Given how last year Brockle Snar decided to hang his 4X gloves, people have been losing their shit ever since. His legacy has been discussed ad nauseum, and his heart, chin, drive questioned, and that is fine. But it somewhat got me thinking...
How will we see Brock years from now, say, in ten or twenty? And I somewhat had to pause...
Brock jumped into MMA already a well known personality and a millionaire, boasting an impressive NCAA wrestling background and freakish athletic gifts, following a stint in proffessional wrestling that took him to Japan at some point, and even trying out for the Minnesota Vikings at some point. It seemed as if dude wasn't really sure or commited to anything much in the long term, though.
But he proved to be a fierce, motivated competitor, and like in his previous ventures he found success early, exploding into the scene and even making heavyweight champion of the world in his fourth fight.
And then it all went to fucking shit.See, Brockle had what medical doctors would describe as "pretty bad fucking luck" in his belly, and it hindered his career. He no longer was the baddest man in the planet, and the rest you already know...
But isn't it weird? For all the fuzz that was made about Mr. Snar polluting our virginal MMAs with his wrasslin' bravado and "fake" persona, it was him that did most of the job of bringing in the casuals, like moths drawn to the light, and planted the seeds for the ushering of a new era of mainstream growth in the sport.
The kids won't even know what it was like before he came in, how he was thrown into the shark tank and pulled a metaphorical horseshoe out of Frank Mir's ass in the second try; they won't know how pretty bad fucking luck almost killed him twice and mellowed his surly exterior, how he still fought outgunned against seriously trained folk that no rational human being that dealt with what he had would even consider maddogging at, much less getting into a cage with to trade some blows; and how he got beaten and broken by such men. To them he will be an after thought somewhere in the UFC holographic homepage of the future, next to the dancing chicks with tails and the ads to buy real estate on the moon, but just below a communicate telling you not to trust Nexus-6 androids; he will probably be the very first--the prototype of the super massive, super athletic heavyweight that has since then come to be the norm.
At eight fights in total in his MMA career, four of which he won at the highest level, what can we realistically expect? A Donald Cerrone, that guy who made history as a wakeboarder by completely ditching the board and using a cow instead, amassed the exact total of Lesnar's high level victories in a single year of his tenure in the UFC, not championship level, but still.
A long time from today, it may well be that it is only the hardcores that reserve a special place in their hearts for the big, hulking ogre from Minnesota with the garish tattoos and a penchant for hunting that jumped old into the game, that was given absolutely no quarter and nevertheless made champ real quick with a limited game but a hell of a lot of guts. How he had a love-hate relationship with Canada, the media, and apparently life, too. They will remember that he believed himself to be born to fight, styling himself as a modern day gladiator. And that he, for whatever reason, kept stepping into that cage long past the time anyone would deem it sensible, ever confident in his game all the way to the end, and ever humble in defeat when it inevitably failed him.
He did walk backstage at some point, away from the lights and the glitter, and then he was never heard of again. Legend tells of the deers all across Canada trembling at the soft call of the winds of winter that carry his name in their wake.
So, farm well, Brockle. You've earned it, playboy.