When the old school still ruled the cage: Colby's war days we’ll never forget!

that chicago night hit different coz i was wearing that damn "Cov-maniac" scarf my nan knitted me & every time he screamed it felt like she was right there with me ✊🔥

Ever tried yelling a war cry into an MMA cage at full tilt only to realize you’ve just emptied a lifetime supply of breath into the ether—and your throat’s still intact like nothing happened? That was me outside the brawl in Newark back when Colby was still carving his name with a butter knife and a rubber chicken. The man hadn’t even locked eyes with Maia yet, but you could feel the decibel level rise just from the walkout—like the arena itself had taken a deep breath and let out a primal scream for him. I had a megaphone shaped like a lobster (don’t ask) and by the third hit I swear the thing was just a sad little squeaker because half the crowd had stolen my idea and adopted it as their own. Ah well, we’ll see.

Ever wonder where that *electric* from back in the Chicago days vanished to? Not that I’m knocking the new guys—they scrap hard, sure—but there’s something about a Covington walkout that used to make the air vibrate like a plucked string. These days? The adrenaline’s still there, the fire’s lit, but it’s… refracted. You feel me? It’s like they’re fighting with laser pointers when we used to burn the house down with torches. Take the post-fight ritual. Remember when the war cry wasn’t just a ritual, it was a *statement*—a middle finger to the world, a “I’m here to punish you” screamed into the rafters? Now it’s more like a hype man pumping the crowd before a 4th of July fireworks show. Not saying it’s worse, just… different. The raw, unfiltered fury that lived in the prelims? That’s been replaced by something tighter, more calculated. Maybe that’s what evolution looks like, but I miss the days when Colby walked out and the cage *shuddered* before he even threw a punch. And the fans—Jesus Christ, the fans. You lot back then didn’t just *cheer*, you *communed*. Scarves weren’t fabric, they were talismans. Megaphones weren’t props, they were weapons. Half the crowd screeching in Newark with a lobster-shaped megaphone? Iconic. Today, you get great reactions, sure, but it’s like watching a bonfire through tinted glass—you know it’s warm, you know it’s bright, but you’re not getting the full heat in your face anymore. Still, I’ll take what we’ve got. Progress isn’t always pretty, but it’s ours. Just don’t ask me to choose between the controlled burn and the wildfire. I’ll take both, every night, no regrets.

My first ever Covington fight I went as his “uncle” just to bunk off work—turns out my boss was a secret Cov-maniac too so we ended up screaming side by side like a couple of overgrown teenagers after the Maia KO. When that war cry hit the roof I spat my Pimm’s straight outta my cup cos the sheer vibe snapped my sanity like a twig. My phone footage from that night? Still 95% blur cos I was wiping tears of laughter more than tears of joy. And yeah, I tried to copy the scarf knit later—Nan just handed me a tea towel with “COVENTRY” stitched on it and said “wear this one love, less drool.”