A well-known poem by famous writer and poet Rudyard Kipling appropriately describes the courageous underdog known as Brett "Grim" Rogers. Part of it reads:
If...you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss...
The cage-fighting event known as Strikeforce took place last night and was witnessed by millions of dedicated MMA fans around the world on CBS TV.
No, the Russian version of Thor didn't show up in his Chariot drawn by Golden Stallions, as planned by his followers.
Instead, he arrived as a fallible human being—albeit also a very arrogant one.
This Russian cage-fighter, a foreigner, thought himself far too great—and holier than thou—to grant a beautiful American CBS reporter a pre-fight interview.
Instead, he sent his wannabe training coach and an overweight female interpreter to take his place.
And as for the fight? Well, the Russian didn't do so good—during the first round—in that area of expertise either.
He resembled a very beatable cage-fighter, one who belongs in these subpar promotions, against these less-than-stellar ranked heavyweights.
My background is in boxing, and from where I stand, Fedor Emelianenko has many weaknesses.
One of them is his inability to throw straight punches, and another is his vulnerability to be hit with said straight punches.
He also has a ravenous appetite for eating left jabs, which may be strategically placed upon his ugly Russian chin or nose at any point during the match.
We first saw this when he fought Andrei Arlovski, and then once again last night when —with only seconds gone into the match—Emelianenko received an enormous left jab from Rogers that caused considerable deviated septum damage and spattered his Russian blood some two feet into the air.
Yes—from a very tough and durable Rogers, during the first five minutes, the invincible Emelianenko was reversed on the ground, took left jabs to the face, was beaten up, and tossed around the cage like a rag doll.
Rogers undoubtedly isn't feeling too well this Sunday morning after being knocked down and stopped by a tricky Emelianenko looping overhand right, but the great invincible Russian hype machine is also licking his wounds and certainly knows he took a first-round beating.
Arlovski and Rogers both "got caught" by the same punch, and both made amateurish mistakes.
In Arlovski's case, he may have perceived that Emelianenko was no longer dangerous, but just as any good hunter will explain, it's never a good idea to move in on a wounded animal without a loaded gun.
In Rogers's case, he emerged in the second-round up on his toes dancing, possibly also a slight bit cocky but certainly not doing what he should have been doing, which was moving to his right, away from the Russian's power hand.
Another mistake Rogers made that was similar to Arlovski's was thinking that Emelianenko was fatally wounded, finished, or hurt.
The Russian hype machine is also a ferocious Siberian white tiger, and only the "coup de grâce" will finish him, and unfortunately Rogers failed to do that in premier moments of round one.
In this case, as was also the case with Arlovski, the hunter got eaten by an only slightly hurt wild Russian boar, an animal which should be respected and always approached with extreme caution.
Let's finish off with the rest of that verse from Kipling:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!
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