Lesnar vs. Mir, UFC

   It’s big news in Yahoo! Sports: former WWE Champion Brock Lesnar versus former UFC Heavyweight Champion Frank Mir in the octagon.  The headline reads: “Fake wrestling star tries UFC.”  Can Brock Lesnar, an untested MMA fighter who made a name for himself in professional wrestling, beat a seasoned MMA fighter in Frank Mir?

   Tale of the tape: Lesnar is 6′3″, 265 lbs., 1-0-0 record in MMA, wrestler.  Mir is 6′1″, 240 lbs., 10-3-0 record in MMA, Brazilian jiu-jitsu specialist.

   Let me break it down for you: this is mixed martial arts, this is the Ultimate Fighting Championship.  This isn’t about whacking a steel chair over somebody’s head or choreographed fighting with soap opera elements thrown in.  This is “real fighting,” although it involves a great part of watching two men roll around on the canvas for three minutes or so.

   Because this is “real fighting,” my crystal ball is not as clear as it is compared to predicting plot lines in pro wrestling.  Having watched my own fair share of both fighters’ fight videos to make “objective” predictions, it’s still pretty vague to me who will win the match.  As good as Lesnar is on the mount, Mir is equally good on his back.  The cinch is that Mir cannot escape Lesnar’s powerful takedown, but he’s in the perfect position to dispense with an armbar.

   You’re in high school, and it’s Prom Night.  Every girl is dressed like Miss Universe, and every boy is dressed like a waiter in some high-class version of McDonald’s.  You smell magic in the air: it smells like Maybelline New York and Jōvan Musk.  You can make out the faint smell of mothballs from the girls’ tables.  The guy in front of you forgot to take off the tag from his crisp shirt bought from the Van Heusen outlet at SM.

   Tonight’s the night!  Weeks of practicing the waltz has led to this one night, where you’d finally take the girl you’re crushing on to the dance floor.  For months, you have longed to sit beside her in class, to admire her perfect penmanship, to take a whiff of her scent that makes you want to go to sleep forever.  Sometimes, she asks for your help for a class assignment, and you stammer your way around the rules of subject-verb agreement.  You can’t even talk to her outside of those topics, but you treasure them, guarding those moments like they were the Holy Grail.

   You call her your “inspiration,” but vehemently deny having romantic feelings for her whenever your friends tease you over a game of DoTA.  “Hinahangaan ko lang naman,” you say in irritation.  But deep in your heart, it’s more than just “admiration.”

   Face it, kid, you’re in love.

   You scan the girls’ tables and look for your “inspiration.”  Ah, there she is, seated with her friends on the far left, just by the window.  The apple of your eye, the meaning of your life, the Rita Hayworth to your Gene Kelly… or maybe the Rita Avila to your Andrew E.  Just what are they giggling about?  Just what are they talking about?  Could you muster up the courage to dance with her for 30 seconds, perhaps invite her for coffee afterwards?

   I can’t say I blame you, lad: she’s beautiful.  She’s fair-skinned, has long flowing hair.  Her eyes are quite attractive, too.  Hah, even that’s not enough for you.  Her skin is as pure as the first cloud of a bright summer morning.  Her hair is like a cascading waterfall, shining with a light that comes from within.  Her eyes are like sparkling stars torn from the very fabric of the universe.  Her lips are like rubies from a Queen’s crown.  She is, to you, the personification of love itself.

   She reaches into her bag for a handkerchief.  Those long-forgotten Shakespeare lectures in English class suddenly rush to your head.  Oh, were you that kerchief upon her hand, that you may touch that cheek!

   One song passes.  Two songs pass.  Three, four… and the disk jockey has gone through an entire CD of romantic songs, from Frank Sinatra to David Pomeranz to Edwin McCain.  What are you doing, boy!  Get up!  Ask her to dance!  No, you sit there drinking your bottled water, content to watch your girl being led to the dance floor by every dumb jock who wouldn’t know a verb from Viagra.  You seem to be content to watch the folds of her dress flow about the floor with the grace of doves on a wedding day.  What are you waiting for, kid!  Tonight’s the night!

   Suddenly, your trance-like state is broken by the sound of a teacher saying, “Last dance, and it’s ladies’ choice!”

   Surely she won’t dance with you now.  It’s over: you might as well pick up your coat, leave early, and learn how to drink.  It seems that you’re forever fated to watch your girl from a distance.  It’s the last dance, and it’s ladies’ choice.  There’s just no way in hell you’d be chosen now.

   You see her walking towards you.  Slowly, as if in a dream, as if she’s walking on thin clouds.  Then she walks around your table.  Round and round she goes… right behind you.  Your heart is beating a million miles an hour.  You feel a gentle tap at your shoulder, and those words: “Do you want to dance?”

   You look over your shoulder… and nobody’s there.

   Damn!  Everyone else is dancing, but not you.  The dance floor is so full of people now: your girl is probably out there dancing with somebody else or something.  Why couldn’t it have been you?  Sorry, kid: tonight’s not your night after all.  You might as well go home now and tell your parents some made-up story that you danced with a girl.

   But wait a second: who’s that seated in the table at the far left?  It’s your girl!

… to be continued …

   Everyone knows Heath Ledger to be “that guy” from Brokeback Mountain: Ennis del Mar, the gay cowboy.  Brokeback Mountain is the stuff of gay jokes, that you can make punchlines out of lines like, “We’re out of beans, Jack” or “I wish I knew how to quit you.”  In a way, popular culture cemented Heath’s legacy as a gay cowboy.  Movies he starred in, like The Patriot, Monster’s Ball, Casanova, and The Brothers Grimm have become mere footnotes to his moving performance in Brokeback Mountain.

   Heath Ledger died today at the age of 28.  Heath stands out as one of the most versatile actors in Hollywood before he died, but he is a tragic figure: he died at the prime of his life, and at the pinnacle of his career.

   As a movie fan, I say I feel a sense of loss.  All too often, when an actor dies, we remember performances and not people.  We remember actors for the masks they wear on the silver screen, the roles they portray, and nothing else.  Those performances become engrained so much in our minds: when Heath Ledger died, most of us remembered Brokeback Mountain.  I can’t say that we remember him for anything else outside of being a performance, but that’s just it.  Save for papparazzi reports and the Hollywood press, that’s all there is for us to mourn and grieve about Heath Ledger.

   But then again, Heath is immortalized in celluloid: we may not know a lot about him, nor would we know the whole story behind his death.  Heath Ledger lives in his work, in every performance in his 12 years in cinema.  In that short time, Heath Ledger has proven to be one of the great actors of our time.

   He will be missed.