First Things First

UFC 300 was so unbelievable I had to send out an extra post out ahead of our normal Tuesday article. Today we’re recounting the birth of a combat sports legend and the story of when I met him.

On October 1st, 1932, a legend was cemented. The World Series was tied, 4-4. A portly American baseball star stepped up to bat. The man pointed at center field, knocked the ball into the stratosphere, and Babe Ruth rounded the bases to score what ended up as the deciding runs.

Over the decades, more and more information has puffed up this legend. Film has emerged of Ruth pointing skyward. No one can verify if he was taunting the opposing team or stating his intent to score a home run.

Fans in attendance allege they knew he was calling the run out. Sports reporter Joe Williams wrote the headline "RUTH CALLS SHOT AS HE PUTS HOME RUN NO. 2 IN SIDE POCKET”. That put the tall tale into history books.

On Saturday, April 13th, 2024, another legend was created. The tale of a Blessed Mother Fucker was burned into the collective consciousness of combat sports.

UFC 300 And The BMF Belt

UFC 300 ended this past Saturday. The card was loaded with elite talent from top to bottom.

12 of the 26 fighters were champions, past or present but the people’s main event was Max Holloway vs Justin Gaethje fighting for the BMF belt. The title that literally says, “this is the baddest mother fucker’.

The BMF belt is silly. It is a random piece of hardware created to market a fight between two fan favorites. It has been evoked three times to say, “These two deserve attention.”

But anyone that knows anything about fighting knows that Gaethje and Holloway are bigger than that. They deserve reverence. These two men might as well be demigods blessed by Ares. They’re built different, made for violence.

Gaethje has received a performance bonus for literally every fight he’s been in in the UFC, except when he’s been submitted. Of his 25 wins, 20 are knockouts. His opponents claim his bones are harder and heavier than other fighting skeletons they’ve run into. He’s scary.

Holloway is a former 145-pound champion coming up in weight to test himself and get out of a combat sports no man’s land. He’s been in the UFC since the beginning of his 20’s. He’s an all-time great and a fan favorite, but he lost three title fights to the same man, Alexander Volkanovski. More worryingly, in Holloway’s previous bid to go up in weight and challenge himself, he was thoroughly trounced. His options are running out.

“Maybe he’s not big enough. Maybe he can’t hit hard enough to make it count,” is what many said. “We love watching him over there” they said as they put him in the place where veterans are resigned to slowly shuffle towards a painful retirement.

But Holloway wasn’t willing to walk that way.

For 24 minutes Holloway fought out of the corner he was backed into this Saturday, “You thought I was done?” He was routing Gaethje, picking him apart, dropping him, and running circles around him.

With ten seconds left Holloway pointed, not to center field, but to the center of the Octagon, asking Gaethje to meet him and swing for the fences until one of them hit their walk off home run.

Mano a mano. Toe to toe. Two mother fuckers standing opposite one another saying, “You think you’re tougher than me? Let’s see who’s the baddest.”

Max hit Gaethje and Gaethje’s face hit the canvas. The arena and the bar I was in erupted. People leapt onto tables to scream at the TV. We were happy to join in collective ecstasy. It was a religious experience.

“I’m him!” Holloway screamed. I’m not one to deny.

Blessed; Faces and Heels

In 2011, I trained mixed martial arts at Victory MMA and Fitness in San Diego. I was there for school, 19, and, like most 19-year-olds, a cocky mother fucker.

On an uneventful day I walked into the gym to train and a new face zoomed past me. He was obnoxious, loud, and young. I don’t even remember what he was saying. I just remember the volume.

“Dude shut up” I thought. I could not wait to roll with this new kid.

He bolted past me again to the speed bag. He looked both directions and kept his conversation going. Then he started hopping up and down on alternating feet hitting the bag. No, pounding the bag with perfect rhythm. You could have convinced anyone there was an artillery gun in the building.

With this new louder volume drowning out the kid’s words, I forgot what I was thinking. I was okay with him continuing to talk and not rolling at all if he wanted to do. “Whatever you want to do dude!”

A few months went by and I see him again on my TV. He’s quiet now. Focused, and intense, but I know he’s ready to unleash those fists that turn speed bags into percussion instruments. Now I’m rooting for him, “That’s the dude from my gym!”

“What’s his name?” the room asked, only to be answered by the TV, “Max ‘Blessed’ Holloway!”

He came out fast as a late replacement to fight Dustin Poirier. He got submitted in about three minutes. ”I wonder if he’ll ever come back to Victory?”

I never saw Holloway at my gym again. He was on to bigger and better things. Over the dozen years that followed Holloway would stop Jose Aldo twice to claim the 145 belt, become a fan favorite, and reinforce the nickname, blessed.

Blessed Mother Fucker

Holloway is a prize fighter. Yes, he won an awesome fight, took home two bonuses to total an additional $600,000, and got a silly promotional belt that exists largely to tell uninformed fans and cocky nineteen-year-olds alike, “Hey shut up and watch this guy.” But that’s not even half of what he got to carry out of the arena that night.

Many of our folk legends are big because we don’t really know what exactly happened. We play telephone through decades and as the story is passed on the subjects grow into the heroes of future generations. Their infamy exists largely in our imagination.

Babe Ruth was an excellent baseball player that won a major game. Over time he became a psychic slugger that predicted his winning efforts much like Paul Bunyan transformed from a lumberjack into a giant.

We have footage of what Holloway did. The stark reality of his fight ending haymaker on footage somehow makes it bigger than a tall tale. He really put his career and life on the line to say, “I’m going to show you how great I am.” He took his destiny into his own hands on the biggest stage the UFC ever created and delivered arguably the most spectacular knockout ever with one second left. That’s the stuff legends are made of.

I’ll never forget the day I first saw Max Holloway nor the second he grew larger than life. Holloway was fighting for the BMF belt, the title to see who the baddest mother fucker in the game is, and he transcended it.

Holloway is one of a kind. He is a blessed mother fucker.

Heroes get remembered, but legends never die, and the best is Blessed, baby.

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