That unforgettable right hand spinning every contender into dreamland — still the MMA GOAT to us!
okay so it was back when my mate steve had his dad's old crt telly bolted into the back of his van down by the riverside car park — the flicker you could only see if you were squinting from the right angle, but man did it matter that night because no one wanted to miss it
we all knew it was live in toronto but the reception was iffy and the audio kept cutting out like a dodgy fm station — half the lads were shouting "what did he say" over the hum of the heater till someone finally got the stream up on their phone and then — bam — silence in the van like we'd just seen our last pint
then it happened right there in the first round, before the bell even rang twice — bader thought he was in with a shot, thought he could muscle up on him, and next thing you know he's on his back like someone hit the off button on the human body
and the sound? oh mate, that crack of bone through the tinny little laptop speakers — it wasn't even the thud that got us, it was the *snap* like a wet twig under a boot. we all went quiet for a second, then someone in the back whispered "jesus wept" and i swear the van itself rocked with the collective intake of breath
best part? you could see bader's eyes in that slow-mo replay like "what... the hell... just happened" and then the realisation hits him proper — his entire night turned to dust in the space between frames
that right hand didn't just knock him out — it rewrote what we thought a right hand could do. still does, nine years later. i've seen it in replays probably a thousand times, but the first time? stuck in the back of a rusty transit van at two in the morning with a bunch of drunks who'd bet their weekly wage on the man — that'll never leave me
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Mate the smell of curry sauce in the kebab van down by the canal was still strong enough to mask the stink of diesel and wet coats when i heard that snap through the tiny screen jammed between a couple of engine covers — didn’t even need to look up to know what just went down
Heart with the team, head on pause.
ever caught that right hand in a place where it really shouldnt have landed, like the back of a wedding reception during the first dance?
remember that guy from my cousin's wedding in 2013—he'd bet his brother-in-law fifty bucks jones would finish before the third, no matter what. came straight from the ceremony with his shirt still half unbuttoned, tie swinging like a noose around his neck, and the dance floor was slick with spilled prosecco because nobody bothered to turn the music down when the main event started.
we were packed in like sardines by the speakers when the cutman showed up on the livestream looking like he just swallowed a lemon, and next thing you know the whole room goes quiet except for the bartender yelling "you see that?" while wiping down the bar like nothing happened.
then the snap—through that tiny phone wedged between two cake stands—and this massive cheer went up so loud the baby grand piano vibrated, someone’s heel caught in the cables and sent a tray of vol-au-vents flying straight into the DJ booth. the brother-in-law, still clutching his fifty bucks like it was the last lifeline in the world, just stood there in his wedding shoes—completely soaked, tie now knotted somewhere near his ear—staring at the screen like it owed him an explanation.
jones doesn’t just knock guys out—he turns weddings into gory flashbacks. best fifty quid i ever saw change hands mid-dancefloor disaster.
Been here longer than some have followed.
Mate pull up a chair — cos I gotta tell yers about the time Jones’ right hand rewired my nan’s knitting circle mid-prayer
Right, so picture this: St Mary’s Community Hall, Wednesday bingo night, curtains half-drawn, radiators hissing like an angry goose. Every week it’s same old same old — Barbara in the front row eating Werther’s Originals like they’re going out of fashion, Terry nodding off over his tea and Rich Tea biscuits, and of course, my nan sitting smack in the middle with her clackety wooden rosary counting "Hail Marys" like she’s clocking up air miles.
Then someone sneaks in with the phone — one of them newfangled iPhone 5 jobs, still had that stupid leather case that smelled like a pub toilet. We were halfway through "come on then 63!" when the livestream buffered for what felt like an eternity — cue Terry yelling "oi, the pavilion team’s got the better wifi, let’s move!" and half the crowd starts shuffling toward the stage like it’s the start of Strictly.
Then BAM — the feed kicks in, no warning, no pause, and suddenly we’re watching two massive blokes dancing in a cage. The girls from the knitting circle all gasped so loud they scared the vicar — who was actually there trying to sell raffle tickets for the church roof fund. That snap hit us through a crackly little speaker about as loud as my nan’s false teeth hitting the floor, and I swear to god the entire hall echoed like we’d just dropped a bag of marbles in the vestry.
My nan — bless her soul — clutched her rosary tighter than a nun clutches her hymnbook, then turned to me and goes “Gary, did he just… break his arm?” And I’m like “Nan, that’s not his arm, that’s Chad Bader’s will to live.” Then the whole room erupted — Barbara dropped her Werther’s straight into Terry’s tea, Terry yelped like a scalded cat, and the vicar just stood there holding a stack of raffle tickets looking like he’d seen the face of God in a shiny new cathedral roof.
Best part? Next week at bingo night, Terry started a sweepstake on who Jones would break next. Nan won the whole pot cos she bet on "anyone but Connor McGregor" cos "he looks like he needs the practice."
Jones doesn’t just knock guys out — he turns community halls into fight camps. That right hand’s basically a religious experience now. Amen. 🍿😂
Hold my pint.