*UFC 129: Epic Achievement of Glory

      
    At a time of year when the NHL and NBA playoffs are giving us so much juicy drama to talk about, the UFC came along and, for one night at least, rendered them both completely irrelevant. No big.


    The massive spectacle staged Saturday night at Toronto's Rogers Centre was a full-on coup for the world's biggest fight promotion. A living metaphor for the sport's validity in the global landscape. The sheer magnitude of the event was enough to make it a classic, but the action on the card is what truly made the evening a resounding success.


    A record ten Canadians competed on the UFC 129 card, a piece of intelligent and strategic fight picking on behalf of Dana White and his staff. The Canucks went six for four on the night, and even those who lost put on a great show. Ontario native Mark Hominick may have gotten the largest ever ovation for a dude who got thoroughly beaten down. Featherweight champ Jose Aldo laid the smackdown on Hominick through the first four rounds, but the deformed Hominick riled his hometown crowd into a frenzy when he turned the tables in the fifth and nearly knocked Aldo out. 


    Seven out of the twelve fights on the card were finishes, with a few nasty ones, like Randy Couture eating a Steven Seagal kick from Lyoto Machida, and gritty veteran Jason MacDonald getting the W with a textbook triangle choke. The important part here is that the fans got some literal bang for their buck, which goes a long way when lower level seats are being sold for four-digit numbers.


    The aforementioned Couture capped off his legendary career by receiving an emotional ovation from the record crowd, the type of moment that alone is worth the price of admission. A Randy Couture retirement fight is big enough to headline any UFC event, but rather than hog the spotlight, "The Natural" opted to be a part of history. And history it was.


    Canadian demi-god Georges St-Pierre put in yet another workman-like victory over top contender Jake Shields, playing it safe by feeding Shields a steady diet of his trademark jab, and scoring some takedowns late in the fight to secure the victory. The impressive aspect of the win was that GSP maintained control throughout the fight, despite being blind in one eye for more than half of it. No big. Winning is what legends do. I for one would still love to see a rematch with Shields, but that doesn't seem to be a thought shared by anyone in the industry.


    In the aftermath it is difficult to even reflect on the magnitude of what was accomplished in this city on Saturday night. It was not just a big show with a big gate. This was a symbol. This time last year mixed martial arts was not even legal in this province, and no signs of that changing were on the horizon. Dana White and Canadian director Tom Wright (he of former CFL commissioner fame) did a fantastic job of convincing the McGuinty government of how good this could be for the local economy. 


    The real victory is in how significant this event was on the world stage, and in raising the profile of the city. This ain't no Pan-Am games, and sports fans know that. There was a special feeling in the building on Saturday. A feeling that those in attendance were a part of something special. A part of history. From the layout of the floor, to the positioning of the screens, to the selection of the fights, to the performances of the fighters themselves, the UFC scored a unanimous decision: epic achievement of glory. No big.

*The business of bloodlust (and so it begins...)

The world of mixed martial arts is a sick and debaucherous spectacle. Bright lights, loud music, women in bathing suits paraded about, men in tights pounding each others faces into oblivion and twisting limbs into unnatural positions, all to the soundtrack of the drunken masses screaming uncontrollably for more. Montreal is a sophisticated market.

 Ironic however is the fact that a massive contingent of last night's crowd at the Bell Centre in Montreal was from Ontario, and other neighboring  provinces (as exemplified at one point with a hearty chant of "Go Leafs Go" from within enemy territory). Trains, and buses flooding in from all over packed full of fight fans ready to let loose the primal instinct within all of us; The insatiable blood lust that conservative North America likes to deem as taboo. Waiters and hotel concierges begrudgingly unfazed by the aloof obnoxiousness of the glossy-eyed anglophones who had, for one weekend, invaded their city.

The UFC is like sex on steroids, meaning if nothing else, it is extremely marketable. People love violence, pain, and competition. They love a good guy to place on a pedestal and love a bad guy to condemn to a beating within an inch of his life. They love victory. It only makes sense that the UFC has found their niche by exploiting these basic human traits by turning their event into a one-stop shop. Hell, they even have near-naked women, just to give it that edgy undertone of smut.

The only thing differentiating these events with the battle-to-the-death clashes in the old coliseum is the option to order on pay-per-view (and of course the privilege of retaining one's right to live should one lose). The knowledge of these facts doesn't sway anyone's interest in the slightest. Who doesn't like to embrace humanity on it's lowest, most animalistic levels? Not this guy. No good people, I fancy myself one of the unruliest of the hordes.

UFC 124 offered one of the best opportunities to see all of these aspects on display at their finest. Georges St-Pierre: the indomitable hometown champion of the people. Josh Koscheck: incorrigible uber-douche of the decade. Vince McMahon wishes he could write 'em this good. Don King wishes he could (still) hype 'em this big. Although the card for the night was fairly impressive, with top-end talent like Thiago Alves , Joe Stevenson, and Stefan Struve being showcased, it all seemed like a distraction. A side-show, or precursor to what everyone was truly there to see. Good versus evil. Right versus wrong. Canada versus the world. 'Fuck Josh Koscheck and the arrogant horse he rode in on'.

Every fight leading up to the main event was overshadowed by chants of 'G.S.P.', and when the moment had finally arrived, the crowd had been whipped into a raucous frenzy. In true sporting cliched fashion the building was electric. St-Pierre might as well have made his entrance on a fire-breathing white steed. For all of the hype surrounding the encounter there really were no surprises. The good guy has to win. And how. The champion rode the wave of adoration to yet another annihilation of a sub-par contender, and the crowd was sent home feeling like they had all reached a simultaneous orgasm. And in some crazy, semi-metaphorical sense, they had.

Somewhere Dana White is laying on pile of money with several beautiful women, cackling with victorious joy at the monster he's created. No other result could have been better for business. An unstoppable champion, a battered villain, a satisfied fan base, and a venue three times that size to showcase his next Canadian spectacle. His business is blood lust, and business is very, very good.