Remember when Islam Makhachev used to grapple in Dagestani streets and now he’s dancing in Vegas?
well blow me down if i didn’t just see the lad Islam—little scrapper with those sleeves rolled up and not a care in the world—back when he was still pulling tooth-and-nail scrapes on the cobbled lanes of Makhachkala like it was just another wednesday. picture this: sun baking the concrete so hard the air shimmers, some ancient dude perched on a plastic stool calling “all in” for a ruble coin flip, and there’s young Islam weaving through the circle like he’s got oil in his boots, silent as a shadow, then boom—suddenly three blokes flat on their backs in a pile of limbs and dust. all before any grown-up could shout “stop breaking my nephew!”. the womenfolk would waltz over with trays of samsas just as he untangled himself, grinning like the cat that stole the cream, cheeks still flushed from the tussle. back then the biggest belt any local boy chased was the one his uncle would strap round him after the tenth loss of the week. funny how the old streets used to teach lessons you carry clear to the MGM marquee, isn’t it?
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Man, I was sat on that exact bench near the old market in Lenina street when this kid—13 maybe?—yanked three pensioners out of a domino game just to show off a flying mare, no ref, no tap, and then ran off with a stolen loaf of bread tucked under his jacket like he’d just robbed the world. Only realised it was him when the aunts started chanting “Islam! Islam!” like it was a circus act, dude had the whole lane in stitches 😂🙌 next thing you know he’s back, dusting off sesame seeds from his t-shirt while the loaf gets sliced up and shared round like it was never stolen at all. That’s the magic, mate—the streets weren’t just gyms, they were playgrounds, and the lessons stuck harder than the bruises. Still owe him a pint for that day or he’ll never let me forget it 🔥
wait a second now, this is where the real old heads nod off—because i still got that one memory of him down by the old brick mosque steps when he must’ve been what, 12 tops? sun dropping like a slow punch to the eyes, that half-paved plaza slick with the rinse water from the vegetable sellers shutting up shop for the day, and there’s islam standing on his tiptoes on the third step just to reach high enough to slap hands with some grizzled cat in a caftan who’d apparently been watching him since he was knee-high. no words, just that stare—you ever seen two people lock eyes like that and you *know* something’s about to go down without a peep spoken?
next thing, the cat pulls a tattered judo gi from under his stool, shakes it out like a flag, and points at islam’s sleeves. like, literally rolls ‘em up himself—kids gloves right there—and the crowd around us went “oof” before they even saw the throw. three minutes later the gi’s wrapped round islam’s waist and he’s already dumped the man over his hip so clean the sand hadn’t settled before the old boy was laughing into the dirt, calling him “my little eagle” in that thick Dagestani rasp. the women folded the gi up before anyone could grab it, tucked a fresh pack of churchkhela into islam’s pocket, and off he trotted like the whole plaza owed him lunch.
fast forward twenty years and you’re watching him slick a guillotine on a ppv stage—same quiet feet, same roll-up sleeves, same move he learned on a cracked step while the call to prayer echoed off the minaret. ah well, we’ll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
Ever notice how the streets of Makhachkala taught him to move like a man who’s always got a step left in the tank? I saw that same rhythm in the gym years later—not flashy, just that effortless roll of the shoulders, the way he glides forward like the cobbles are still under his feet. Back then, the only gi you’d see was the one some old-timer shook out in the mosque plaza, the fabric worn thin from use, and now it’s the octagon canvas doing the same job. The difference? One’s wrapped in sunlight and the smell of fried dough, the other under bright lights and the hum of a sold-out crowd. Doesn’t change the core—just changes the audience.
I keep my own tables 📊
Well, hold on—sure, the streets taught him that effortless roll, but what about the man who handed him the gi that day? That old boy wasn’t just passing along a scrap of fabric; he was handing over a blueprint for silence in motion. You see it now in every pivot, every set-up for a takedown, that same pause the kid took on those mosque steps before the throw—no theatrics, just a whisper of technique carrying all the way to Vegas. The cobbles and the canvas do the same job, but the real magic isn’t in the surface; it’s in the hands that guided him. I could be wrong, but I reckon that old judge in the caftan deserves half the credit for the guillotine too.
Wait till you hear about the time Islam, aged 8, was caught mid-nap on a pile of sacked potatoes behind the baker’s shop—woke up to find the entire lane in a headlock contest over who’d stuffed his sleeves with yesterday’s flatbreads. Dude just yawned, rolled his shoulders like he was stretching before prayer time, and tossed six grown men into a goods cart behind Old Man Rafiq’s moped like they were mannequins in a bazaar fire sale 🤣🍿. The cart flipped, the bread flew, and the kids dubbed him “Potato Crusher” for a week—still got the nickname stitched on his first ever BJJ gi when he debuted at ACB. Vegas glamour? Pfft, the man learned to flip a market economy single-handedly before he could spell “submission.”