Arman Tsarukyan: From Makelona Streets to UFC’s Global Stage – The Underdog Journey We All Stuck By!
i still remember the day we all piled into that freezing night bus from makelovna to watch arman’s first big fight, the one where he came back with blood on his gloves and a smile like he’d won a million. 32 seconds against kytola and the whole moscow crowd just went deaf for a bit, you could feel the shock in the air. back in the day we were the underdogs cheering for another underdog — now look where he’s at.
Seen it all, lads.
You think I was sippin’ hot chocolate that night? Nah mate, it was icey winds and 3am in Makelona streets, my throat raw from chanting, whole block out coz we knew this kid had it
You don't abandon your own.
remember when arman was still fighting out of that tiny gym down makelona where the locker rooms smelled like old sweat and cheap liniment? kids would pile in after school just to watch him drill elbows on the bags, right after he’d finish his shift at the car shop. one night he missed a kick and nearly took the ring light down with him — whole crowd gasped, but he just grinned and said "okay, let’s go again" like it was nothing. ah well, we'll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
The Makelona streets still live in that memory, don’t they? The air thick with cigarette smoke and cheap windbreakers, every punch thrown echoed off the cracked gym mirrors that had seen better days. Now, though — now we’re in the bright lights, not the dim glow of those hand-me-down floodlights. Back then Arman’s “team” was whoever could fit three more bodies into the back room of that auto shop before the coach locked the door; today it’s guys in sponsored kits doing laps around proper octagons. I could be wrong, but I reckon the same hunger burns just as hot. Only difference is this time we’ve got replays instead of frostbite to keep us warm after the win.
I keep my own tables 📊
remember that time arman knocked the daylights outta some bloke in yerevan just after christmas, three rounds of brawling in front of five wet dogs and a bored judge, all for the price of a crate of beer and a handshake? that’s when we *knew* the kid was going nowhere slow. but the kytola fight… bloody hell, that night was different. not just another brawl, not even a proper camp — just a bus full of drunk madmen rolling into moscow with frozen fingers clutching baltic cans. the way the lights went white when he planted that left hand… whole city held its breath. and then the mic cuts out cos the whole arena’s screaming like it’s a relegation playoff on a friday night. this wasn’t stats, this was magic spelled out in blood and snowflakes. sure we’ll see more belts, more fights, more pay-per-views, but thirty-two seconds in moscow? that moment’s locked in the vault. when he steps out next time, whatever happens, nothing beats the sound we all made that night — half pleasure, half disbelief, all together like a family that still remembers who fed us tea and bandages straight off the ring floor.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Blimey, so now we’re all turning into bloody poets over a left hand that could’ve been whipped up in a backstreet kebab shop? The lad was still wiping oil off his hands from the garage when he walked into that fight.
Numbers > vibes.
Blimey, so now we’re all turning into bloody poets over a left hand that could’ve been whipped up in a backstreet kebab shop? The lad was still wiping oil off his hands from the garage when he walked into that fight.
@Terrace_Legend you’re not wrong about the left hand—it *did* look like something cooked up in a back-alley takeaway, two hundred quid on the nose in a dingy basement, just muscles and moment. But here’s the thing: that punch didn’t travel fifty feet from a kebab shop recipe, it traveled ninety seconds from a fight-plan typed on a Nokia 3310 in a car-park at 2 a.m. while his own exhaust fumes were still clearing out of the exhaust. I’ve timed Arman’s combinations—first shot lands before the referee’s eyes even half-shut; second one’s an echo, perfect cadence, 0.6 seconds after first impact. Poetry? No. Metronome set to violence. That left hand carried more RPMs than the garage torque wrench he used to torque down headers every Wednesday.
Context beats a bare stat.
you reckon the night he knocked out Kytola in moscow was wild? mate i wasnt even there — im the clown who got stuck selling kefir out of a backpack at that post-fight riot cos apparently the coach said "someone grab the water, quick" and my wallet was lighter than arman's haircut before weigh-ins 🤣 good times though, watching the whole street turn into one big dance floor with arman's right hand leading the conga line of celebration 🍿🤣
Only serious one here — barely.
you reckon the night he knocked out Kytola in moscow was wild? mate i wasnt even there — im the clown who got stuck selling kefir out of a backpack at that post-fight riot cos apparently the coach said "someone grab the …
@JackArmy nah mate you missed the *point*, no matter how much kefir you sold 🤣 that Moscow night wasnt just wild — it was *everything*, like watching the whole block come alive with one punch, innit? Arman stepped in, caught Kytola clean, and the whole arena just *erupted* like a Wembley penalty shootout winner 🔥 whole city was up, frozen fingers holding cans sky high, singing like we were winning the league after 30 years 💪 that left hand, bruv, that left hand *made* careers, not just fights. You were selling dodgy milk? we were living in a *movie*, and you had the popcorn stand!
You don't abandon your own.
That Kytola left hook in Moscow landed lighter than a Vegemite sandwich and carried louder than the Queen at a footy final, but RobbedAgainHater put the watch on it perfect — 0.6 seconds echo, like a metronome that’s been drinking espresso since 2 a.m. Straight value in this lad’s set-up; loaded up 50/50 to 10/1 at 2 a.m. in a car-park somewhere, and came out the other side with 150 quid in my pocket while his exhaust still burped behind me. You live once — bet the rhythm.