20 June 2009

Las Vegas, Nevada, USA

The Ultimate Fighter 9 Finale

By Ray Klerck

 A fight like this is not something we’re likely to see again. Some MMA fights are high-stakes chess matches, and then there are three-round meat-grinders where two maniacs skip the feeling-out process entirely. The TUF 9 Finale was never meant to be a display of technical refinement or defensive responsibility. Instead, fans were treated to 15 glorious minutes of pure, blood-soaked bar-fight delirium that felt like two rabid animals fighting over the last pork chop on earth. By the summer of 2009, the UFC lightweight division was becoming a shark tank of elite talent, much like it is today. In MMA circles, Diego Sanchez was a household name after he’d become the original winner of The Ultimate Fighter 1 Middleweight tournament and was now dropping down to 155 pounds, looking for a title shot. Standing across from him was Clay ‘The Carpenter’ Guida, who was a fan-favorite caveman riding a three-fight win streak, famous for his hair, endless cardio, and relentless energy.

TWO SIDES OF WEIRDNESS 

What made the matchup so electric was the psychological contrast between two men who didn't actually hate each other but probably should never have been placed in the same room. Sanchez was a deeply eccentric and intense character whose Tony Robbins-inspired “YES!” chants and almost spiritual approach to fighting made every walkout feel like a small exorcism. Guida was strange in the opposite direction. ‘The Carpenter’ bounced around like somebody had removed his off switch, burped between rounds and even had his brother slap him across the face backstage to get the engine running. Both entered on three-fight winning streaks with a lightweight title opportunity within reach, and each believed his particular brand of suffering would break the other. Guida trusted his wrestling and, apparently, his bottomless gas tank. Sanchez believed he was destined for gold and had absolutely no interest in conserving energy on the journey there. It was the unstoppable force meeting an immovable, deeply strange object. By the time the referee brought them together for the final instructions, the fight had effectively started. Sanchez stood inches away with those enormous eyes fixed on Guida while Clay snarled, bounced, and practically vibrated out of his skin. Neither paid much attention to Rosenthal. Instead, they engaged in a legendary mean-face contest to intimidate someone who appeared physically incapable of intimidation. The Las Vegas crowd understood immediately. Nobody was pacing themselves.

ROUND 1: THE INFERNO AND THE HEAD KICK

The opening bell rang, and any concept of a cautious feeling-out process vanished. They sprinted straight across the canvas into a wild exchange, looping power shots without much thought for defense. Guida landed enough of his own to make it a fight, his glorious mop of hair whipping around with every punch and making each exchange look twice as frantic, but Sanchez was clearly getting the better of it. Within 30 seconds, he’d cracked open Guida’s face, then produced the defining moment of the round, which was a vicious head kick that landed flush on the chin. Guida hit the canvas, then inexplicably popped up with suspicious speed. Soon the hair was no longer bouncing quite so freely. It was wet with blood, tangled and increasingly glued to a leaking face as Sanchez poured on the combinations. Guida kept firing back, but there was little doubt who had won the opening five minutes. By the horn, Clay looked like he'd been dragged backward through a butcher's shop, and Sanchez had banked a brutally convincing first round.

ROUND 2: THE CARPENTER FIGHTS BACK

The second round brought the momentum shift that made this fight a keeper. He drove Sanchez backward, attacked the legs, and turned the fight into a wrestling match where every escape seemed to lead directly into another problem. Guida secured takedowns and used his relentless top pressure to smother the explosive striking that had made the opening round such a horror show for him. Sanchez was hardly content to lie there and wait for five minutes to disappear. He stayed busy from his back, firing elbows, threatening submissions and constantly looking for enough space to scramble free. At one point, those elbows opened Guida up even further, adding another leak to a face already doing a fairly convincing impression of a plumbing emergency. The frantic violence of the first round had been replaced by something slower but arguably more irritating: five minutes of being wrestled by a blood-soaked man who seemed incapable of getting tired. Guida had survived Diego's best and done enough to take the second on the scorecards.

ROUND 3: WAR OF ATTRITION

By the final five minutes, the maths was simple. Sanchez had the first, Guida had the second. Sanchez went back to attacking and firing combinations. Guida, face battered and hair ducked underneath punches, drove forward for takedowns and turned every clean separation into another opportunity to attach himself to Sanchez. Diego stuffed enough of those attempts to keep the fight where he wanted it and continued landing the cleaner strikes, but Clay never allowed him the luxury of settling into a rhythm. The crowd roared at every exchange because by now the technical details almost felt secondary. They had watched Sanchez nearly kick Guida's head off, Guida somehow recover and wrestle his way back into contention, and now both were squeezing whatever remained from their engines to steal the deciding round. When the final horn eventually sounded, there was no dramatic collapse and precious little left to give. Fifteen minutes were up. The blood was everywhere, and Guida's hair looked like it required its own medical assessment.

THE SPLIT DECISION AND AFTERMATH

When the 15 minutes ended, nobody in the arena cared who won; they just knew they’d witnessed absolute magic. The judges' scorecards were read out: 29-28, 28-29, and 29-28, awarding Diego Sanchez a thrilling split-decision victory. The aftermath was a grotesque, beautiful spectacle. As Diego raised his hands in victory, his torso and face were painted in deep red blood—almost all of it belonging to Guida. In an iconic, slightly stomach-churning twist, strands of Clay’s long, stringy, blood-soaked hair were literally matted and stuck to Diego’s face and chest as they hugged. It was a brutal, glorious testament to lightweight warfare, cementing both men as certified legends of the Octagon. Watch it here.