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Demian Maia Is Getting the Shaft, You Guys

He has a month's notice to prepare for a title shot, the grand prize is playing second fiddle to GSP, and it's all your fault.
Photo by Photo by Elliott Howard/Zuffa LLC

Almost a quarter-century since the Ultimate Fighting Championship began as a Gracie Jiu-Jitsu infomercial and grew into something way bigger, a sad reality remains: the average bloated, remote-flipping, Coors-drinking butt scratcher who tunes in still doesn't know a goddamn thing about grappling.

Maybe they understand a hyperextended arm bowing backward or some staring glassy-eyed at the lights while the blood reenters their carotids, but the subtleties before those moments are measured in inches—or in pounds of pressure—that you can only fathom if you've spent time on a mat. Nearly everyone walking the planet has felt how much it sucks to get punched in the face. We all understand it. But how many people will ever feel a forearm snake around their throat, then tap with great enthusiasm for fear of entering another, blurrier reality?

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It's impossible not to think about that unbridgeable experience gap when you think about the plight of Demian Maia, the most effective pure Brazilian jiu-jitsu stylist to fight in the modern UFC, who faces Tyron Woodley for the welterweight title at UFC 214 on July 29. This should be cause for celebration: Maia finally gets the title shot UFC president Dana White promised him last month after beating Jorge Masvidal, and UFC 214 gets a third belt on the line, making it the pre-MayGregor event of the summer. But consider that Maia had to win seven straight fights to get here and that he's had an argument for a title shot since beating Gunnar Nelson back in December 2015. Then consider that the Maia-Woodley match was announced this week—only a month and a day out from fight night—and that White said that the winner will face former welterweight king Georges St-Pierre in his return fight later this year. Finally, consider what Maia wrote on his Facebook page a day after the announcement:

That's the kind of thing you say when you know your promoter gave you a fill-in's notice for the biggest fight of your career and you're irritated, but you can't help being nice in public.

In a few months, 39-year-old Demian Maia will mark a decade in the UFC. After fatalistically choking out middleweights before turning into a mediocre kickboxer, Maia has come full circle at 170 pounds: he's the mild-mannered, sound-bite-free embodiment of BJJ orthodoxy, where grappling is the solution to every problem in the street or in the cage. His punches are just lead-ins to passes, back takes, and submissions; in his seven-fight win streak, he's dominated and/or choked everyone except Masvidal, his most recent opponent and arguably the most dangerous. That Maia is winning in mixed martial arts using a style that was revolutionary in the 1980s is like sliding a cassette deck into the dashboard of a Tesla.

Seven fights is a long time to toil for someone who already fought Anderson Silva (at his most "artistic," or deranged, or whatever) for a belt in 2010, but it's not unheard of: Stephen Thompson, the last welterweight challenger, had to win seven straight before fighting for a title too. And Maia has been gracious despite the UFC repeatedly passing him over. His M.O. was fighting and waiting—without getting riled up—until the UFC called to offer a title shot.

Now that he has it, the timing means he'll spend most of the next month shedding pounds to hit 170 instead of gameplanning to beat Woodley, a larger, stronger, and better conditioned fighter. Giving Maia such short notice for the fight is an insult; the unanswerable question is whether the UFC actually wants to undermine Maia, to undermine both Maia and Woodley (hardly the UFC's favorite champion), or to back-up the potential pitfalls of another Jon Jones-headlined fight card, or whether it's a byproduct of enticing Georges St-Pierre back home to forget about the clusterfuck at middleweight. Intentionally or not, Maia's long and unglamorous road to a title shot has a simple lesson: your win streak better stretch out if you aren't opening holes in people's heads and talking shit like a maniac. And with the sudden rush to that long and unglamorous road's last exit, the lesson has an addendum: don't be surprised if the fruits of your labor also bear inconvenience.

You can't lay all the blame at the feet of the UFC . Along with simply finding homes on its always-moving schedule for the fighters on its roster, the promotion's matchmaking reflects its perception of what the audience values, or at least what it understands. As long as an omo plata sounds like Polynesian currency, jiu-jitsu fighters will always face biases. But if god exists, Donald Trump's ugliest son making impossible claims about his WOD times will eventually turn Crossfit boxes into coffins. Jiu-jitsu academies will fill the void. The fundamentals of the gentle art will trickle down to the masses. With enough time, they will wish they had demanded better things for Demian Maia, the embodiment of a world that finally understands there's more to fighting than getting punched in the face.