Anderson Silva is a genius.
It's not an entirely novel statement these days. Silva earned that status in his second fight with Rich Franklin, specifically at the moment when he ducked and dodged a punch-kick combo from the Ohioan with ease. He beat Franklin mentally long before the final sequence, the four-limbed barrage that mirrored the end of their first encounter.
He cemented the notion four months later in Columbus. I sat in attendance that night as Silva fought Dan Henderson in a unification of the UFC middleweight and Pride welterweight titles. After dropping the first round, Silva returned to his corner relaxed, unconcerned that he had all but gifted Henderson the first five minutes.
Sometime in the first two minutes of that second round, Silva jockeyed his hands. It's a tell. Like Bald Bull rolling his gloves or Piston Honda raising his eyebrows, Silva's hand game is his acknowledgement that he has you figured out. He has your timing down. He has your reactions down. You better figure something out because it's only a matter of time.
Henderson didn't make it out of the round.
Yushin Okami had his moment in the first round. Or, rather, Silva let him believe he had his moment. Okami was able to play his game, the clinch, for something in the neighborhood of two minutes. He even had Silva pressed up against the fence. Herb Dean, unlike referees in the majority of the undercard bouts, took a laissez-faire approach, affording champ and challenger to work out their differences on their own.
Okami couldn't make anything of the offering. Silva stifled his attempts at gaining dominant position. He shrugged off Okami's level change into a single-leg takedown. And just like that, he escaped and returned to distance.
Silva turned on beast mode quickly into the second round. He kept Okami at bay with jabs and movement. The challenger's window was closing fast.
Then Silva put his hands down. Silva took on the form of Roy Jones Jr., one of his heroes. He allowed Okami to throw unabated at his head. The jab that knocked Okami down came from his waist.
Silva probably could have finished there. There are few things as mentally damaging as your opponent clowning you with a jab with his hands firm at the waist. He allowed Okami back to his feet. He allowed Okami to stalk him backwards, hands still at his sides, the aura of Roy Jones and Muhammad Ali oozing from his posture, from his expression.
The counter right stole whatever was left of Okami's will to fight. He crumpled to that mat, immediately resorting to base instinct -- survival via fetal position. Silva established dominant position. The ensuing carnage was patient and powerful and knowing.
On an event as emotionally charged as this one -- the UFC's return to Brazil after thirteen years, Nogueira's redemption in his first fight home, Thiago's thunderous ovation, Luiz Cane's brutal disappointment, it was Silva's brilliance that moved me the most.
I appreciate Georges St. Pierre's overwhelming dominance of peers. I appreciated Fedor Emelianenko's inexplicable run against variance and his stoic ultraviolence. But neither of those men move me the way Silva is able to. Silva, at his most brilliant, moves me the way the Van Gogh's Self-Portrait moves me. Or the way Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises moves me.
Inside the cage, Anderson Silva is omniscient. His omniscience breeds his creativity. He is an artist who creates beauty out of violence.
