I returned to my station to cover the fights, and out came Dolce. From the apron, Rampage stared at Dolce’s opponent and made a throat-slashing gesture with the tip of his thumb, like Josh Barnett does after he defeats an adversary. I began to wonder how I was going to fit all of these little scenes into an article about Rampage if I did end up getting an interview and came up with the idea for the piece you’re (hopefully) reading now.

After Dolce won, the victorious camp loitered a bit at ringside. I approached again, but event staff wanted to get rid of the distraction for the main event, which pitted two of New England’s best featherweights against each other for the first WCF title belt. Understandable, I thought, but I had to watch as Rampage was hustled to the back again. Cavallaro told me it was likely Jackson and company would be gone by the time the main event was over, and I needed to see the fight. I conceded defeat -- almost. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want the last fight to end quickly so I could still have a shot. At this point, it wasn’t just my assignment that was motivating me. It was a desire to actually have something to show for my countless, foolhardy laps around the building.

The main event finished in the first round, and I made my move. I parted the backstage curtain, looked to my right, and there he was, also on the move. I pursued. I asked the dreadlocked guy if I could have a minute with Jackson, reminding him that I’d been chasing him all night. He made a face that gave me hope, and just as I got up to Rampage again, he walked through a bathroom door, and it shut.

There was an odd déjà vu in the scene. I wracked my brain trying to retrieve the memory as one of the world’s best fighters did his business on the other side of the door. Then I remembered. We had Rampage on “Beatdown” radio once, and midway through the interview he revealed that he was relieving himself while answering questions. I guess I bring it out of him.

“Sherdog?” Jackson asked shortly after the door opened. Then he started to take his T-shirt off. Had he had enough pestering? Was I about to get flat lined? Turned out he just needed to change into club wear for post-show festivities. He told the guy with the gold teeth, his cousin -- who also calls him “Rampage” -- to retrieve his coat from a room where they were eating pizza earlier. I finally had his ear and asked him about his jaw.

“The Internet blew it out of proportion,” he said. “I hurt my jaw the week before the Wanderlei [Silva] fight, and I fought that fight [at UFC 92] and Wanderlei kind of hurt it a little bit right before I knocked him out. Then I hurt my jaw in the training camp for [Keith] Jardine, then Jardine hit me a few times [at UFC 96] and it hurt. They say I got to get my jaw scoped. It’s nothing major; it’s not broken or anything -- just ligaments.”

All during his answer, there was commotion about how to get to a club a crew of people were headed to after the show. Rampage grabbed my notepad so someone could write down an address. Then he stopped a guy who was rolling a rack of fight shirts and women’s panties that were for sale at the show. The two women who were sitting next to Jackson earlier had appeared. I got my confirmation that they were with him.

“I can’t handle these two girls by myself,” Jackson said to one of them, “even though one of ’em [is] stuck up.”

It was remarkable how quickly Jackson’s aura morphed from unapproachable to personable. It was easy to see why he’s one of the sport’s most beloved personalities and how a death-defying traffic mishap in which he was involved last year evoked more empathy than backlash towards him. In just about a minute, he was dishing like he was your best friend.

“On my way, the stewardess on the airplane was kind of racist towards me,” he said to a dozen or so other people who by now had gathered around him. “She just was really rude with me. I turned it off, and she like threatened to put me off the airplane if I didn’t have my phone in my pocket. And the guy next to me had his phone out, too.”

Yes, the guy next to him was white. And so was a little kid, no older than 10, who had approached him looking for an autograph. Jackson signed his jacket near the shoulder.

“We are all one, aren’t we? We’re all the same,” he said to the boy. “We all got the same father. Did you know that?”