Issue 033

January 2008

Have you ever looked at a fighter on his way to the ring and thought “what a poser”? I’ll come clean and say that I have, on probably a few too many occasions. 

I understand the need for a fighter to stand out, and I’m not the most stylish of guys either, but there seems to be a habit of fighters pumping and preening themselves to the degree that you have to wonder if they spend more time in front of the mirror than in the gym. 

Take the growing trend of fighters having a ‘crazy’ haircut. Some guys pull it off quite well, namely Dan Hardy, ‘Mayhem’ Miller and more. A dyed red Mohawk is one thing, but a leopard print mullet with beads makes you look like Dog the Bounty Hunter. I get the hair thing, I do. Just because I don’t have any doesn’t mean I’m jealous. I actually really like Mayhem’s red stripe, it’s become something of a trademark for him, and his teammate Ryo Chonan recently sported a nice variation of this, dying his hair red and having a black stripe instead. It looks funky. 

Haircuts are one thing. Looking like you’ve rolled out of Toni and Guy and into the Octagon I can forgive, but there is an increasing trend for fighters to behave like complete prima donnas. 

Prima donna is Italian and refers to the leading female singer of an opera house. They were often regarded as egotistical, unreasonable and irritable, with a rather high opinion of themselves. Now far be it that I would usually draw comparison between fighters and opera singers, but I’ve seen more behaviour like this in MMA than I would care to. Luckily boxing seems to attract the idiots instead (Mayweather, anyone?). 

It can be quite funny sometimes though. MMA fighter’s hissy fits tend to be something to behold. Rather than the flaccid whining of a musician or artist, you can really be left fearing for your safety. Testosterone, primed muscles and a fierce temper tantrum are generally a combination to avoid, at least from a safe watching distance. Some fighters are legendary for kicking off over the smallest things, and if they’re not getting the attention the feel they deserve, they can go absolutely ballistic. Imagine an attention-hungry toddler on steroids and you’re halfway there. 

Dana White says that he has created more rock stars in this sport than anyone else. I doubt any of the fighters he has made wealthy can actually play ‘Carry on my Wayward Son’ by Kansas (something I’d love to see Chuck try, who knows, maybe he could pull it off) but I see where he’s going. Fighters now enjoy a lifestyle akin to that of celebrities, though we’re not to fear any paparazzi-induced Britney-esque breakdowns just yet. 

I was once witness to a UFC fighter stood outside a nightclub, denied entry by the unwavering doorman, who politely and unwaveringly used the good old-fashioned line “you’re not on the list”. The fighter in question, who shall remain nameless, actually did the “do you know who I am?” thing, went on to protest loudly that any club in Vegas or New York would let him in immediately and give him free drinks, and eventually slunk off while a roided-up partygoer gave him the evil eyes. Knowing what this guy can do, I would have liked to see the clubber try his luck, but the ‘rock star’ stormed off into the night instead. 

At the upper end of the game, a certain level of behaviour can be expected. Phil Baroni gyrating his way to the cage wearing a sequined dressing gown with shades on is almost expected, such is his image. David Dunn from Dunstable, trying to impress the local teenage girls by wearing a hand-sewn top with his name on and sending the crowd into a coma by dragging out a four-minute entrance to the cage, only to get KO’d in spectacular fashion in under 30 seconds is not. 

In fact an increasing number of low-level fighters seem to be suffering from a case of inflated egos. Just what puts them in a position to start ordering people around, making demands and generally acting like arseholes is beyond me. On smaller shows some local tough guys even come along with an entourage of hangers-on, maybe to back them up should their request for a particular brand of water in their dressing room not be met, or god forbid, they’ve got ham sandwiches instead of tuna. Maybe they’re just insecure. 

The moral to this story is this. Until you are being stopped in the street for your autograph, cool off with the attitude. Maybe one day you’ll be the next big thing, but without the support of the people who matter, you won’t get anywhere.