There were moments on Saturday of the kind of effortless brilliance that could only come from the madcap mind of Brazilian fighting god Anderson Silva.
Michael Bisping may have won the bout on the judges’ cards at UFC Fight Night 84, but it was the 40-year-old Silva who won the highlight reel, his martial genius shining as brightly as ever.
First came the knee that sneaked in at the bell as the third round came to a close—the right obfuscating, until the last possible second, the left that nearly ended the fight. The front kick that made Vitor Belfort wince in commiseration followed. Finally there was the darting left-handed counter that was once Silva’s calling card.
There were also moments during the course of 25 minutes when Silva looked like anything but the greatest mixed martial arts fighter of all time. When Bisping’s vanilla jab thudded off his head. When the right hand that trailed it found a home as well. When Bisping, mocked by keyboard warriors as “pillow-fisted,” staggered and shocked the former champion.
When Anderson Silva looked decidedly human.
Strangely, it was the fading glory that was sadder than the sheer ineptitude. Had Silva simply been outclassed by Bisping, a fighter more famous for his feuds than anything he’s done in the cage, the message would have been clear. After 19 years, the last spent under the cloud of PED abuse, it would have been time to say goodbye.
For two rounds, it seemed Silva might finally be done. His entire game, built around his uncanny ability to draw opponents in with the ruse of vulnerability, only to abruptly dismiss their hopes and dreams with a bob of his head and a flick of his wrist, was failing him. A product of supernatural reflexes and a sixth sense that allowed him to see the action play out in slow motion, Silva looked hopeless when his powers abandoned him.
He once feasted on fighters like Bisping, as good as the Brit still is. Slow of foot and hand, technically precise but predictably orthodox, Bisping would have been a crippled mouse, Silva the taunting and playful cat. Never one to fight with rounds or the judges in mind, Silva waited for his moment to unleash a ferocity that bordered on sadism.
In his prime, Silva would drop his hands and invite his foes to do their worst. Capable of eating some punches and dodging others in action-star style, he would make opponents pay for the slightest mistake with his blistering counter punches.
People often miss the link between Silva’s defensive panache and his explosive violence in the offensive phase. His taunts, dancing and cocky refusal to defend his face were more method than madness. It gave his opponents the illusion they had a chance, invoking a brief flash of courage often snuffed by Silva’s brutal retort.
Against Bisping, little of what made him UFC middleweight champion for seven years was present in more than bursts. Punches he would have once dismissed with ease were finding his chin, Silva looking as shocked as anyone as Bisping systematically won minutes and then rounds.
For some, Silva’s brief fits of fistic excellence were mere reminders of what was once a constant. For others, such as UFC president Dana White, they were sufficient to win the fight.
Unfortunately, they are likely an invitation for Silva to continue fighting as if he were still a young man. He clearly believes he won the fight and will likely be prompted to make few, if any, changes.
There comes a time when every athlete is forced from the sport they love. In combat sports, it’s all too often a moment marred by tragedy. This is a sport that can leave fighters worse than it found them, no matter how much money they make for mere minutes of their time.
The truth is, Silva is no longer the fighter we all either loved or loved to hate. His reflexes, deadened by time and his chin, diminished by years of abuse, can no longer carry him to greatness. Bisping, never a power puncher, was able to expose an inability to take a punch.
Another fighter, on some sad night, will leave the once-great man looking up at the lights. Maybe that will be enough to shine a light on the shadow of delusion and convince him to make the hard choice to walk away.
Jonathan Snowden covers combat sports for Bleacher Report.
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