In Defense of ‘The Ultimate Fighter’
Jake Rossen Sep 19, 2007
In the hierarchy of cool, being a reality television contestant
falls just short of having leprosy.
Plucked from obscurity, amateur subjects are a blessing for networks eager to produce cheap, efficient programming. Why pay writers and performers huge salaries when you can point a camera at some schmuck from Minnesota or a Hooters waitress from Los Angeles, watch them devolve into a trick monkey, and collect the same ad revenue?
Viewers tune in but with a resentment that doesn't exist for
scripted entertainment. Reality stars are not unlike adult
performers: they're used but with a degree of contempt.
And so it was with Spike TV's "The Ultimate Fighter," the UFC's blatant concession to the genre and the spark that helped turn a bastard sport into a Sports Illustrated cover story. Even UFC President Dana White sputtered his disapproval for such bottom-feeding, expressing distain for reality TV. (This, presumably, before he started cashing checks written by its viewers.)
Two things transpired that helped validate the names drawn from central casting: Forrest Griffin (Pictures) very nearly defeated a former light heavyweight champion in Tito Ortiz (Pictures), and Diego Sanchez (Pictures) made controlling Nick Diaz (Pictures) look effortless.
If these guys were a joke, Diaz and Ortiz weren't laughing.
Still, the perception remains that alumni from "The Ultimate Fighter" haven't earned their bones the way established roughnecks did by coming up in seedy bars and EMT-adverse club events.
Observers call it not paying their dues. I call it sour grapes.
Speaking with former "TUF" participants, what's perceived as a free ride into the big show is anything but. In coming up the traditional route, you have constant access to your training camp, coaches, partners, and confidantes. When you fight, they're a few feet away, their advice and encouragement tailored to your needs based on the communal hours spent in the gym.
In the Spike-funded house, your camp is left behind. The coach that took you from a sloppy striker to a kickboxing phenom? Gone. The guy at your gym that has laser-accurate advice mid-round? Gone. Your old man in the stands, hollering support? Forget it.
The "TUF" house is a sociology experiment in Thunderdome, an isolationist torture chamber that robs every fighter of his comfort zone. The bed isn't yours, the food tastes funny, and your opponent is 10 feet away, munching on a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and plotting the best way to shove your molars down your throat.
Even the fights themselves are held under primitive circumstances. Forget coming out to a crowd full of supporters; you enter into a glorified warehouse in the middle of the afternoon.
Easier? This is Machiavellian.
Athletes are deprived of the emotional nourishment that virtually everyone else takes for granted. How jarring must it be to function independently of the routine that you've grown accustomed to, day in and day out? To have familiarity stripped from you?
One athlete was denied his Bible. Communicating with family and friends is verboten. It's an absolute pressure cooker, and I suspect that any athlete looking to debut in the UFC would gladly take a tour through the feeder shows for a couple of years, have his support system intact, and pass on the opportunity to become a test subject sponsored by Burger King.
"The Ultimate Fighter" 6, which premieres Wednesday, is likely to have the same combustible mix of real, credible talent and personas enlisted purely for drama. There will undoubtedly be some athletes who should only be allowed into a UFC event if they buy a ticket. Others, though, don't deserve the kind of catchall criticism lobbied by people who think that a television camera automatically equates to a free ride.
Griffin's fight with Ortiz was subtitled "Reality Check," but I'd venture to say he suffered one a long time ago: the first day he stepped into that house.
For comments, email [email protected]
Plucked from obscurity, amateur subjects are a blessing for networks eager to produce cheap, efficient programming. Why pay writers and performers huge salaries when you can point a camera at some schmuck from Minnesota or a Hooters waitress from Los Angeles, watch them devolve into a trick monkey, and collect the same ad revenue?
Advertisement
And so it was with Spike TV's "The Ultimate Fighter," the UFC's blatant concession to the genre and the spark that helped turn a bastard sport into a Sports Illustrated cover story. Even UFC President Dana White sputtered his disapproval for such bottom-feeding, expressing distain for reality TV. (This, presumably, before he started cashing checks written by its viewers.)
The malice didn't end with White. Fans of MMA chuckled at the idea
that unknown, rough-edged athletes were worthy of national
attention. Here was a series that exposed their sport to millions
of observers -- but instead of seeing the upper echelon of talent,
they were getting Jason Thacker. Not an unreasonable complaint.
Two things transpired that helped validate the names drawn from central casting: Forrest Griffin (Pictures) very nearly defeated a former light heavyweight champion in Tito Ortiz (Pictures), and Diego Sanchez (Pictures) made controlling Nick Diaz (Pictures) look effortless.
If these guys were a joke, Diaz and Ortiz weren't laughing.
Still, the perception remains that alumni from "The Ultimate Fighter" haven't earned their bones the way established roughnecks did by coming up in seedy bars and EMT-adverse club events.
Observers call it not paying their dues. I call it sour grapes.
Speaking with former "TUF" participants, what's perceived as a free ride into the big show is anything but. In coming up the traditional route, you have constant access to your training camp, coaches, partners, and confidantes. When you fight, they're a few feet away, their advice and encouragement tailored to your needs based on the communal hours spent in the gym.
In the Spike-funded house, your camp is left behind. The coach that took you from a sloppy striker to a kickboxing phenom? Gone. The guy at your gym that has laser-accurate advice mid-round? Gone. Your old man in the stands, hollering support? Forget it.
The "TUF" house is a sociology experiment in Thunderdome, an isolationist torture chamber that robs every fighter of his comfort zone. The bed isn't yours, the food tastes funny, and your opponent is 10 feet away, munching on a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and plotting the best way to shove your molars down your throat.
Even the fights themselves are held under primitive circumstances. Forget coming out to a crowd full of supporters; you enter into a glorified warehouse in the middle of the afternoon.
Easier? This is Machiavellian.
Athletes are deprived of the emotional nourishment that virtually everyone else takes for granted. How jarring must it be to function independently of the routine that you've grown accustomed to, day in and day out? To have familiarity stripped from you?
One athlete was denied his Bible. Communicating with family and friends is verboten. It's an absolute pressure cooker, and I suspect that any athlete looking to debut in the UFC would gladly take a tour through the feeder shows for a couple of years, have his support system intact, and pass on the opportunity to become a test subject sponsored by Burger King.
"The Ultimate Fighter" 6, which premieres Wednesday, is likely to have the same combustible mix of real, credible talent and personas enlisted purely for drama. There will undoubtedly be some athletes who should only be allowed into a UFC event if they buy a ticket. Others, though, don't deserve the kind of catchall criticism lobbied by people who think that a television camera automatically equates to a free ride.
Griffin's fight with Ortiz was subtitled "Reality Check," but I'd venture to say he suffered one a long time ago: the first day he stepped into that house.
For comments, email [email protected]
Related Articles
