Dana & Shogun backstage after Machida fight
When the decision is announced, Machida is the surprise winner, three rounds to two. The champ retains his belt —…
When the decision is announced, Machida is the surprise winner, three rounds to two. The champ retains his belt — fourteen pounds of sterling silver and twenty-four-karat-gold plate.
There is a smattering of boos — the music is so loud, it is hard to be sure.
Visibly angry with the decision — Who cares what I think? I’m only the fuckin’ promoter! — White retreats with his entourage to his private dressing room, where he is joined by two financial officers from Zuffa. Along with Lorenzo Fertitta, White decides who should win the bonus money for best submission and the rest. Bonus checks for all the fighters are written out by hand. When they get to Shogun’s check, White orders the accountants to “pay the taxes.” Meaning, essentially, that he wants Shogun’s previously contracted payday to be doubled.
With a check for $250,000 in hand, White goes off looking for Shogun.
When the defeated challenger sees the boss enter his dressing room, he rises shamefacedly from his bench — his body language says defendant about to be sentenced. His manager stands stolidly at his left elbow; his entourage surrounds him in a semicircle.
White hands Shogun his check. He points to the amount. “Tell him that’s the real number,” White instructs the manager.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” Shogun says in heavily accented English. Back home in Curitiba, Brazil, his wife is expecting their first child. He looks appreciative — if not exactly satisfied.
“We paid the taxes,” White reiterates. Maybe he didn’t understand? He points to the check again. “That’s the real number there. That’s take-home pay.”
Shogun listens to the translation. He ratchets his proud, chiseled jaw one crank higher. “Okay, thank you,” he says. “Thank you very much.”
“I know it doesn’t erase what happened.”
Resigned: “No, no problem.”
“But it’s gotta make you feel a little better.” White elbows the fighter playfully in the triceps — I just gave you an extra hundred grand, dude, lighten up!
Shogun breaks down and smiles for real. White regards him appraisingly. “Do you want a rematch?”
No translation is necessary.
The cornermen clap and cheer and hug one another. They pound their fighter on the back. He winces.
“He will do it if Machida will do it,” the manager says, not to be disincluded.
“Thank you very much,” Shogun says. This time you can tell he really means it.
“No, thank you,” White says. “Great fight. Really great fight.” He also means it. “But listen. Next time? Be more aggressive at the end. When there’s thirty seconds left, go for it, steal the round, you know what I mean?”
“I know I know I know,” Shogun says. Coming into that last round, he’d thought he had it won. The expression on his face is universal.
