My Favorite Fighter: Fedor Emelianenko, MMAs true enigma

Publish date: 2024-05-18

With most of the sports world shut down for an indefinite period, we’re looking for creative ways to help fill the void. This is part of a new series documenting the favorite fighters of The Athletic’s MMA staff. Be sure to join our discussion thread and share your own story.

Let’s start near the ending, on that warm night in June 2010. I was on media row at HP Pavilion (later renamed SAP Center) in San Jose, Calif., getting ready to watch Fedor Emelianenko wreck a UFC castoff by the name of Fabricio Werdum. I was excited. We all were. This was a chance to watch the great Fedor in action, something you could tell your grandkids about. It was one of those memories you could feel yourself forming even as it was happening.

Advertisement

The lights went low. The ominous Russian chant-singing began. A whole arena full of people got chills all at once. Here came Fedor.

You know what happened next. A wild punch. What looked at first like a knockdown by Emelianenko. Then, hold up, why isn’t he easily and immediately freeing himself from this triangle-choke/armbar combo that Werdum threw up in desperation off his back? No way he could really be in trouble here … right … you guys?

Even after he tapped, it didn’t seem quite real. Fedor? Losing? Surely there must be some mistake.

What is the Greatest Submission of All-Time?
#2 Seed: In a fight that ended the historic 27-fight win streak of Fedor Emelianenko, @FabricioWerdum catches The Last Emperor in a triangle-armbar heard round the world at Strikeforce: Fedor vs Werdum on June 26, 2010. pic.twitter.com/taeuyR7Lce

— UFC FIGHT PASS (@UFCFightPass) February 12, 2018

That it seemed so unthinkable at the time is a testament to Emelianenko’s dominance. He simply didn’t lose. He’d been a pro 10 years by the time he lost to Werdum, and during that span he had one defeat (a doctor’s stoppage due to a cut, which no one ever regarded as a true loss), one no-contest (against Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira, whom he’d end up beating twice for the Pride Fighting Championships heavyweight title) and 31 victories.

In a sport and a division where no one stayed on top for long, he was the exception. And in an era filled with grapplers who could sort of strike or strikers who could almost grapple, he was about as close as we ever thought we’d get to a “complete” fighter, especially at heavyweight. He’d be out there bouncing around on his toes with his hands low, daring you to walk in and take a swing or try a double-leg, knowing he could knock you out or submit you with equal ease. Dealer’s choice.

Advertisement

But it wasn’t just what he could do in the ring. It was also that he was an enigma. I followed him for years as a fan, covered him as a journalist, even interviewed him a time or two via an interpreter. Still, I can’t say that I ever felt like I knew or understand the man. Media members used to feed on these anecdotes from other fighters who knew him in the Pride FC days, hoping to learn something about the mysterious Russian. I remember sitting at a table with Josh Barnett at the wedding of a mutual friend one summer while my wife and our friends peppered him with questions that could have all fallen under the heading: What is Fedor really like?

He was a blank canvas, in that sense. This was largely before social media was the fully grown monster it is now, thereby affording us the opportunity to learn about our favorite fighters’ political or social views just in time to immediately wish we hadn’t. Emelianenko didn’t say much, even in his native tongue. The brief glimpses we got of his personal life — eating ice cream with childlike glee, feeding geese while shirtless in track pants, wearing the same dorky sweater at every media appearance until it became an icon unto itself — were downright delightful. Surely the guy had an ego. And some of the shady figures surrounding him suggested the possibility of troubling personal associations. But the man himself was a black box. You could only guess what was happening in there.

Did he have more than his share of ridiculous squash matches? He did, yes, especially when New Year’s Eve in Tokyo rolled around. Did he also fight just about every top heavyweight of his era, at least when they weren’t prevented by contractual commitment to the UFC? Absolutely. In 2004 alone he beat Mark Coleman, Kevin Randleman and Nogueira. His 2005 Pride FC heavyweight title defense against Mirko Cro Cop was one of the best and most technically proficient heavyweight bouts of the era, a sign of where the division could and would go.

A few years later, after Tim Sylvia and Andrei Arlovski had traded the UFC heavyweight title back and forth, Emelianenko beat them both in back-to-back fights. I remember being at Honda Center when he demolished Sylvia in 36 seconds at “Affliction: Banned.” Afterward, Sylvia described the experience to reporters at the post-fight press conference with an almost religious reverence, like being hit by Fedor was a spiritual experience, both terrifying and unforgettable.

Of course, he never signed with the UFC, a decision that was disappointing at the time but now seems weirdly transgressive. Here was one fighter who refused to chain his career to the industry giant with its one-sided contracts and its refusal to settle for anything less than total control. Maybe it’s simpler than that, though. Maybe it was just pure greed on the part of his management team. But that was the fault of the men in suits. The stain never really stuck to Fedor himself.

Advertisement

True, he was never as good as his most ardent supporters made him out to be. But he was never the fraud his detractors made him out to be, either. Like everyone else, he stayed too long. After that submission loss to Werdum, the aura of invincibility suddenly dissipated. He got brutalized by the sheer size of Antonio “Bigfoot” Silva in his next bout, then knocked out by Dan Henderson after that. These were the dark times, the only losing skid of his career.

The version of Emelianenko that has continued on has the feel of a years-long encore. It’s like watching someone do a pretty convincing Fedor impression. It looks right — light on his toes, hands quivering at his midsection like attack dogs waiting to be released, a total lack of concern for anything his opponent might do — but the magic is all gone. The game moved on and left him behind. That same old story.

But I still think about the night he lost to Werdum, that dividing line between the two lives he lived in this sport. I also think about seeing Werdum a couple of hours later on the streets of downtown San Jose, drunk and happy, in the middle of a great celebration. What did he win, a world title? A life-changing amount of money? The championship of the universe?

You’d have thought so, to look at the future UFC heavyweight champ right then, but no. What he’d done was defeated the great Fedor. And at that moment, who else on the planet could say that?

(Top photo: TASS via Getty)

ncG1vNJzZmismJqutbTLnquim16YvK57kHBqb2tlZ3xzfJFpZmlsX2Z9cLnYZp2arp%2BntrWxjJ%2BgoKCkmr9ussSdpqtllaKyrbXAp5yno59iuq6tjJ6lop%2Bdlnw%3D