Here in the United Kingdom we value heroes and anti-heroes as much as you American folk. We understand the appeal of the gunslingers of the west such as Wild Bill Hickok and outlaws like Billy The Kid. We like Churchill and Robin Hood and believe their stories match with interest that of our friends across the Atlantic.
We celebrate the sporting victories of our nation and tell tall tales about the glorious rise to the top. We still toast to the World Cup winning football team from ’66. The office where I work named the meeting rooms after the Gold medalists from the London Olympics games. Now Mixed Martial Arts might not be the all the talk in the saloons here but I can chat for a moment or two with some folks at the vending machines if the dust is settling on a decent sized shindig.
See you got the ‘All American’ boy, that Chris Weidman, who keeps on knocking down those challengers and making it look all manner of easy. I could hear those chants of ‘USA’ as he was giving that Brazilian fella a knuckle sandwich or ten. A hero in the making writing his own story, crafting a legend.
AN OUTLAW AND A COUNT BUT STILL NO CHAMP
See we had ourselves a would be king. A local hero known around these parts to those in the know. A young outlaw by the name of Dan Hardy. He rode fast and fought true and sad to say his journey came up short. His valiant attempts earned him a boatload of fans but a streak of bad luck caused his candle to dim.
We may not have a champion to call our own but we do have an elder statesman of the sport whom we turn to in our darkest hours. He has yet to strike gold but he has served as a beacon of hope for the prospectors in our young sport, a hard working sort by the name of Michael Bisping. The Count, as he is known, has long been the favored Son of the nation’s educated sports fan. The sadness however is that we know that this pillar of our community is Hall of Fame material, yet he may go there without ever holding the weight of gold. His claim could well be dry but his story is loaded with highs and lows and many an unanswered question as to what his achievements should’ve been were his opponents blessed with his honesty. But that is a debate for another day.
You see, it’s all well and good to be cheering and hollering for folks from across the sea but with The Count not getting any younger, we in these parts could do with some young blood to chatter over with our tea. If we intend for our sport to grow and prosper like it has on your own shores then we are going to need more than a contender. We need to see some gold. We need someone with that British stiff upper lip who does not falter when the going gets tough. Someone who can throw down with the best of them and carve a legacy that would rival the tales of Wyatt Earp or whose sporting glory would be celebrated alongside the likes of Andy Murray or Lennox Lewis.
Now in my narrow view to locate me a hero, I am ashamed to admit that I had overlooked the opportunity to find a heroine. In my younger days, I used to run under the banner of a great two time Olympian myself by the name of Dorothy Hyman. I was dragged up to know better than to dismiss women in the fight game.
ABOUT TIME FOR A NEW HERO TO EMERGE
Now up in bonnie Scotland they have themselves a regular Calamity Jane. She is a trigger happy gunslinger by the name of Joanne Calderwood or Dr Kneevil as she goes by on work days. She does not suffer fools gladly and is quick to draw, a regular Scottish brave. Now this candle hasn’t burned for long and she recently tasted the sour tang of defeat. Defeat is just a bitterness that all the greats have to taste to appreciate the sweet, and I’ll drink a whiskey to that.
But can the candle burn bright enough to illuminate the camp? Can it transform into a campfire? Can we sing songs and toast to the glories of Dr Kneevil as the sun sets on the day? I think a grand victory in her nation’s capital would soon give balance to things and set tongues wagging at saloon tables of an uprising. I think it is time we got on this bandwagon and starting helping lay the foundations for a new story, a new legend.
Now Europe finally landed its first champion in the form of Joanna Jędrzejczyk. Europe has some gold and there is a world of hope that we men can catch up the woman folk and that Conor Mcgregor can bring Europe a slice of the dream home with him too. And that would be something. We could fire our guns to the sky in a salute and take in a round of whiskey at the bar. But this would not be our victory.
It would not be a British champion, would it? It wouldn’t sit right to say their names alongside William Shakespeare or Isambard Kingdom Brunel. That wouldn’t be proper. That would not be dignified. And whilst our friends and relatives in the States are throwing days in their champion’s honor, and our Brothers and Sisters in Poland are massing to the gymnasiums to keep the gold streak running, and our Irish colleagues could soon be naming their unborns after the Notorious one, we here in the United Kingdom lay in waiting.
I rode past the sign. It read ‘Wanted: A British Champion’ only the portrait was empty. Now if I was a gambling man, I’d bet my last coin on that there Joanne Calderwood getting back on the horse and drawing first blood against that Australian girl, Rowdy Bec. The fastest draw in the country some say. I can see her trail blazing her way to the title now that her affairs are in order. I might even see it with my own eyes someday, or be sat by a campfire sipping’ whiskey listening to a weary traveler tell a tall tale of the day that the United Kingdom had some MMA gold to call its own.
Maybe I can tell my own grandkids someday how The Count had laid the foundations but Dr Kneevil had won the day, maybe just maybe…
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