With pay-per-view prices rising steadily and more mixed martial arts events being broadcast than ever before, it’s crucial that fans have consistent coverage to turn to for accurate, knuckle-by-knuckle postscripts of their favorite bouts.
This is not that coverage.
Saturday’s UFC card deflated fan enthusiasm when middleweight title contender
Travis Lutter (Pictures) failed to sweat out enough electrolytes to make his bid official. “How dare he not dehydrate himself to the point of catatonia,” the irate crowd was heard to utter in between sips of beer.
Regardless, the show went on as scheduled. For those of you who were disinclined to spend a Saturday night in the company of lonely men at your local Hooter’s, I offer these notes.
In a new faux-Roman intro, the UFC’s welfare Russell Crowe suits up for battle and enters the arena. I think this is from chapter eight of
Subtext for Dummies.
Commentator Mike Goldberg mentions the UFC is being broadcast in HD for the very first time. The effect is impressive: I feel like I’m right there in the crowd, dodging the spittle of sloshed fans whose blood alcohol content is higher than their IQ.
In footage from the weigh-in, we see Lutter failing to make weight even after stripping down to his epidermis. Casper has been to the tanning booth more than this guy. The adjacent ring girls do their best to maintain some dignity, a largely futile endeavor when you’re in bikini bottoms and two feet away from pasty man-ass.
Lutter explains that he had a “really hard time getting motivated” to lose the weight. If a title shot in front of the UFC’s massive audience doesn’t get this guy out of bed in the morning, his future in King of the Cage isn’t looking too bright.
Rogan explains Lutter has no coach to turn to for guidance in these matters. He should’ve hired Sensei Kreese.
Middleweight champ
Anderson Silva expresses disappointment at Lutter not making the weight. He seems almost apologetic that he’ll have to hurt him extra badly now.
Some stern-faced Croat is shown — Mirko something. He doesn’t look so tough.
Patrick Cote (Pictures) and
Scott Smith prepare to enter the ring. Cote is 0-4 in the UFC, rendering his presence on a main pay-per-view card somewhat inexcusable.
As Cote and Smith engage, we see a new, smaller round clock to compliment the updated graphics on the telecast. Viscerally, the promotion’s identity is now a cross between the WWE and
Slamball.
Cote grabs an errant knee and slams Smith in the highlight of the round.
Round one ends with Cote edging out Smith. It is not exciting. And by “not exciting,” I mean I briefly flipped to
Sexual Healing on Showtime.
Cote rocks Smith, who feigns being wobbled and then busts out a crane kick. Cote sweeps the leg. Not really: he doesn’t take the bait. Both Smith and Cote seem to be having much more fun in the ring than the fans are watching them.
Round two ends to a chorus of boos, the mob dissatisfied with the tactical, conservative style of the two.
Anderson Silva is seen in his dressing room, cool as ice. He looks like he’s in the lounge of a club. Someone hands him a drink with an umbrella in it.
Mercifully, the fight is over. Cote wins a close decision, his first Octagon victory outside of
The Ultimate Fighter series.
Tito Ortiz (Pictures) is spotted with current flame Jenna Jameson. Her cleavage gets more airtime than Cote’s post-fight interview.
We’re back in Silva’s dressing room, which now sports a strobe light. In the background, staffers are busy installing a stripper pole.
Quinton Jackson (Pictures) and
Marvin Eastman (Pictures) talk up their fight. Eastman is no joke: good Muay Thai, solid wrestling. If Jackson isn’t sharp, he’s going to have real problems.
Eastman comes out looking relaxed. And why not? He’s a prison guard by trade. Climbing in the Octagon must pale in comparison to fighting off sexually repressed men with homemade knives.
“Kick his f__in’ ass!” A Rampage fan advises Jackson on strategy.
Bruce Buffer announces Eastman as ”The Beast,” not “The Beastman.” Did Mattel send a cease and desist order? (Don’t laugh: have you seen He-Man Gibson lately? Exactly.)
Jackson and Eastman converge for an intense staredown.
Quinton clinches, but Eastman isn’t having it. Both guys are moving well.
Dirty boxing by QJ; Eastman answers with sharp elbows. Eastman clearly does not give a rat’s rear end about the UFC’s plans for Jackson.
Tight first round. Jackson gets the edge for a slight flurry that connected and had Eastman on the retreat.
Liddell is seen book-ended by two blondes. It doesn’t suck to be Chuck.
Jackson lands a right hook that has Eastman on ice without skates. It’s all over. A very respectable debut for Jackson.
“It was time for some ‘black on black’ crime.” I really oughta have Quinton just write these things.
Controversy ensues when
Roger Huerta (Pictures) lands a vicious knee to
John Halverson (Pictures), flattening him out for a subsequent TKO victory. Halverson complained it was an illegal knee to the cranium; the replay disagreed. It appears the knee may have struck his neck, which could’ve scrambled a synapse or two. The best vantage point came from referee Yves Lavigne, who warned, “No knees to the head. That’s your last warning.” I wonder how things looked from the grassy knoll.
Silva is seen napping backstage, cradling a Vermont teddy bear. Two blondes are picking up their clothes off the floor.
Cro Cop’s highlight consists primarily of
Heath Herring (Pictures) and a few pithy clips of his first fight with
Wanderlei Silva (Pictures). DSE apparently wasn’t too keen on sharing his senses-shattering knockouts, particularly the one that nearly decapitated their February 24 attraction. “Right leg, hospital. Left leg, cemetery,” Filipovic warns. If God ever wanted to punish the devil, he would send this man.
Eddie Sanchez walks out looking like he’s on his way to a root canal during a Novocain shortage.
Mirko comes out to the PRIDE theme song, which prompts lots of giggling online. Some lucky staffer must have had a talk with him about the current popularity level of Duran Duran in the U.S. Mirko countered with his favorite Wham! track, but was refused.
In the ring, Cro Cop paces and waits to pounce. It’s surreal to see him in the Octagon. His quads are the size of Tito’s head.
“Good time to come back as a heavyweight, Randy.” Goldberg drips sarcasm all over his broadcasting partner. It’s funny because it’s true.
Cro Cop and Sanchez receive their final instructions from Steve “Boogie Nights” Mazzagatti.
Cro Cop stalks a backpedaling, doe-eyed Sanchez; the air is thick with tension. This feels like a Discovery Channel special about to go horribly wrong.
Cro Cop lands a glancing kick to the ribs. The audience
oohhs and
ahhhs, incredulous a heavyweight doesn’t have the striking ability of an amputee. To them, watching Cro Cop is akin to the introduction of color television.
Cro Cop grounds an overmatched Sanchez and pounds him out for the expected, albeit underwhelming, win. Sanchez’s grandkids are never going to hear the end of this.
Joe Rogan asks Mirko to talk us through his victory. Unfortunately, Cro Cop met his daily quota of syllables (seven) in the pre-fight interviews. He stares at the microphone until Rogan pulls it away.
Tonight’s UFC telecast is brought to us by
The Number 23 and the letter “X.”
Sesame Street really has changed since I was a kid.
A morose Lutter comes ambling out. Rogan expresses concern his brain may be too “dry” due to his weight cutting.
“Michael Jordan-esque in his grappling skills is Lutter,” a Yoda-channeling Goldberg intones.
“No,” Rogan replies, mortified. “No, he’s not.”
“He’s not that good?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
I decide to give Goldberg a break. By my count, this is only his 71st UFC. He’ll get better.
Silva keeps up the lateral movement to avoid the Lutter tackle. The champ launches a flying knee, which Lutter eats a portion of before taking him down.
Silva cinches a body triangle from the bottom to try and suck whatever fight the dry-brained Lutter has left in him.
Round one ends as Lutter mounts and strikes Silva. A sloppy armbar attempt kills his momentum, but it was enough activity to earn him the round. He looks visibly exhausted.
Silva appears to be sipping from a Jack Daniels bottle between rounds. I fear he’s taking Lutter a tad too lightly.
Lutter nails another takedown, but Silva sinks in a deep triangle choke. Lutter pushes on the side of his own head to alleviate the pressure. After a minute of fighting, Silva locks up the arm that was countering and forces the tap.
Rogan and Couture debate the legality of the strikes that Silva delivered to Lutter’s crown. They involved the point of the elbow, not the blunt underside, but it doesn’t seem to concern anyone else.
A triumphant Silva screams some angry Portuguese. That shot of booze did nothing to calm him down.
A dapper-looking Wesley Snipes is seen applauding Silva. Blade is looking relaxed despite a recent TKO via tax audit.
Tim Sylvia (Pictures) is spotted drinking a Red Bull. Xyience executives immediately start making ominous jokes about “hunting accidents.”
Frank Edgar (Pictures) enters to face
Tyson Griffin (Pictures) in a lightweight prelim.
Griffin walks out to
Eye of the Tiger, immediately endearing himself to anyone under the age of 35.
Fired up and wishing to pummel some raw cow torso, I race across the street and ask my local butcher if I can beat his meat. He threatens to call the police. I return home.
Fight’s over. Griffin finishes strong with a deep, deep kneebar, but Edgar toughs it out. Edgar landed the bigger, more pervasive shots and had the deeper gas tank. The judges agree, awarding Edgar the victory in the evening’s only true upset.
Terry Martin (Pictures) and
Jorge Rivera (Pictures) prepare to mix it up in another televised prelim.
Martin isn’t fond of foreplay: he KOs Rivera just 14 seconds into the round.
After
Heath Herring (Pictures)’s upset in late January, the UFC brass has to be relieved both Jackson and Cro Cop didn’t succumb to nerves. Given “all or nothing” as an ultimatum, though, fans would probably have opted for the latter; this was largely a mediocre card, salvaged only by a contentious main event and an early Fight of the Year candidate in Edgar-Griffin.
Can Showtime’s inaugural Elite XC offering capitalize on the mixed feelings left by the event? Or would they have been better off with a
Road House marathon? Tune in next week to find out.
For comments, email jrossen@sherdog.com
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