We’re going to be talking about MMA, today, but first, a question for you, the reader: what’s your favorite movie?
The Godfather, you say? Casablanca? Oh, you’re a fan of Citizen Kane?
All strong choices, but hey. You don’t have to lie to me. Be honest: you’ve already watched Conan the Barbarian half a dozen times this year, haven’t you? And you’ll probably get at least one more in before Christmas, too. How about that Clooney remake of Ocean’s Eleven? Not a legendary piece of film history, perhaps, but you’ll sit down and watch it through to the end any time it comes on TV, won’t you? And you pretend that your daughter or niece or sister is the reason you’ve sat through Moana with such alarming frequency, but you’ll be damned if that “You’re Welcome” song doesn’t get stuck in your head every single time.
The truth is, while we can all acknowledge greatness, our personal favorites rarely line up exactly with the choices of the collective. Our babies tend to be a little more flawed, more nuanced, even in ways that the creators never intended. Is Conan a better movie than Godfather? I don’t know. Probably not, in some objective sense. Nonetheless, it’s the little idiosyncrasies that keep us coming back. Just like a life partner, we love our special movies, books, shows, games, foods–whatever–despite their faults, but also because of them.
Often, when we talk about the structure and purpose of combat sports, we focus on the idea of finding out who “the best” is. Never mind that the very concept is about as nebulous as it gets, or that the unpredictable nature of a sport like MMA means that the so-called better fighter frequently loses. Prizefighting has rankings and titles for a reason, and those are supposed to be the things we care about.
And yet, my own favorite fighters are rarely the best of the best. Okay, I am the world’s biggest Jose Aldo mark, and yes, I will tear the flesh off of any man who denies that he is at least one of the five greatest fighters of all time. Likewise, I will lay down my life for Joanna Jedrzejczyk, the female Jose Aldo, the moment she asks, something I am expecting her to do any day now.
Still, the rest of the list would seem a little stranger to most fight fans. Lyoto Machida was once the UFC light heavyweight champ, and was truly an elite fighter throughout his prime, but he never shows up on any top 10 pound-for-pound lists. Sean Strickland, 7-3 in the UFC, would be considered famously frustrating if he were actually famous at all. Eric Shelton may not even be in the UFC next year, with the promotion shortsightedly dissolving its flyweight division, and his fights tend to be methodical and somewhat slow. Nonetheless, I get some special joy out of watching him perform.
Marlon Vera is one of the more recent additions to my list, but he has already become a mainstay. If Chito is fighting, I will always make sure to tune in.
And yet, of all the fighters listed here, Vera’s style may be the most inherently troubled. He is a habitual slow starter. Despite his best moments in the cage always coming as the result of aggression and forward movement, Vera starts nearly every fight backing up, waiting on his opponent to lead, maddeningly fixated on a defensive style that never seems to work for him. My Heavy Hands co-host Phil Mackenzie recently referred to him as a “bantamweight Lionheart.” A tinier but equally insecure version of unlikely light heavyweight contender Anthony Smith. It fits pretty well.
If you couldn’t guess before, my list of endlessly watchable films was more than a little personal. I do watch Conan the Barbarian far more often than is good for me. I find it hard not to finish Ocean’s Eleven when it’s on cable, even if I come in halfway through the final heist. And yeah, Moana kind of rocks.
Why do I love these movies? They may be a little flawed, sure. John Milius was a weirdo right-winger, Don Cheadle’s cockney accent was terrible, and there is simply no forgiving Moana’s wretched pet chicken. Nonetheless, they all have great stories, driven via compelling drama, generated by strong, likeable characters.
However much of a purist you think yourself to be, narrative matters. That’s true whether we’re talking films or fighters.
No matter how impressive a given athlete’s technique, nor how aesthetically pleasing his movement, without a personality to latch onto, any fan is unlikely to get invested in his or her success. Essentially, we treat fighters like characters, and fights as the primary medium in which their stories play out.
Marlon Vera is certainly a character with a likeable personality. When he bested Brad Pickett in the Londoner’s hometown, he received the mic to a chorus of boos. By the end of his speech, the bitterly disappointed Pickett embraced and kissed him, and the “f—king legend’s” hometown showered him with applause. Vera has a hell of a motivation, as well. Until June of 2017, his daughter Ana Paula suffered from a nervous condition which rendered her incapable of forming facial expressions. In Vera’s words, he was driven to fight for his daughter’s smile. To this day, nothing seems to motivate him more than his family.
His fights are exciting, and he seems like a genuine, warm-hearted person. His confidence, when it appears, comes off as charming, without an ounce of arrogance. All of these are details which make Vera a man worth watching, as well as a character worth rooting for.
But the title of this piece isn’t “Why you should like Chito Vera.” Obviously, liking him is easy, and you’re probably an awful moron if you don’t already. We’re here to talk about why I, Connor Michael Ruebusch, love Chito Vera. And in order for me to explain that, you first have to understand one thing.
I am a big nerd.
I don’t call myself a combat purist, because apparently personal growth really is possible, but I’m definitely a nerd. I watch fights studiously, often with obnoxious technical commentary. Yes, even when I’m watching by myself–but only if I’m invested in the fighter in action. I will rewind a sequence several times to get a better look at a given technique. I track fighters’ improving skills like characters in some never-ending Dragon Ball Z clone.
I am also utterly fascinated by the concept of style. Ever since it was first explained to me that a fighter’s tendencies may have more to do with his temperament than his technique, I have watched and followed fighters with that in mind. Does this fighter get into constant slugfests because he’s confident in his ability to outlast his opponent, or because he can’t stop panicking under fire? Does that one have imperturbable patience, or is he simply too hesitant to engage? What tack does the experienced coach in the corner take: is he aggressive with his charge, or pliant? Inquisitive or commanding? Friendly or clinical?
Like a sci-fi fan who can forgive a weak story if there’s enough cool technology on screen, a fighter’s technique and style will always have some influence on how much I favor them. I guess that’s what happens when you spend your childhood watching Nat Geo tapes instead of playing outside.
And as compelling as Marlon Vera is as a person and a competitor, his curious style has a lot to do with my affection.
As a fighter, Chito can be frustrating to watch. Frustrating to coach, as well. He is dynamic, dangerous, and surprisingly adaptable, but his cornermen have to work extremely hard to bring those traits out of him. Visit Marlon and his head coach Colin Oyama in the corner between virtually any two rounds, and you will hear a dozen different, swear-filled variations on the same themes.
Chito finds himself in a dogfight with Wuliji Buren. “Bring the numbers. Pressure him with your footwork, Chito.”
Chito struggles with the aggression of Douglas D’Silva, blinking at his coaches through one horribly swollen eye. “Hey, if he stops you, he stops you, but you’re not going to win this fight f—— circling backwards and just waiting for one shot. You gotta put everything into one round, Chito. You gotta go apeshit!”
Chito valiantly survives two rounds of John Lineker’s brutal power punching. “This is the fight you asked for. What’s wrong with the foot? It doesn’t matter, man! This is for all the marbles.” Vera’s other cornerman puts in: “Listen to me right now. He’s gonna f—— hit you. Make him pay.”
Chito faces down a hostile crowd as he battles Brad Pickett in the legend’s retirement fight. “You come from a place where you had to scrap everyday. Take it to this m———–.” Oyama looks to the crowd, and then back at Vera. “You’re not fighting any of these people. You’re fighting one guy. That f—– right there, he’s ready to quit.”
Has he improved over time? Perhaps. It’s hard to say, but looking at the corner advice compiled here, there is no denying that Vera has struggled with the same problems over, and over again. Every fight is equal parts torturous and cathartic. Chito is a fighter who works out his dysfunctions in the cage. Hell, maybe that’s what makes him such a nice guy. It also makes him irresistibly watchable.
No matter how hard he tries, the man cannot get over the flaws in his game, I can’t get enough of it. Vera is just frustrating enough to fascinate me. He is a sort of technical and stylistic antihero, always trying his best, but constantly getting in his own way.
Like any great hero, Vera seems to fight up to the level of his competition. Few fighters go two rounds with John Lineker only to back him up in the third, for example.
He is equally capable, however, of lowering himself to the grade of a journeyman. Last Saturday, Chito took on Guido Cannetti. No John Lineker, Cannetti is rather formless and raw as a fighter, and less experienced than Marlon despite being 13 years older. Nonetheless, Vera hesitated to let his strikes go in the first round, and Cannetti rocked him with some powerful punches, bulling him back into the fence at every opportunity.
But what better character trait is there than perseverance? No matter how consistently Vera drops first rounds, he always gets better over time. After just five minutes of hard fighting with Cannetti and 50 seconds with a comically agitated corner, Chito came out in the second round and whooped that ass with an urgency. He flung the hometown fighter (like any antihero, Vera is quite the road dog) into the fence with a flying kick. Crumpled him to the floor with a series of brutal knees. Ended up on his back and attacked so aggressively from guard that Guido had to disengage and back off. That’s when Vera stalked him to the opposite side of the cage, stunned him with a sneaky uppercut, and followed him to the floor to take his neck.
There is always drama when Chito Vera fights. That it happens to be the kind of drama that a dedicated dork can enjoy is just icing on the cake.
Prizefighting is full of odd characters. Pound-for-pound lists are short, and only a tiny minority of competitors will ever wear championship gold. What are the chances that all of the most compelling personalities will float to the tippy top?
I love Chito Vera, because to me he seems like the perfect embodiment of the sport. The best thing about MMA, aside from the endless array of techniques (most of which Vera will likely try, before he is done), is the fact that it is real. At least in some sense, there is no hiding from oneself inside the cage. Fighting style is not just determined by personality, it is personality. And Chito Vera has a lot of it.
Not quite a contender, but not quite a journeyman, Vera is wild and dangerous and wonderfully flawed. He is always struggling, but never staying still. He is never dull, not only because his fights are so thrilling, but because every battle is a 15-minute story of personal triumph. I just love the guy.
I have my Chito Vera. May you watch a few undercards and find yours.