The Rematch
Today is the new millennium’s most fated rematch. What’s on the line? Not a championship to be won, but a legacy to be reclaimed. To remind oneself that one can be shaken not shattered. Battered not broken. Today’s fight centers on a single prize, pride.
It’s a sizzling Sunday morning in August, and I am in the swamp-like heat of Hiroshima, Japan. My tour group explores the atomic bomb landmarks as I run to my hotel to experience a different type of apocalypse. Using my iPhone’s five-inch screen, I navigate the pay-per-view web page and squeeze the digital “BUY” button. In nanoseconds, virtual gates open to a fight occurring 6,000 miles across the Pacific.
A fight showcases one man’s ability to bend his opponent’s space and time. To send his adversary into a dimensionless chaos that can only be stopped by the sound of a bell or the hands of a referee. And the present shifts from what we thought to what we know.
The main event is starting. First to the ring is the pride of Ireland, Conor McGregor. McGregor ascended the mixed-martial-arts world by crushing competition with his unorthodox striking and, more profoundly, by transforming his visions into realities. McGregor’s nickname, “Mystic Mac,” personifies his ability to predict the outcome of how and when–down to the second–he will defeat his opponent. That was until he met Nate Diaz, who submitted McGregor six months ago via rear-naked choke.
Now it’s Nate Diaz’s turn to walk to the ring. A fighter’s fighter, the irreverent Diaz represents the hood mentality of Stockton, California. While raised in the grappling arts of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Diaz is best known for his whirlwind boxing style. His persona is epitomized in his speech after defeating McGregor the first time, “I’m not surprised motherfuckers.”
I draw the iPhone screen closer until my reflection fades into the mass of the Las Vegas arena’s crowd. Referee “Big” John McCarthy allows McGregor and Diaz a final moment to show respect with the touch of gloves. Unflinching, both competitors trade looks of malice instead. McCarthy waves the fighters back to their corners and signals the fight to start, “Let’s get it on!”
Round one, McGregor moves forward and digs kicks into the soft flesh of Diaz’s upper thigh. Each kick delivers a brief sting but strung in succession the effects are evident– swollen, purplish-red, and limp. Diaz’s leg looks like a slab of raw beef swinging from a butcher’s hook. In efforts to evade the attack, Diaz moves to the left and right only to be met by another thunderous thud of McGregor’s shin.
Ding-ding, the first round ends. Diaz limps to his corner and McGregor walks to his.
Round two, McGregor continues chopping Diaz down with leg kicks while mixing in punches to the body and face. One punch cuts the bridge of Diaz’s nose and spews blood across both cheekbones. McGregor’s next punch tosses Diaz to the ground–a knockdown. McGregor is going to finish Diaz!
Winning strategies, such as McGregor’s against Diaz, bring clarity to life. They remind us that victory is achieved through a clever game-plan…except when it isn’t. Because just as McGregor appears to have wrapped up his revenge, a breeze starts to flow westward. That breeze is the breath exiting McGregor’s lungs and entering into Diaz’s. One jab here, one uppercut there, and within a heartbeat, Diaz is the beast blowing from the East. Diaz throws punches: left, right, left-right-left, right-right-left-right. In McGregor’s estimation, it feels more like: body, head, head-body-head, head-head-head-head! McGregor is spinning. He’s breathless, listless, and soon-to-be lifeless.
Ding-ding. The crowd’s roar in Las Vegas is monstrous while the AC’s hum in Hiroshima is deafening. A pause, then reassessment, Diaz is taking over!
Round three, Diaz smiles and flips McGregor the finger. He follows each attack with an onslaught of taunts, “What now, think you’re shit?” A monsoon of punches from the north, east, and west land on McGregor’s skull, liver, and ribs. “You ain’t shit, motherfucker. Fuck your Jiu-Jitsu, fuck your boxing, and fuck you!” The unrelenting storm of short slapping shots weather McGregor and he’s sinking. Six months since the first match and it’s ending worse than expected– downed in Diaz’s cyclone.
As I watch the blonde-haired Irishman fade, the brightness of optimism dims…except for a spark. A burgeoning bubble of air in McGregor’s lungs expands and a second-wind is born. The wind gives life to a flame and, within a flash, McGregor explodes into an inferno: Diaz’s hurricane meets McGregor’s fireball.
A heaving McGregor throws a punch to the body and an elbow to the face. Diaz, resembling a bloodied creature from the undead, thrusts a jab from the side and an uppercut from below. The TV commentator says it all, “This is a dog fight!”
The final rounds are a display of each fighters’ resolve. A tale of the pursuit of overcoming natural limits. A war between two men transforms into one within oneself. As the final bell signals the end of the bout, both men stand at the precipice of heaven and hell.
The judges deliver the scorecards: McGregor wins by majority decision. “Surprise motherfuckers, the king is back!” McGregor says.
Diaz’s responds, “We’re going for number three, for real!”
The stream ends and the screen goes dark. For a few minutes, the room is silent. Outside the window, the sunset paints a neighboring building in an orange glaze. There’s still daylight left in Hiroshima. I wash up, change clothes, and step outside to feel a cooler wind brush past my face. My feet feel light on the asphalt like I’m floating, lifted by the feathers of the fighting spirit.
