Ten, shit even 5 years ago who would’ve thought that the New Yorker could have a stellar mma piece in it?
The Noble Art of Cage Fighting: Stipe Miocic vs. Daniel Cormier
Kelefa Sanneh
Saturday night’s U.F.C. fight, between Stipe Miocic and Daniel Cormier, was advertised with a two-word slogan: “THE SUPERFIGHT.” This is a designation with a particular history. To some older fight fans, the term may evoke “The Super Fight,” the 1970 pseudo-documentary that told the story of a purely hypothetical fight between Muhammad Ali and Rocky Marciano. But, in the U.F.C., the term has generally applied to a less fantastical phenomenon: a fight between two champions from different weight divisions. Even so, the idea of a so-called superfight retains something of that old, outlandish appeal—as if fans’ most extravagant wishes were coming true.
In some ways, Miocic vs. Cormier certainly qualified. Miocic was the heavyweight (two-hundred-and-sixty-five-pound) champion, having won the title two years ago, in Brazil, in the middle of a six-fight winning streak that transformed him from a respected contender into an all-time great. By the time Miocic strolled into the cage on Saturday night, fans generally agreed that he was one of the most skillful and accomplished heavyweights in the history of mixed martial arts. And Cormier was unquestionably the best light-heavyweight (two-hundred-and-five-pound) M.M.A. athlete of his generation—with an asterisk. He became the champion three years ago, and hadn’t lost since—again, with an asterisk. Even better, Cormier had previously competed, with great success, as a heavyweight. Cormier and Miocic, were, literally speaking, the two biggest champions in the U.F.C. Why not have them fight each other?
The idea of this fight seemed somewhat far-fetched back in January, when Dana White, the president of the U.F.C., suggested it. To his credit, and to fans’ delight, White was able to put his idea into practice. This was a particularly risky fight for both champions. The superfight was a heavyweight-title fight, which meant that Miocic risked losing his title to an opponent who was viewed as smaller than him—although in fact, at the weigh-in, Cormier was revealed to be slightly heavier. (Perhaps Cormier took the opportunity to pack on some extra muscle, although much of that new muscle seemed to be located in his stomach and backside.) And while Cormier’s light-heavyweight championship wasn’t at risk, his body was: the oddsmakers listed Cormier as an underdog, four years older (age thirty-nine, where Miocic is thirty-five) and five inches shorter (five feet eleven inches, where Miocic is six-four). Their willingness to fight, regardless, made them both seem braver.
Somehow, though, this superfight didn’t quite feel like the world-conquering blockbuster it should have been—perhaps because neither Cormier nor Miocic was quite as big a star as his record suggested he should be. Cormier is one of the most likable figures in the sport: a friendly, unpretentious wrestling Olympian who also serves as a television commentator, and who somehow, despite his astonishing skill, comes across as a normal guy. (Four years ago, when Cormier was preparing to make his light-heavyweight début, his opponent dropped out and the fight was cancelled; freed from his pre-fight diet, Cormier managed to eat four pieces of Popeyes fried chickenbefore White called to tell him that a replacement had been found.) Worse still, Cormier has often been overshadowed by Jon Jones, his brilliant but erratic light-heavyweight rival. Jones is the only person who had beaten Cormier, and he did it twice, but neither victory stuck. Jones beat Cormier by unanimous decision in 2015, although, after a hit-and-run a few months later, Jones was suspended and stripped of his light-heavyweight championship, which Cormier won. (Jones pleaded guilty but was not sent to prison.) Last year, in the rematch, Jones knocked out Cormier, but he tested positive for Turinabol, a steroid, and so the fight was ruled a no-contest, and Cormier was reinstated as champion. (“I would never do steroids,” Jones declared on Twitter. “I put that on my children and I put that on my Heavenly Father.”) The Jones saga supplied those asterisks to Cormier’s astonishing light-heavyweight record: he was No. 1—officially, anyway.
Continued,
The Noble Art of Cage Fighting: Stipe Miocic vs. Daniel Cormier
The Noble Art of Cage Fighting: Stipe Miocic vs. Daniel Cormier
Kelefa Sanneh
Saturday night’s U.F.C. fight, between Stipe Miocic and Daniel Cormier, was advertised with a two-word slogan: “THE SUPERFIGHT.” This is a designation with a particular history. To some older fight fans, the term may evoke “The Super Fight,” the 1970 pseudo-documentary that told the story of a purely hypothetical fight between Muhammad Ali and Rocky Marciano. But, in the U.F.C., the term has generally applied to a less fantastical phenomenon: a fight between two champions from different weight divisions. Even so, the idea of a so-called superfight retains something of that old, outlandish appeal—as if fans’ most extravagant wishes were coming true.
In some ways, Miocic vs. Cormier certainly qualified. Miocic was the heavyweight (two-hundred-and-sixty-five-pound) champion, having won the title two years ago, in Brazil, in the middle of a six-fight winning streak that transformed him from a respected contender into an all-time great. By the time Miocic strolled into the cage on Saturday night, fans generally agreed that he was one of the most skillful and accomplished heavyweights in the history of mixed martial arts. And Cormier was unquestionably the best light-heavyweight (two-hundred-and-five-pound) M.M.A. athlete of his generation—with an asterisk. He became the champion three years ago, and hadn’t lost since—again, with an asterisk. Even better, Cormier had previously competed, with great success, as a heavyweight. Cormier and Miocic, were, literally speaking, the two biggest champions in the U.F.C. Why not have them fight each other?
The idea of this fight seemed somewhat far-fetched back in January, when Dana White, the president of the U.F.C., suggested it. To his credit, and to fans’ delight, White was able to put his idea into practice. This was a particularly risky fight for both champions. The superfight was a heavyweight-title fight, which meant that Miocic risked losing his title to an opponent who was viewed as smaller than him—although in fact, at the weigh-in, Cormier was revealed to be slightly heavier. (Perhaps Cormier took the opportunity to pack on some extra muscle, although much of that new muscle seemed to be located in his stomach and backside.) And while Cormier’s light-heavyweight championship wasn’t at risk, his body was: the oddsmakers listed Cormier as an underdog, four years older (age thirty-nine, where Miocic is thirty-five) and five inches shorter (five feet eleven inches, where Miocic is six-four). Their willingness to fight, regardless, made them both seem braver.
Somehow, though, this superfight didn’t quite feel like the world-conquering blockbuster it should have been—perhaps because neither Cormier nor Miocic was quite as big a star as his record suggested he should be. Cormier is one of the most likable figures in the sport: a friendly, unpretentious wrestling Olympian who also serves as a television commentator, and who somehow, despite his astonishing skill, comes across as a normal guy. (Four years ago, when Cormier was preparing to make his light-heavyweight début, his opponent dropped out and the fight was cancelled; freed from his pre-fight diet, Cormier managed to eat four pieces of Popeyes fried chickenbefore White called to tell him that a replacement had been found.) Worse still, Cormier has often been overshadowed by Jon Jones, his brilliant but erratic light-heavyweight rival. Jones is the only person who had beaten Cormier, and he did it twice, but neither victory stuck. Jones beat Cormier by unanimous decision in 2015, although, after a hit-and-run a few months later, Jones was suspended and stripped of his light-heavyweight championship, which Cormier won. (Jones pleaded guilty but was not sent to prison.) Last year, in the rematch, Jones knocked out Cormier, but he tested positive for Turinabol, a steroid, and so the fight was ruled a no-contest, and Cormier was reinstated as champion. (“I would never do steroids,” Jones declared on Twitter. “I put that on my children and I put that on my Heavenly Father.”) The Jones saga supplied those asterisks to Cormier’s astonishing light-heavyweight record: he was No. 1—officially, anyway.
Continued,
The Noble Art of Cage Fighting: Stipe Miocic vs. Daniel Cormier
