something that inexplicably excites me when I look at a quality MMA tournament where the final four is a Luiz Gustavo, Tofiq Musaev, Johnny Case and Patricky ‘Pitbull’ Freire—all of whom earned snappy stoppages in less than five minutes. We’ve got two quality prospects that were flying well under the radar before Rizin snapped them up, a perpetual bridesmaid on loan from Bellator who is 8-1 in his last nine fights trying to break out of his younger brother’s shadow, and an always-entertaining American journeyman looking to snatch some clout. I dig it.

That quartet is the kind of strange set of bedfellows that you typically only get in a J-MMA tournament. That said, and speaking of Freire being a Bellator mainstay, it’s a similar dynamic to what I found so compelling about Bellator’s initial few seasons under the stewardship of Bjorn Rebney. Back when the promotion’s tournaments were a mishmash of quality prospects from all over the globe, collegiate wrestlers transitioning to the cage, unsung journeymen, and grizzled vets. Do I find that more inherently interesting than a card like UFC 245? No, of course not. It’s just a different, unique flavor that every so often, you get a hunger for.

I’ve always had an affinity for that sort of random nature. So long as I can remember, when I play a fighting game or a sports title, I almost always use random select. And if I don’t, I intentionally take some character or team well off the beaten path. In middle school, I had a friend who would be constantly unnerved when I beat him in EA NHL using Team Japan or Team Kazakhstan—while he invariably chose some powerhouse NHL team with a 90-plus rating. Come to think of it, even today, I have a certain friend in the MMA media who cries and protests when I seek to make it rain on him in NBA 2K with a random Euroleague team. I can’t explain why I have this predilection, but something endlessly entertains and amuses me about using Fenerbahce to dunk all over the Golden State Warriors.

There’s ancillary bells and whistles that also inform my enjoyment. It’s hardly a secret that even with the UFC stepping up its aesthetics in recent years, the production value of marquee Japanese MMA is much more robust and captivating. I’m not even talking about the pageantry of ramps, pyro, big screens and choreographed entrances—which is normally what people think of when they think of these promotions’ production value. I’m thinking more of the VTR packages you get before a fight, which even if I don’t understand a lick of Japanese, offer a visual narrative that’s cohesive and compelling enough that it transcends language.

Going back to the idea of random, overlooked prospects making a splash in a tournament—who saw Sergei Kharitonov for the first time, 15 years ago in his Pride pre-fight promo packages, rappelling out of planes in camouflage and going through military tactical training and didn’t think ‘Wow, this dude is bad ass,’? Even without knowing a word of Japanese or Russian? These vignettes for years have been able to flesh out the personalities of fighters in such a vivid, visual manner that they instantly entice the viewer—educating them on the personalities and lives being these fighters and bolstering the stakes of whatever fight fans are about to watch.

Look no further than the co-main event of Rizin 19, with fast-rising prospect Kai Asakura breaking UFC vet Yuta ‘Ulka’ Sasaki’s jaw in less than a minute. Just watching some promo footage before he steps into the ring, viewers got the story of him and his also-talented brother Mikuru starting off in Akira Maeda’s The Outsider project.

When it was launched a decade ago, the Outsider was seen a bizarre, experimental farce drummed up by a pro-wrestling & MMA trailblazer desperate to cling to relevance. He went about it by putting together a promotion comprised largely of gangsters, bikers, criminals, and other culturally fringe ne’er-do-wells. Now, The Outsider is responsible for arguably the two hottest up-and-comers Japan has to offer. And brother Kai authored one of the year’s biggest upsets, knocking out Kyoji Horiguchi this past August. These outcomes may not be as competitively pertinent as who Henry Cejudo will first defend the UFC bantamweight title against, but the stakes are still material and relevant—and bolstered by the contextual storytelling.

With smaller rosters, fewer cards, and emphasis on that sort of storytelling, fans can be drawn into a different understanding and appreciation for what’s on the line for a given athlete. While the PFL roster could do with some more intriguing non-Russian prospects and fewer UFC retreads, regardless of whether or not he’s a thrilling fighter (he’s not) how am I not going to be at least slightly invested in a 40-year-old journeyman like Louis Taylor?

The dude went with the nickname ‘Handgunz’ throughout the bulk of his career to changing it to ‘Put the Gunz Down’ to bring awareness to the scourge of gun violence in his native Chicago. Now he’s trying to become a millionaire the second time over, after a 12-year career of relative anonymity? PFL’s format, roster size, and promotional angling all actively expose and publicize tales like that, and that’s enjoyable as hell for me.

Yeah, I still want to know who the best fighter in the world is. I don’t want to watch a top-10 talent like Jiri Prochazka clobbering shopworn, outmatched fighters like Fabio Maldonado into perpetuity. I’d hate to never see SeoHee Ham get the chance to prove she’s the best atomweight in the world by not getting in Invicta FC. But, I’m a sucker for a good story and can appreciate the value of different personal and professional stakes. No doubt, the UFC still has the deepest ocean of talent with the biggest fish in the sport. Still, sometimes it’s just more enjoyable to go fishing in a small pond.