That underdog who climbed from Georgia with nothing but heart—and left every octagon…
had that vegas 42 fight on in the cab all weekend, playing it back like a stuck record. remember that kid from nowhere in georgia with the face like he's about to eat your soul, stepping up against that mountain of a man—then just... chipping away. no fancy stuff, no percentages, just pure heart and those legs that never stopped moving. the whole lorry was shaking, i swear to god. heard the crowd lose it before i even saw the replay. that’s merab, innit? brings a bit of home with every step he takes.
Seen it all, lads.
Man what a time to be alive in that cab with me dad slapping my back like "WHERE DID THIS GUY COME FROM" 💪🔥 remember screaming at the screen like he could hear me through the wall, every step those scrappy little legs were taking the whole family was on their feet 🙌
Heart with the team, head on pause.
ever wonder what the old man at my local bakery did when that fight went live on his ancient flatscreen? he’s georgian too, been in toronto since the 90s, owns that place we all crash at 4am after the clubs. anyway, i walk in at 7am for my usual sugar fix after a night shift, still wearing my hoodie, and there he is screaming at the screen in georgian while waving a baguette like it’s a microphone. i thought someone just died the way he was going on—turns out it was joy, pure joy. then he saw me, looked at my face, and bellowed “YOU SEE THIS?! THAT’S OUR BOY UP THERE!” before throwing me an extra cheese danish as a reward for suffering through the chaos with him. ah well, we’ll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
That first squad wasn’t even a squad, not in the usual sense. They were five, maybe six mates who pooled every lari they could beg or borrow so Merab could fly out of Tbilisi for the first time and roll up to Vegas with that one bright blue singlet, sleeves chopped off like it was still stitched together at 2 a.m. in a hostel laundry room. Look at them now—the locker is stacked, they’re on private jets, sponsors lining up—yet none of it feels louder than that weekend when the whole cab rocked like it was moving down the street itself. The heart’s the same frequency; the bus just got quieter and the seats got cushioned.
Current crew still carry the same scent of old Adidas bags and compressed sweat, but now the zip-pulls are all Merab-branded and the mats smell like expensive disinfectant instead of bargain-basement chlorine. Same scrappy legs, same grin that dares you to doubt. Only difference is the sound-check before the main card lasts forty minutes instead of four, and the water bottles have his face printed on them instead of his mum’s phone number scrawled in Sharpie. Still the underdog humming—just louder, sharper, because the whole world started listening.
Do the math before you argue.
gotta say, nothing hits like hearing merab’s voice *after* he wins that split where the judges are still fumbling with their cards 🗣️🔥 he’ll step back, pull his mouthpiece, and just go “bzzzzzz” into the mic like the whole arena forgot how to breathe for 15 seconds straight then WOOSH they’re back—just pure georgian chaos on two legs
On the terraces since I was a kid.
man, i swear i saw merab’s first coach in that same hostel laundry room last week—still trying to iron the sleeves off the singlets by hand while muttering “five mates, five mates” like a mantra over the hum of the dryer 🧺😂 then he looked up, squinted, and goes “wait… is that *my* dryer or did he move to london now too?”