I was very inspired by seeing old Wanderlei make an appearance last night. I was heartbroken after the Leben loss, being the Pride lover that I am. I wrote this as a tribute of sorts. Enjoy (or don't).
Cung Le marches to the octagon with the air of Liu Kang from Mortal Kombat. Every fevered dream of a fighter we've had in our kung fu ninja anime fueled adolescence converges on his person as he dances in the cage garbed in Topps trading card company decals. If anyone deserves to be immortalized on cardboard as the symbol of martial artistry, it would be Le.
Despite being in his hometown of San Jose, some jeers are audible. Perhaps they recall Le's back kick careening into Channing Tatum's chest and imagine he's not the real thing anymore. He looks a little doughy around the midsection and there's a hint of disinterest in his eyes. He stretches his leg skyward, flaunting and limbering up in the same motion. His professional seeming team hovers on the cage in near silence.
The lights dim. Darude's Sandstorm swells inside the HP Pavilion crawling through the seats and briefly remaking them in the image of Saitama. A familiar figure steps through the curtains flanked by CSAC officials in royal blue blazers.
Wanderlei Silva evokes a different kind of dream. His physique is the yield of the lessons of colliding meat in the sweltering humidity of the Brazilian jungle. His eyes, made friendlier through the deft manipulations of a cosmetic surgeon, have hollowed a bit with age making him resemble more the old butcher who stained many a chalk colored canvas with his unrelenting barrages of violence.
Recognizable warriors such as Rafael Cordeiro and Fabricio Werdum trail him. We hear that his former comrade Anderson Silva served as one of his training partners. His eyes tell us the part he will be playing on this night is no act. Despite the relative comfort he today enjoys, hunger grumbles in Silva's belly.
He stretches his arm, looking old for a moment, then begins his familiar bouncing from toe to toe. His eyes lock on his target and he seems to forget about trivialities like winning and losing. Le looks skyward to retreat from that menacing gaze.
The referee signals action and Le mistakes Silva's backpedaling for caution, pressing the action. Le employs his unorthodox striking, creating enough confusion to knock the axe murderer to his knees. The golden boy may yet defeat the monster. Perhaps the bogeyman isn't so scary after all. Perhaps the years of battle have made the ability insufficient to match the heart of the once ferocious warrior. Le's fans awaken and begin a cascade of chants demanding the initiative.
Blood flowing from over Le's eye after a straight shot relatively new to Silva's arsenal changes things. The veteran finisher snorts and catches the scent of victory. His paranthropic hooks seek and find firm purchase on every part of Le's upper body. His shin bursts capillaries in Le's leg and then grazes the side of his head. The horn sounds and Silva impatiently turns to his corner, almost ashamed at having settled for punishment instead of decimation.
As the second frame begins, Le attempts to keep the mauler at bay, but Silva's fists seem to drift through the air with a surety borne of having sent so many men to slumber.
The former Pride middleweight king settles back until his moment arrives then explodes forward unleashing a maelstrom of punches, kicks, elbows and the knees that still keep Tony Petarra awake at night.
Le defends like a traditionalist and is consigned to history like one, falling to his back then belly in hopes of finding a reprieve from the onslaught. The referee gives it to him. As Wanderlei leaps atop the cage to bathe in the adulation of the crowd, there is a sense of alignment with the natural order of things, even in a sport so built on the whims of chance. The world is put on notice. The Axe Murderer still walks among you.
