For most of his career, Michael Bisping has been looking up at the higher steps of the podium.
Every time he seemed ready to step up, he’d be tripped and relegated back to the list of ‘best fighter to never get a title shot’. Each setback further cementing his role in the eye’s of the public; Michael Bisping is an ‘also-ran’ competitor.
Then, it changed. And it started in London.
It was against Anderson Silva (because of course it could only be against the best that we saw the Brit’s best) we saw who Michael Bisping is. For every flash of genius from Silva, Bisping met with dogged determination. For every time Anderson began his games, Bisping would stop the play with tenacity.
Even as the buzzer rang to start round four, and Bisping stood dazed with blood streaming down his increasingly swelling face, he never waned. Seconds before he’d been unconscious, put down by a flying knee and still Bisping was never more The British Bulldog than in the ensuing ten minutes, choosing to ignore the stars circling his head, put his hands up and march forward.
With the Silva victory under his belt, it felt like Michael had received his silver medal. The conversation was ready made for his retirement: “Sure, he wouldn’t have ever got the title shot, but he beat Anderson.”
But then, he did get the shot, fired under extenuating circumstances. After being repeatedly counted out, “The Count” had his moment.
Luke Rockhold, the stronger, faster man lay prone on the canvas while Bisping sat on the cage. In two words and a pointed finger, Bisping told both his unconscious opponent and the world know what he thought of their doubts.
“Fuck. You.”
As an Englishman, I can assure you that there’s a sense of pride in the way Bisping has carried out his career.
We love an underdog. We love insults disguised as banter. We love a sense of injustice. Every time Bisping found himself denied a day as number one contender after losing to a man on TRT, the English gathered and shook their heads solemnly while the kettle boiled.
Because the fact is, Bisping was never meant to win the title.
The pundits couldn’t see it, the fans couldn’t see it, and even his son Lucas wasn’t quite fancying the old man’s chances. The British aren’t winners, we just show up and give it ‘a bit of a go’.
And yet never was Bisping more British than in his title victory.
The post-fight press conference was a thing of beauty. You gave him an inch, and now he’ll take his mile. I believe the new champion was already on his second beer when he declared that next for him was a “few drinks” and “the mother of all hangovers.”
As the old saying goes, you can take the man out of Manchester…
Bisping may have fought the fight of his life on Saturday, but really it was more like the culmination of a decade long bout. And despite the lack of belief in Bisping’s chances, the only man who throughout all remained utterly convinced otherwise was the man himself and in the end that’s the man who mattered.
