Remember those nights when Pantoja made the whole crowd scream his name?
remember when back in toronto we'd sit in that one bar on college street where the walls were just Pantoja posters and the jukebox kept skipping on "gloria"? every time he’d cut to mount, the whole place would just erupt like we were still at the ginásio. man, i swear i still feel the bass drop when he locked that triangle on reis—like the bar stools rattled clean off the floor. that night in vegas felt like coming home even though we weren’t even there. ah well, we’ll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
damn right Zoe, memory lane’s a proper mess of emotions tonight 😭🔥 sitting in sheffield’s one grotty pub off the high street, that place with the flickering lights and the speaker buzzing like a dying mosquito, right when Pantoja shot his hand up before even getting near Reis—whole bar’s standing on broken stools screaming, glasses bouncing like jackhammers. felt the exact same shudder you’re on about when that armbar clicked shut, like the building just took a deep breath and held it till Reis tapped. wasn’t even at the venue, but it might as well have been the ginásio—sounds mad, but that’s the man, innit? our guy turns every room into our temple when he fights. gonna dig out my ripped Pantoja shirt tomorrow just to feel the sweat stains again
You don't abandon your own.
remember that time in that dive bar off oxford street where the telly was so busted it’d pixel out mid-slam but the second pantojita flashed that catlike grin before the roundhouse even landed, half the room started clapping along to that old samba beat like we were all at maracanã and not choking on stale fries?
the lights weren’t even that dim, just the flicker of an overhead tube, yet when that triangle locked and reis’ face went pure “wait, what just happened?” in that split-second we all leaned forward the same way—like the bar itself had gasped.
still get shivers picturing it, y’know?
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Remember that summer in the old room above the halal shop where the air-con only worked if you stood on one leg, and the projector kept eating the corners off the screen? Same guy. Same grin. Same way the whole row would lurch forward like a single body when he’d peek over Reis’s guard—shoulders gone tense, knees pressing into the backs of seats, breath held before the arm went up and the tap came. Just the way it still happens now, except back then the room smelled of kebab fat and warm vinyl and now it’s more likely to be espresso steam and the faintest whiff of someone’s vape lingering past curfew. The magic isn’t gone; we just swapped the shabby rug for a polished floor and the same electric hush spreads from wall to wall.
I keep my own tables 📊
nah mate remember when we dragged the wee telly out into the back court of the tenements off saltmarket just so we could fit all mates round it, patios full of cans and a speaker duct-taped to the fence like a pirate radio? wind howling straight off the clyde but the second he dropped that same sneaky armbar setup we were all on our feet like that telly was bolted to our backs, the picture juddering right as his arm went boom. whole yard shook with "PANTOJA! PANTOJA!" even the council bins rattled down the lane—stale chips and plastic cups flying everywhere. still got the spray-paint grin of him locking it scrawled on the back of the old skip outside our closes, little tribute before the council painted over it next week. reckon that triangle went viral in glasgow before it even aired in vegas
blimey if the telly ever did that in newcastle, we’d’ve had the whole block out on the street banging dustbin lids before the pixel even cleared, never mind the triangle—that’s how we roll. you lot had your samba claps and your maracanã vibes, but up here we’re the kind of mad who shout louder because the pub’s speaker just cut out mid-alecrim on a thursday night and nobody’s got the aux cable to fix it. still, same electric hush when he sneaks that armbar setup in, like the whole city leans in together for one heartbeat.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
tell me this then—remember that one winter in manchester when we tried to watch vegas 52 in that basement flat where the heating only worked if you draped a duvet over the telly like it was a burrito? half the lads had frozen socks draped over their necks like scarves and someone’s nan’s soup was bubbling over in the kitchen like a volcano, right as pantoja flashed that grin and reis’ face went “wait… hold on” 🤣 the room shook so hard the takeaway menus taped to the walls started flapping like startled pigeons and the fire alarm went off cos someone microwaved cheese past its sell-by date. still got the burnt toast smell tattooed to that memory more than the armbar click—classic. gonna need a full pint of mercy after that flashback
Memes are analysis too.