How I Won My First UFC “Fight”

UFC.

That’s Ultimate Fighting Championship, as in the Las Vegas-based mixed martial arts outfit where crazy people beat the sh*t out of each other in a cage.

Case in point.

It turns out that yours truly has had some success in this arena.

Well, sort of.

***

Anyone wanna come over tomorrow for UFC 300? It’s a stacked card.

It was April 12, 2024, and that was the group text I received from my neighbor.

I thought for a minute. I would get to go to his house, eat his snacks, drink his booze, and watch sports for five hours.

That seemed like an offer I shouldn’t say no to. Ever.

The next night, I glanced anxiously at my phone. I didn’t want to seem desperate by getting there early, nor did I want to deprive myself of quality time on the couch.

I got there right on time.

***

There has always been a large gulf between athlete and sports fan.

A fine-tuned specimen versus an incoherent blubbery dude.

Traditionally, I’ve been the latter.

That said, in the case of certain sports, the gulf has been more like that seen in Letchworth State Park in New York—a sizable gorge carved by the Genesee River on its path toward Lake Ontario.

Take basketball. I could never accomplish what I see on television, but I can still dribble, hit a layup, and bury a three pointer on occasion.

Or baseball. While I would flounder among the elite, I can at least catch a ball and, from time to time, hit one.

In the case of UFC, however, the gulf is more like the Grand Canyon.

If I were to attempt that which the fighters make seem routine, I would die.

In other words, on April 13, 2024, I would have to find a different kind of challenge.

And I had one in mind.

***

UFC has 12 weight classes—eight on the men’s side and four on the women’s side.

Strawweight, flyweight, bantamweight, and so on.

I, too, have a weight class.

It’s called overweight.

At almost 6 feet tall and 215 pounds, my body mass index has exceeded expectations. The next weight class up is called obese, though I prefer to stay where I am (or perhaps go down a class).

And therein lied my challenge.

Could I partake in a five-hour, calorie-dense activity—aka watching sports—and not put on any weight?

It would take a gargantuan effort, but I was prepared.

***

Can I get you something to drink? asked my neighbor.

Under normal circumstances, I would have gone with a craft beer. But this was no normal night.

Knowing that I would be saving about 75 calories, I went with a glass of wine. To push the needle to 76, I even got up and walked over to where the bottles were kept, feigning some degree of utility in the beverage acquisition process.

The next order of business was to get my gambling apps in order. Despite rapid thumb movements, I considered this to be a calorie-neutral endeavor, but one that was essential to optimizing the experience.

About an hour—or one round—in, things were looking good. Only one glass of wine. A few extra steps here and there. Bloody faces on the screen.

But then, without warning, I had a major problem on my hands.

Chips and dip.

No sound-minded human can turn down a Ruffles potato chip coated with a highly-processed, mysterious white substance.

I briefly thought about my weigh-in the next morning, but I couldn’t resist.

The next two hours/rounds were, needless to say, angst-filled.

Another glass of wine?

Was I really expected to say no to that?

More chips?

Was I really expected to say no to that?!

And things would get worse.

My neighbor’s brother-in-law happened to be celebrating his birthday that night.

Translation: the fourth hour/round included carrot cake, paired, of course, with bourbon.

Another piece?

With my back against the cage, it was do or die. A true fighter like myself knows how to turn adversity into opportunity. So I winced in pain—and I declined.

Water?

As parched as I was, I knew that dehydration would work to my advantage.

I declined again!

By the fifth hour/round, I was in control of the fight. After all, I had a secret weapon on my side. Overeating on a regular basis meant that my performance in the earlier rounds, rather than being exceptional, was actually somewhat routine.

As I departed for the walk home, I liked my chances.

***

The next morning, I remembered I had yet another factor going for me.

My bathroom scale was an old analog model—as such, decimal point fluctuations were largely imperceptible.

I took a deep breath and put one foot on the scale. Then, with more flair than usual, I added the other foot.

I blinked my eyes for a second and focused on the dial below.

215 pounds.

I stepped off and, overcome with emotion, pumped my fists. It was a victory I will never forget.

In that moment, thanks to a remarkably gritty performance, the non-zeroed scale and myself were champions of the world.