http://i.imgur.com/V6J5Wdg.jpg
Destiny.
It's a silly word, and not often spoken about seriously, like magic and miracles. Self-belief is one thing, but to actually subscribe to the notion that your greatness is preordained? That's asking a lot from most people. Let the scoffing commence.
So why, then, do I buy in when Conor McGregor talks about it? Oh yeah--because so far he's been nothing but right.
It wasn't five minutes into Conor's UFC tenure that the predictions began--"60 G's, baby!"--and he was right. A Knockout of the Night bonus in his UFC debut, courtesy of some windmill uppercuts and an infectious personality. But it wasn't until the lead-up to his sophomore showing against Max Holloway in Boston that the real predictions started flowing, and that's when the world began to take notice of this brash young Irishman and his way with words.
It wasn't five minutes into Conor's UFC tenure that the predictions began--"60 G's, baby!"--and he was right. A Knockout of the Night bonus in his UFC debut, courtesy of some windmill uppercuts and an infectious personality. But it wasn't until the lead-up to his sophomore showing against Max Holloway in Boston that the real predictions started flowing, and that's when the world began to take notice of this brash young Irishman and his way with words.
No one in the division was safe, or so Conor's pleasing Irish lilt would have you believe. Many didn't. One win--that's all he had, but it didn't stop him from running down a list of the Featherweight Top 10 and pointing out their shortcomings like a sharp-tongued judge on America's Next Top Model. With each win, though, the words began to feel more real. He wasn't just saying bold things, he was asserting the Future According to Conor. With unquestionable confidence and crazy eyes, McGregor made his predictions--Mystic Mac, he dubbed himself--and then went out and turned those predictions into self-fulfilling prophecies. From Brimage to Holloway, Brandao to Poirer and finally Siver, each devastating win proved Conor's words correct, and added to the legend.
He didn't just predict wins, he predicted knockouts, and he got them. What's more, he predicted WHEN it would happen, in which round the finish would come. It was all so unbelievable, and so unbelievably exciting. Who knows when exactly, but somewhere along the way everybody started believing him, yours truly included, and that made the ride much more fun. To see him proved a false prophet at this point, so close to the UFC title he'd been predicting for over two years, wouldn't have been disappointing, it would have been demoralizing. It would be waking up on Christmas Morn to find coal in the stockings. Plus Santa Claus isn't real, God is dead, and so is the American Dream.
All that was on the line at UFC 189 against Jose Aldo, but the chance for glory had never been greater, and Conor had never sounded more believable. Those aforementioned crazy eyes were on full display for the world press tour, as were the words, and by June Conor had actually grandstanded his way into a position as betting favorite against the pound-for-pound best fighter in the WORLD. Wait, what? But then again, this was Mystic Mac. He told us what was possible, and we said okay.
It helped that Jose was a great look for Conor--an unabashed striking dynamo, but with a tendency to trade blow for blow. Typically such a style made for exciting fights. Against Conor, it made for short fights. His Atom Bomb of a left-hand straight was locked onto Jose's chin, and it shouldn't have, but the conclusion felt foregone.
Then the curve ball. Some sloppy sparring left Jose with a severely bruised (maybe broken?) rib, and Chad Mendes stepped up to fill his slot. If you imagined a worst case scenerio for Conor, this was it: just two weeks out, the opponent whom Conor had trained for, who played into his striking strengths, was replaced with an opponent whose All-American wrestling would test Conor's weaknesses like no one before. Many a fair weather fan was gone by July 1st, and those of us that did still believe couldn't help but wonder if we were fools for staying.
But here we can start to take the word destiny seriously, because finally the danger felt real, and with good reason. Chad was Conor's antithesis, a relentless wrestling machine with a monster right hand and an alpha male attitude second only to Conor's. Maybe.
Still, a fight is a fight--surprises abound.
There's a moment soon after the beginning of each McGregor fight that's a wonder to behold. It's when he cracks his adversary with that first left straight to the chin, and if you watch closely, you will invariably see the recipient's expression change. All sense of thrill or excitement they may have carried with them into the Octagon fades in that moment, and things get truly serious. This is because didn't know, and now they do; they know now that Conor hits harder than any man should be able to, harder than their egos can admit or their bodies can stomach, and it changes them.
This change causes different reactions: some men, like Brandao, get wild. Not the best strategy. Some, like Poirer, get cautious. This doesn't help either. To his credit, Chad Mendes is not either of those men, and his response to that Round 1 awakening was exactly what everyone had predicted and feared all along--he took Conor down. Conor got back up and landed a few sharp body shots, but then it was back to the canvas, where his world-beating punching power meant nothing, and so ended the first round, with Conor sporting a fresh cut below the brow. Here it was at last--the end of the ride. The dream felt so close to ending early between those first two rounds, though millions of fans desperately tried to drag the covers up over their eyes to ward off the morning. But still, they watched on.
Round 2 was more of the same. Strong body shots from Conor, paired with a half-dozen crisp One-Two's, but a minute in and Chad was back on top, landing elbows from Conor's complacent full-guard. Cut to 0:45 left in the round, and its looking dire for "the Notorious One." Everyone watching can easily imagine five full rounds of unanswered ground-and-pound from Mendes--all he needed to do was stay the course and not let Conor get flowing on the feet.
But then, inexplicably, as if he couldn't help himself, Chad stepped outside his wheelhouse. A choke for the win before the round closed, that what he wanted, but as it turned out, anything that wasn't unrelenting full-guard pressure was exactly what Conor was looking for. The choke held briefly, but a serpentine escape found Conor back on his feet in front of a winded Mendes, and there was really only one outcome to that scenario.
With 30 seconds to go, Conor blitzed Chad with an improbable flurry of energetic, late-round punches, mixing straights, hooks and uppercuts beautifully to keep Chad guessing, and then, with not ten seconds left, this happened:
My God, it was beautiful. The left hand from Hell found a retreating Mendes and flattened him. The follow-up beating was perfunctory; the fight was over. Even the man tailor-made to cancel Conor's game couldn't subvert the Irishman's unstoppable striking, his unmatched desire to dominate. It defied logic, the senses, the odds. It was the storybook ending, victory snatched from the jaws of defeat.
It felt like destiny. Maybe it was.
Now there's only one prediction yet to come true, but it's the biggest of them all. The long-prophesied Fall of the King. Many have tried. None have succeeded... Will Conor? Who knows, but I believe, and so should you.
He didn't just predict wins, he predicted knockouts, and he got them. What's more, he predicted WHEN it would happen, in which round the finish would come. It was all so unbelievable, and so unbelievably exciting. Who knows when exactly, but somewhere along the way everybody started believing him, yours truly included, and that made the ride much more fun. To see him proved a false prophet at this point, so close to the UFC title he'd been predicting for over two years, wouldn't have been disappointing, it would have been demoralizing. It would be waking up on Christmas Morn to find coal in the stockings. Plus Santa Claus isn't real, God is dead, and so is the American Dream.
All that was on the line at UFC 189 against Jose Aldo, but the chance for glory had never been greater, and Conor had never sounded more believable. Those aforementioned crazy eyes were on full display for the world press tour, as were the words, and by June Conor had actually grandstanded his way into a position as betting favorite against the pound-for-pound best fighter in the WORLD. Wait, what? But then again, this was Mystic Mac. He told us what was possible, and we said okay.
It helped that Jose was a great look for Conor--an unabashed striking dynamo, but with a tendency to trade blow for blow. Typically such a style made for exciting fights. Against Conor, it made for short fights. His Atom Bomb of a left-hand straight was locked onto Jose's chin, and it shouldn't have, but the conclusion felt foregone.
Then the curve ball. Some sloppy sparring left Jose with a severely bruised (maybe broken?) rib, and Chad Mendes stepped up to fill his slot. If you imagined a worst case scenerio for Conor, this was it: just two weeks out, the opponent whom Conor had trained for, who played into his striking strengths, was replaced with an opponent whose All-American wrestling would test Conor's weaknesses like no one before. Many a fair weather fan was gone by July 1st, and those of us that did still believe couldn't help but wonder if we were fools for staying.
But here we can start to take the word destiny seriously, because finally the danger felt real, and with good reason. Chad was Conor's antithesis, a relentless wrestling machine with a monster right hand and an alpha male attitude second only to Conor's. Maybe.
Still, a fight is a fight--surprises abound.
There's a moment soon after the beginning of each McGregor fight that's a wonder to behold. It's when he cracks his adversary with that first left straight to the chin, and if you watch closely, you will invariably see the recipient's expression change. All sense of thrill or excitement they may have carried with them into the Octagon fades in that moment, and things get truly serious. This is because didn't know, and now they do; they know now that Conor hits harder than any man should be able to, harder than their egos can admit or their bodies can stomach, and it changes them.
This change causes different reactions: some men, like Brandao, get wild. Not the best strategy. Some, like Poirer, get cautious. This doesn't help either. To his credit, Chad Mendes is not either of those men, and his response to that Round 1 awakening was exactly what everyone had predicted and feared all along--he took Conor down. Conor got back up and landed a few sharp body shots, but then it was back to the canvas, where his world-beating punching power meant nothing, and so ended the first round, with Conor sporting a fresh cut below the brow. Here it was at last--the end of the ride. The dream felt so close to ending early between those first two rounds, though millions of fans desperately tried to drag the covers up over their eyes to ward off the morning. But still, they watched on.
Round 2 was more of the same. Strong body shots from Conor, paired with a half-dozen crisp One-Two's, but a minute in and Chad was back on top, landing elbows from Conor's complacent full-guard. Cut to 0:45 left in the round, and its looking dire for "the Notorious One." Everyone watching can easily imagine five full rounds of unanswered ground-and-pound from Mendes--all he needed to do was stay the course and not let Conor get flowing on the feet.
But then, inexplicably, as if he couldn't help himself, Chad stepped outside his wheelhouse. A choke for the win before the round closed, that what he wanted, but as it turned out, anything that wasn't unrelenting full-guard pressure was exactly what Conor was looking for. The choke held briefly, but a serpentine escape found Conor back on his feet in front of a winded Mendes, and there was really only one outcome to that scenario.
With 30 seconds to go, Conor blitzed Chad with an improbable flurry of energetic, late-round punches, mixing straights, hooks and uppercuts beautifully to keep Chad guessing, and then, with not ten seconds left, this happened:
It felt like destiny. Maybe it was.
Now there's only one prediction yet to come true, but it's the biggest of them all. The long-prophesied Fall of the King. Many have tried. None have succeeded... Will Conor? Who knows, but I believe, and so should you.
No comments:
Post a Comment