the novelty of fighting is gone for me. I dont want to see rematches over and over. Ive lost interest in most of the fights nowadays.
I've felt this way for a long time, but part of it, and this sucks to admit, but part of it comes with aging. I'm just speaking for myself here. There are maybe a couple of decades of life when everything is vibrant, and then after that comes this slow slide into grey, stupid muck.
I still get pumped for great fights and all, but I'm much cooler these days about missing a show. It's just MMA---and frankly, it's a very weird sport. I'm not overjoyed to finally realize this. But what is this sport? Some desperate goofballs get together to punch each other in the face in a cage. Why the fuck are they doing this again? I can't always remember. It seemed like I knew, at one time. I could swear I really knew. Now? Sometimes I watch these fights and I don't understand a single second of it, or myself.
Anyway. We're very far removed now from those early days when every show was amazing, even when it actually wasn't. It was new, and we were new along with it. This is what time does. Little by little it brings a worse version of the past into the present, and little by little, you realize how much better the past was, and how much better---even if slightly---the past before that was. It's the same for everything. The first girlfriend/steady lay you had, it'll never be like that again. It's over. It's OVER now. Now you're just a struggling insect on the sidewalk with some unnecessary powers of self-awareness, and a long jumble of memories---thousands of MMA fights---trailing out the back of your head. Spaghetti circuits, your own death yawning out the back of your pitiful head. What are you going to do? Become Richard Branson and rage against the dying of the light? Jump out of airplanes at age 70 to keep time from murdering you with little jokes about the past?
Forget all that. Suppose you're trapped in an elevator with Dana. It's 120 degrees, with no power but some very dim emergency lights. The small talk is over and the conversation has turned to MMA. He knows you're a fan, and wants your honest opinion. You tell him what's up, and he just shrugs, lifts his eyebrows like, hm, okay. "But there's so much you don't know." He tells you what goes on behind the scenes, and you start sympathizing for a minute. He's making some sense. He tells one little story, then another. After about an hour, you feel like he made a point.
But then he keeps talking, and he goes on and on. He's starting to ramble. He's becoming angry, his voice is starting to carry. He's really fucking loud. The elevator is small, and you're not deaf. You want to tell him to chill out but he won't stop. You just sit there, hostage in this elevator, listening to Dana go on and on. A rant about how greedy and misguided all the fighters are, what pains in the ass they are, except for maybe one or two of them. About what a bunch of motherfuckers everybody's managers are. How nasty and brutal this business is, and how nobody understands that you have to fuck the fighters or they'll fuck you. His face red, sweat gushing down, globules of sweat dripping from his chin. "All these motherfuckers, I'll tell you what, it's a shark tank out here. Hold on, I'm getting a text from my mom. What the fuck does SHE want? Jesus Christ, it ain't easy bein' me."
I feel like we've been in that elevator for over ten years now. Waiting for, fuck, I don't know. Possibly---this is the worst thing it could be, but possibly---1993. I think that's what we're waiting for, but this elevator can't go there. Nothing can, but the fucking screaming spaghetti trailing behind your skull. Where all the good times are.