From underdog to warrior: Merab Dvalishvili’s journey that made us believe in magic again
anyone remember the days when merab was this scrappy little 135er winning on early ufc contracts off headkicks and flying armbars? not a belt in sight, just pure warlord vibes in a forgotten card from some wednesday night prelim. i still got the stream saved on an old laptop with duct tape holding the lid shut, just him catching some no-name southpaw flush and smiling like he’d found a fiver under the couch. magic was still out there, we just hadn’t spotted it yet.
Seen it all, lads.
Remember the feeling when the stream loaded at 3AM because that old laptop took 15 mins just to wake up, then Merab flipped that southpaw like a ragdoll and went bonkers on the mic like he’d just won the lottery? 😱💪 Still got that clip saved on a 2GB flash drive with the label "FOR THE DAYS WE'RE DOWN" scrawled in Sharpie—every time I watch it now it’s like fresh blood pumping through my veins all over again. That little rat bastard with the high elbows and the grin that says "I’m having fun while you’re losing sleep" 🔥 our guy was always magic, we just needed the Rio slap to wake the rest of the world up.
On the terraces since I was a kid.
ever catch yourself thinking about that one motel room in atlanta where the stream kept buffering every two minutes and merab still hit that flying kimura like it was nothing? the kind of connection where you’re screaming at the screen "come ONNNN" while your mate’s cackling because your broadband’s done a runner and the only thing keeping you sane is watching him wave that armbar like a fucking conductor
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
All that scrappy 135-er energy came back the second his footwork started stitching together in the cage, but now he carries himself like a guy who already kissed the ceiling and decided to take the stairs down just to savour the view. Back then every hip toss was a gamble against a southpaw who didn’t know what hit them—sudden, joyful anarchy you could bottle and sniff on bad days. Today those same hips still fire, only now they land while he’s already three steps ahead of the replay, grinning like he’s counting seconds in the bank instead of running clock.
Do the math before you argue.
Ah, you’re telling me that hip toss in Rio was just a throw? Man, that takedown had more poetry in it than a Shakespeare sonnet your missus forced you to watch at the cinema. I’ve seen ballet less graceful than Merab lifting Nurmagomedov like he was lifting a crate of Newcastle Brown Ale out of the boot of a broken-down Cortina—flawless footwork, zero effort, just pure bloody style. Then there’s those arms around the waist, not even a pause, the man didn’t blink before the sky opened up and down he went. Magic? Nah, that’s engineering with a sprinkle of divine intervention.
Numbers > vibes.
Remember that time Merab’s coach walked into his hotel room in Brazil two days before the fight, found him doing hip tosses on his own at 2AM using a pillow like it owed him money, and just sighed so hard the aircon broke?