No one is looking at him.

All faces are turned toward the large metal combat cage at one end of the warehouse, surrounded by bleachers full of people and a crowded open floor space.

A man enters the cage, dressed in what appears to be traditional Chinese garb. He speaks to the crowd, microphone in hand. Something about a contest of warriors, represented by nations across the world.

This is Sundown 002: Street Fighter Edition.

Located in the industrial flats of Boyle Heights, near the downtown Los Angeles arts district, I arrived early and found parking outside another warehouse a block down. The weather was immaculate for Southern California, roughly 68 degrees, and I wore a light jacket. Walking up to the venue, I saw a line outside and cars littering the street, signaling a strong turnout. I had purchased a VIP ticket for roughly $125, and immediately saw the first benefit of having one: a separate, much smaller VIP line. My ID was checked, my ticket was scanned via an app I had to download, and I was given an orange wristband and waved through.

I previously asked whether Sundown 002 was actually affiliated with the Street Fighter movie. I received hints of the answer almost immediately: two metal Street Fighter posters for the movie, stylized to look like video game art, stood at the entrance. Sundown, I later confirmed, was officially partnered with Paramount Pictures for this event, and the rest of the night made that hard to miss.

A Mexican food truck was parked outside the warehouse, just past the entry lines, but I skipped it for the moment and headed through the large opening to the right. The first thing I reached was a wall meant for group photos and selfies, with the Street Fighter and Sundown logos hanging in neon red. In fact, blood red was the theme of the night, as I would soon come to find out. I made my way farther in, passing more food and drink stands set up to my left and a row of Street Fighter arcade machines, and soon hit the entrance to the VIP area. Exploring it, I found a row of fancy porta-potties that were more like airplane lavatories than actual porta-potties, a private bar, and a raised viewing area. When I climbed the stairs and walked to the railing, I found myself looking down on the back of the DJ, who was on a lower level of scaffolding, already pumping out tunes. The entire warehouse lay before me, with the fighting cage in the background.

I wanted to get a sense of what things looked like closer to the cage, so I left the VIP area to explore. Two big trucks were parked parallel to the cage, one on each side of the warehouse. The white sides of the trucks served as canvases for projections of live fight footage, matchup info, and branding. I moved closer to the cage and took a seat on a bleacher. I had already missed the first preliminary bout between Nathan Silva and Jose Francisco Palomera, which Silva won by decision, moving to 2-0. In front of the bleachers closest to the cage was a reserved seating area for VIP tables, and on the other side, people stood pressed as close as possible in the general admission section to view the action.

From my vantage, I spotted the co-founder of Sundown, whom I recognized from social media: Brandon Soo Hoo. He is a lifelong martial artist and actor, taking on his first Hollywood role at age ten. But his breakout role came in Ben Stiller’s comedy Tropic Thunder, where Soo Hoo played Tran, the child leader of the Flaming Dragon gang. Soo Hoo holds a black belt in Taekwondo and has trained extensively in other martial arts, including Muay Thai, Karate, Wushu, Wing Chun, Boxing, and traditional weapons. Training in a combat sport like Muay Thai inspired Soo Hoo to start the Sundown promotion with his co-founder, Jared Jue. Soo Hoo became interested in bringing art back into martial arts and saw success with the promotion’s first event, Sundown 001.

Shortly after this, I ran into EPIC Fighting’s CEO and owner, Jason Stewart, who said he knew Soo Hoo and chatted with me about Soo Hoo’s Tropic Thunder breakout. One thing I’ve consistently seen in the regional MMA scene is how closely promotions track and support one another’s work. So seeing Stewart at this event wasn’t even a surprise. SoCal can brag about a robust combat sports economy.

I watched four more prelims before the opening ceremony, and each one started with the same touch of fan service: the announcer’s voice from the Street Fighter video game booming over the speakers, “Round one, fight!” The bouts: featherweights Octavius Parker vs. Eduardo Vizcaino, unanimous decision win for Parker; strawweights Victoria Pascual vs. Carli Lombardo, unanimous decision win for Pascual; bantamweights Ethan Richardson vs. Max Gonzalez, second-round submission win for Richardson; and lightweights Adam Bashandy vs. Heyaw Meteke, split decision win for Bashandy.

Then, a bald man in a traditional-style Chinese martial arts garment climbs into the cage with a microphone. It’s dark now, and the warehouse is packed and glowing red like something out of a futuristic video game. He speaks about a contest of fighters from around the world, each representing their countries and displaying the style of their own martial arts. It feels like the intro to the Street Fighter video game, and it’s meant to evoke it.

The main card kicked off, and I made my way back to the VIP area. Everyone with a VIP wristband was now packed onto this raised platform and the surrounding scaffolding, with the DJ playing continuously in between the action. I managed to find a sightline to the cage from my vantage point to watch the next two bouts: featherweights Reno Navarrette vs. Kunimasa Onji, a second-round submission win for Navarrette; and flyweights Veronica Mendoza vs. Kimberly Padilla, a majority decision win for Mendoza.

The next moment of the night showed me why Sundown bills itself as a showcase for the art in martial arts, as people took to the cage with no intention of fighting. Male and female karate practitioners gave solo demonstrations before a troupe of shirtless drummers filed in, joined by dancers flipping and tumbling across the cage. Then, a female contortionist set up on a side stage and performed for the crowd before the evening’s surprise: the entire cast of the new Street Fighter movie came out to the crowd’s applause.

Then came the one bout I knew about coming into the night: John McCain vs. Callum Bisping. Yes, THAT Bisping. Callum is the son of former UFC middleweight champion Michael Bisping, who worked his corner. The bout between McCain (1-0) and Bisping (2-0) was for the California Amateur Mixed Martial Arts Organization (CAMO) state title, and these heavyweights (officially contested at catchweight) came out to bang. It was sloppy, as one would expect from an amateur fight, and McCain looked lighter on his feet, while Bisping chased him around the small, round cage. In the second round, McCain caught Bisping against the cage and dropped him with a punch to the chin. A follow-up shot earned McCain the TKO, bringing him to 2-0 and dropping Bisping to 2-1. It was an upset, to be sure, as 98% of Tapology users picked Bisping for the win. If only lineage could transfer prowess as it does in a video game.

In the co-main event, featherweights Josh Valdez and Pedro Moreira fought for another CAMO state title, with Valdez taking a unanimous decision. In the main event, strawweight Lexxi Moncada beat Nancy Quidachay by unanimous decision. A rave dance party closed out the night, continuing the dancing that had filled the gaps between bouts.

Toward the end of the night, I grabbed a bowl of spicy green chicken curry and noodles from one of the food stands, to go with the non-alcoholic cocktail and steady supply of water that had carried me through the evening. When I finally left, the traffic had eased: the drive that took two and a half hours on the way up took just two on the way home. The night air was cool, and the city looked beautiful as I drove through the arts district.

I attend a lot of MMA shows across the Southwest, regional and major alike, and Sundown 002 was unlike any of them. It was an experience, not just a fight card. The atmosphere and supporting acts didn’t distract from the fights; they brought the beauty of the fight game into sharper focus. They were a reminder that MMA grew out of ancient traditions from cultures around the world, and that the sport, at its best, is a fusion of those traditions and a love letter to them.

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It’s week eight of Dana White’s Contender Series, and while I wait for Dana to come out and sign a card, I’m sitting next to a man with an apparatus slung over his back: wires running from a battery pack to the camera in his hands, antennae poking up over his shoulder. I’d asked if he was nervous his first time filming a live broadcast.

His answer transports me to a place I haven’t been in twenty years. My body is perpendicular to the ground. I have a harness around my waist, my feet pressed against the wall, and rope between my hands. I’m also fifty feet off the ground.

“Are you nervous?” the drill sergeant asks me as he peers over the edge from where he’s perched.

“Yes,” I say, and then kick off.

Then I’m back in my seat next to the cameraman.

During a recent livestream, someone asked Luke Thomas how to deal with the nerves that come with doing something frightening. His answer was the philosophy I’ve always lived by: you just do it. We kept talking about it in his Substack chat afterward. There are points in life where something scares the shit out of you, and you do it anyway.

I never expected to feel solidarity with a camera operator at the UFC Meta Apex. I had assumed that with practice came confidence and the erasure of fear. Yet here was a man who still worries about fucking up in front of thousands of live viewers. I’d only ever seen a figure in black, one part of the flawless machine that is UFC production. Some people don’t even see that.

“Have you ever actually tripped while filming and walking backward?” I ask.

“I have,” he says. “Thankfully, not on this show!”

Anyone who’s seen Dana tear into the crew for botching a VIP’s name can imagine the fallout.

Which leads me to ask, “Can you imagine? You’re walking backward, filming the fighter walkout, and suddenly the person on the other end of the TV just sees…” We both act it out at the same time. I hold up a hand like a mime and tip it backward. He flails his arms like he’s falling and makes a dramatic splat noise.

Then we laugh.

“This is the loop your assistant holds onto to make sure that doesn’t happen, right?” I ask, tapping a metal hook on his back. He confirms.

Minutes later, I’m in my seat. Cutman Brad Tate has a camera trained on him for test footage. He shadowboxes for it, playing the part perfectly. Then the swinging doors to my left pop open with a slam. Cornermen shout encouragement, the stands erupt as the fighter walks out, and the cameraman comes into view, walking swiftly backward, camera on the fighter, his assistant’s hand on his back as the group makes its way to the cage.

Everyone at home, and most of the 1,200 people in the building, saw what they were meant to see: perfection so complete that no one’s nerves came through the screen or into the room. The only experience that translates is that of the fighter about to face the gauntlet. The fighter’s nerves are part of the spectacle. The cameraman’s are something the spectacle depends on us never noticing.

I’ve written before about how the Apex’s small scale and the UFC’s high production caliber combine to deliver a one-of-a-kind visual experience that scales across their product line, no matter how large the venue. You’d think seeing the machinery up close would demystify it and make it ordinary. Once you know how the trick works, the magic fades, right?

It did the exact opposite for me.

It revealed another layer beneath the spectacle, one just as fascinating as the spectacle itself. The more I discovered about the people and processes that brought it all to life, the more I wanted to know.

How many people notice that the cutmen tag-team a fighter’s walkout? When I asked Tate on Instagram why they do that, he said it was to make sure the fighter’s team wasn’t putting anything on the fighter’s back. It traces back to “Greasegate” at UFC 94, when Georges St-Pierre’s coach Phil Nurse rubbed leftover Vaseline from his hands onto GSP’s back, shoulders, and chest. Officials caught it and wiped him down, but grease like that makes a fighter harder to grapple, which is why it’s banned.

You can see the cutmen directing the fighter who approaches the cage: hug your team, drink your water, then step back. One cutman watches closely as the other applies Vaseline to the face, checks the hair, gloves, and trunks for anything that doesn’t belong there, and then ensures they have their mouthguard. Then there’s one more threshold the contender has to cross: walking up the steps to the Octagon.

Every fighter at the Apex has to climb these steps and the words carved into them:

“Fortune Favors the Brave.”

If those steps could hand them the courage they need, they’d take it.

Week eight is truncated due to a dropped match, and Dana is noticeably late to the Octagon, which is how I ended up with time to chat with the cameraman. I also learned that his camera lasts two hours and that he carries spare battery packs in his backpack-like mount. When Dana finally comes out, the cameraman is long gone, and Dana is happy to sign my Topps UFC Royalty card.

“So, are we getting another Hunter card?” I ask, one card collector to another. He doesn’t reply.

“Were you talking into his deaf ear?” a friend later asks me. Shit, was I? I google “Dana White deaf ear” and find out that, yes, I was. That also explains the strange look he gave me the time I complimented his patience while my friend took a photo with him. I’d been talking into his left ear.

I shrug.

Later, in my chair in the stands, I watch the first fight end with an inverted d’Arce choke as Brazilian flyweight Aieza Bertolso takes home the win and, later, the contract for her first-round submission.

“Vamo, Peru!” someone calls out next to me during the next match as featherweight Ian Escuza ends his fight with knees and punches in the first round. The replay shows what we all saw: an illegal knee to the head of a downed fighter. Later, a viral clip circulates on X and Instagram of Hunter Campbell behind the fence, throwing his hands up and looking over at Dana as the downed fighter eats the knee. The ref, Herb Dean, doesn’t catch it.

“Why is it always Herb Dean?” someone else next to me says. I grimace and laugh at the same time.

After the fight, Herb Dean goes over to where the four UFC heads sit and crouches low between Dana and Hunter, chatting with them about the fight.

The crowd cheers when Paddy the Baddy, Luke Riley, and Steve Aoki enter the building to support fellow Liverpudlian George Staines in the main matchup.

But first, there’s another contract on the line. Heavyweight Zaurbek Sabanov stamps his feet when he enters the Octagon. He’s put away in the second round by Adama Diop, who first takes a brutal knee from Sabanov before returning the favor with punches. Steve Aoki gawks at the action, his mouth dropped open into the shape of an “o.”

Earlier in the night, The Ultimate Fighter contender Xavier Franklin caught me grinning at him and held out a fist to mine. “What’s up, my man?” he said.

The lightweight main matchup has the crowd roaring. “Let’s go, Big Red!” someone screams. “He’s grabbing the cage!” another yells. “I love you, Herb!” a third man calls out. Staines lands a ground slam and punches to end the match in the first round, and Paddy Pimblett absolutely loses it. Hunter Campbell turns around to look at the blond Liverpudlian behind him and laughs at the sheer joy on his face. Later that night, a friend of mine takes his replica Freedom 250 White House UFC belt over to Paddy to get it signed. Paddy proudly scrawls his signature across Ilia Topuria’s face.

As Staines leaves the cage, proud and happy, the production crew raises their arms like air traffic controllers, guiding him to the back of the Apex, where his friends in nearby seats ambush him.

I manage one last conversation, with a female security guard working for the UFC. “We need to see more women in this kind of role,” I say. She agrees, mentioning the physical fitness test she had to pass to get the job. Really? I muse. I didn’t have to do anything of the sort when I pulled security in my earlier years. Then again, I was only guarding buildings, not keeping cage fighters in check.

Dana White gave a recent interview on The Diary of a CEO where he discusses his views on success and his own life. He has a relentless drive and never backs down from daily challenges or from going after the next big thing. I think about the steps into the Octagon that immortalize those words in the wood, so the bare feet of everyone brave enough to climb them tread on those words. For all Dana’s flaws, his constant forward momentum and desire to create and achieve embody them: “Fortune Favors the Brave.” I think about the cameraman, his nerves, and his ability to channel calm at the moment it matters most. I think about that day in boot camp when I had to face the 50-foot wall, despite my fear of heights. I think about Luke Thomas and his advice to the fight fan who just wanted to know how to get through the moments we all fear. The UFC Apex is where fighters, the lifeblood of the sport, spill their blood, sweat, and tears in search of a better life. It’s a place where you can feel the electric charge in the air: anticipation, nerves, and longing. I can’t think of a better place to be reminded that the only way through fear is forward.

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Moments later, the referee steps out of the cage and strips the black latex gloves from his hands, sending a spray of sweat everywhere like a sprinkler. He drops the soaked gloves and kicks them unceremoniously under his side of the cageside table. A man in the crowd gawks and elbows his friend to point out the torrent the gloves produced.

It’s just after 6 p.m. on Friday, September 25, 2026, poolside at the Sahara Las Vegas for Tuff-N-Uff 157. It’s 92 degrees, but the temperature has already started dropping as shadows from the tall buildings on all four sides close in. The air feels sticky and heavy. The fighters’ bodies gleam as they take to the cage.

I’m sitting cageside, close enough to hear the corners’ instructions and talk to the officials between bouts. Throughout the evening, amateur fighters will pursue their first wins, and professionals will make their case for bigger opportunities. From here, I can also watch the people who check their faces, score their rounds, and put championship belts around their waists.

The venue is not full yet, though it will be later in the evening. The six-sided cage sits at the end of the pool near the doors to the casino and hotel, with rows of chairs pressed against four sides. General admission spectators stand behind the roped-off seating area or swim in the pool while watching the action on the 240-foot LED screen above. Daybeds and cabanas line the large rectangular pool, and the bar, twenty feet from the cage, is where guests go for refreshments. A $19 nonalcoholic piña colada in a souvenir Sahara cup nearly the length of my forearm will last me all night.

Two cameramen stand on perches flanking the cage, and a videographer and a photographer stand on two others. One more cameraman stays on the ground, shooting through the fence and filming the fighter walkouts.

The cutmen stand off to the side, ready to hop into action between rounds and after fights. Their vests, reminiscent of those worn by motorcycle club members, are covered in sponsor patches and branding from the likes of Cauliflower Culture and TheCutMan.com. One grizzled cutman wears his equipment like a soldier wears tactical gear, with Q-tips stuck in slots on the back of his wrist.

When the round horn blows, he rushes into the cage and directs the fighter on the stool to raise each arm in a mock strongman position and open his mouth, pantomiming the motions. When he exits roughly sixty seconds later, he tosses an Enswell, a metal tool used to reduce swelling, into a nearby ice bucket for its next use.

Before the first round of Juan Sarrios’s fight against Joseph Gomez, a cornerman pours water from a plastic bottle directly into Sarrios’s mouth through an opening in the cage fence. The corner sits directly to my left. During the fight, they yell commands using city codenames like “Phoenix” and “Tulsa.”

Gomez gets a takedown, but Sarrios returns to his feet and lands one of his own. When the fight looks like it’s going Sarrios’s way, his corner yells, “Finish it, he’s gone!”

Gomez endures, though Sarrios dominates the second round with wrestling and ground-and-pound. Gomez gets his own takedown in the third, but his corner wants more.

“You’re going to lose like this! Posture and punch!”

It doesn’t stop the exhausted-looking Gomez from lying on top of Sarrios for the rest of the round. Sarrios wins by unanimous decision.

One of the referees for the amateur fights sits directly in front of me, which allows for conversation. He tells me he works with ISKA, the International Sport Kickboxing Association, and rotates bouts with another referee.

When lightweight Derek Rayfield scores an eight-second, one-punch KO over Oliver Moeckel, I jokingly ask whether that even counts as a match. The ref tells his reffing partner, in the same tone, that I said he should stay in there for another one.

The amateur women’s featherweight championship, between 2-0 Ashley Green and aptly-named 4-2 Skyler Thrasher, is scheduled for five three-minute rounds. Thrasher is covered in tattoos, including an AK-47 across her stomach. During the fight, her corner calls for knees. Each time, she answers with a hard thrust into her opponent’s midsection and a primal yell. Green gives knees back as good as she takes them, but Thrasher gets the TKO.

Outside the cage, another kind of apprenticeship is underway. I meet a judge-in-training who tells me he shadows a working judge. They each fill out a scorecard for a fight, and the judge then compares the two cards to see how the apprentice did.

The young man wears a crisp, well-tailored suit, but I notice his cauliflower ears.

“You must have been a fighter,” I say.

He confirms it. When a fight ends, the judge hands his scorecard to his apprentice, who runs it over so the score can be called out.

By the main card, the pool deck is packed. The fights switch to professional matches, and the referee pair from the amateur bouts is replaced by a different pair. I recognize the new referees from the UFC.

In the first professional match, between light heavyweights Hadxian King and Taz Stevenson, I hear people behind me discussing who they are cheering for.

“He’s going for the spiritual one that meditated,” one woman says.

The “spiritual one,” King, starts the match sitting cross-legged in his corner. At 3:23 of the first round, the Las Vegas fighter wins by submission in his professional debut.

At some point, the air around the pool cools enough that I stop noticing the weather. To my right, a section of chairs is labeled “UFC Fight Pass,” and I spot a few UFC fighters among the guests.

When bantamweight Zane Finley takes on Marco Martinez, UFC fighter Chase Hooper works in Martinez’s corner. After a competitive first round, Finley begins to take over in the second and wins by TKO due to elbows. Finley celebrates with elbowing motions as Hooper and the rest of Martinez’s cornering crew enter the cage looking disappointed.

At some point, Aljamain Sterling sits in the empty chair next to me to observe the action.

Jeff Meyer, CEO and owner of Tuff-N-Uff, walks around throughout the night. He wears a pastel Vegas-themed button-down and matching shorts with the UFC logo emblazoned on them, plus sandals, an outfit that looks made for lounging poolside at a cabana. Over it all, he wears a blazer. He is a professional, after all.

He has championship belts to hand out.

The professional women’s flyweight championship is between Paula Bittencourt and Rainn Guerrero. Guerrero comes out looking like the Pink Ranger, while Bittencourt also wears a not-insignificant amount of pink. The first round consists of heavy grappling against the cage. Bittencourt’s bleached-blonde hair is tied into two long, valkyrie-style braids, which grow increasingly frazzled as the fight drags on.

The fight goes the distance, and the majority decision goes to Bittencourt. Meyer climbs into the cage with the belt wrapped in plastic and strips off the wrapping before awarding it to the winner.

The final fight of the night is the world flyweight championship main event between Devon Jackson and Israel Galvan. Galvan steps into the cage with his buzzed head dyed pink with black polka dots. When the round begins, both fighters throw hard, and Galvan scores a KO at 1:44 of the first round.

Meyer again steps into the cage to award a belt to the winner. In his cage interview, Galvan calls attention to Jackson’s win over Joshua Van. He also calls out the UFC matchmakers, telling them he is ready for the big show.

At the end of the event, Meyer steps out of the cage, rips off his blazer, and flings it to his assistant standing next to me. They both laugh. He looks 100% ready to jump onto a pool floatie now.

At the afterparty, I catch Galvan and ask for a quick interview. He agrees.

“It felt great to hurt my fist on someone’s face,” he tells me.

“When someone gets hit by my power, it’s just different.”

He continues: “For flyweight, I hit hard, and everyone knows that. When someone isn’t on the level as mine is, it’s just going to be quick.”

When I speak to Jackson after the fight, he admits he should have tried to take Galvan down but thought he could get it done on the feet.

UFC matchmaker Sean Shelby walks by. He’s often seen at events sporting a Golden Knights hat.

“I’m sorry about the Etsy witch curse I placed on the Golden Knights last season,” I, a Sharks fan, tell him.

His companion, not missing a beat: “That was you?”

The next night, at the Meta APEX for UFC Vegas 121: Rosas Jr. vs. Barcelos, I run into Israel “El Huracán” Galvan. The now 11-3 fighter is standing in the lobby with the championship belt slung over his shoulder, his group surrounding him and chatting animatedly. Less than twenty-four hours after telling the UFC matchmakers he is ready, he has brought his new belt to their building. Now he wants a place in their cage.

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In dramatic Vegas fashion, the monthly Tuff-N-Uff card, numbered 157, will be held poolside at the Sahara. Expect the desert weather to have cooled enough to allow the fighters to compete outside while encouraging people to watch the action from the tops of pool floaties (this reporter will NOT be getting in the pool, thank you very much). However, for those of us not pool-bound, seats are available. The pool also sports a massive 240-foot LED screen, just in case anyone was concerned about missing the action.

The main card features two exciting flyweight title fights: Devon Jackson vs. Israel Galvan in the main event and Paula Bittencourt vs. Rainn Guerrero in the co-main event. Each will consist of five rounds, each lasting five minutes.

The main event pairs two fighters whose records tell only part of the story. Jackson brings power and unusual recent activity across both MMA and boxing, while Galvan enters on a five-fight winning streak with a more varied finishing game.

Jackson, an American freestyle fighter, is 31 and 6-3 in his professional MMA career. Across MMA and boxing, he has competed seven times since January 2026, going 6-1, with three of those bouts taking place in boxing. His most recent loss came in March 2026 against then-undefeated boxer Sachery Sam, who is now 7-0. His previous loss was in November 2024 to a then-5-0 Christian Natividad, who has just scored a spectacular TKO victory over Colton Loud on September 8th on Dana White’s Contender Series, going 10-0 and earning a contract. Jackson last fought at Tuff-N-Uff 154 against Shamel Findley, earning a TKO victory via ground-and-pound in the second round. He fights out of Spokane, WA.

Jackson has KO power, finishing 50% of his wins by KO/TKO. But he can be reckless with his strikes, inviting counter-punching because his defense is not as tight as it could be. In his last fight against Findley, he was wobbled multiple times but recovered and kept going. He has also shown the awareness to change levels when exchanges become dangerous, giving him another route out of difficult striking situations. He’s been the distance three times, though two of those fights ended in decision losses. Jackson’s path to victory is to keep the fight primarily standing while avoiding reckless exchanges, forcing Galvan to respect his power and capitalizing when Galvan enters range.

Galvan, an American mixed martial artist, is 26 and 10-3 in his professional career. He is on a five-fight winning streak dating back to September 2023. His last loss was also against a then-4-0 Christian Natividad on October 14th, 2022. Natividad is therefore the most obvious common opponent between Friday’s title challengers. Galvan last fought in March 2026 at Tuff-N-Uff 152, earning a submission victory over Jose Sandoval with an arm triangle choke in the third round. He trains out of Syndicate MMA in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Galvan has solid all-around skills. His strikes are quick, his defense tight, and he mixes in kicks well while switching between conventional and southpaw stances. Submissions count for the largest share of Galvan’s wins at four; however, he also has three KO/TKO finishes–one in each round–and three decision wins, so Galvan can feasibly win from any angle. Galvan’s path to victory over Jackson is to use his faster striking against Jackson or take it to the ground and hunt a submission. One potential concern for Galvan is activity: Jackson has competed far more frequently over the past two years, including several boxing bouts.

The co-main event presents a different kind of matchup. Neither Paula Bittencourt nor Rainn Guerrero has ever been stopped by strikes as a professional, but both enter the fight having recently shown an increased ability to finish opponents. With Tuff-N-Uff’s inaugural women’s flyweight championship at stake, durability may be tested against increasingly dangerous offense.

Bittencourt, a Brazilian mixed martial artist, is 31 and 8-3 in her professional MMA career. She is on a two-fight MMA winning streak, earning a split-decision victory over former Bellator title challenger Alejandra Lara at Invicta FC 59 in December 2024 before stopping Jaqueline Ferreira with elbows and punches in the first round at Shooto Brasil 134 in December 2025. Bittencourt also competed outside conventional MMA in January 2026, defeating former UFC fighter Jessica-Rose Clark by split decision in a five-round DBX custom-rules championship bout. Her three MMA losses have all come by decision, including fights against undefeated PFL standout Dakota Ditcheva and former Bellator title challenger Denise Kielholtz. According to her Sherdog record, Bittencourt has never been finished in her professional MMA career. She trains out of Nova União in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

Bittencourt is primarily a striker, with five of her eight MMA victories coming by KO/TKO according to her professional record. She likes to pressure forward and carries legitimate power in her hands, particularly with her right, but she is capable of mixing in takedowns rather than relying solely on striking. Her fight against Kate Bacik at Invicta FC 56 showcased both sides of her game, with Bittencourt dropping Bacik with a straight right after catching a body kick and finding brief success from top position, despite ultimately losing a split decision. Invicta’s official recap details the action, and the promotion has also made the full fight available. She has no submission victories as a professional, instead preferring to inflict damage from top position when the fight reaches the ground. Bittencourt’s path to victory against Guerrero is to make the fight physical, pressure her into the pocket, and capitalize on her power while mixing in takedowns as Guerrero begins to find a rhythm at range.

Guerrero, an American mixed martial artist, is 34 and 8-2 with one no contest in her professional career. She has not officially lost since September 2023, when Dione Barbosa submitted her by armbar in the first round on Dana White’s Contender Series. Since then, Guerrero defeated former UFC fighter Pearl Gonzalez by unanimous decision, fought Shanna Gomez in a five-round bout that was later overturned to a no contest, and scored consecutive first-round TKOs over Melani Gonzalez and veteran Carina Damm. Guerrero last fought on April 25, stopping Damm with punches at 2:19 of the first round. Her Sherdog record shows that she has never been knocked out as a professional; her two losses have come by decision and submission. She fights out of Houston, Texas, and trains at W4R Training Center.

Guerrero has historically shown an ability to win fights over longer stretches, with four of her eight victories coming by decision, but her recent performances suggest increasing finishing ability. Her record includes three KO/TKO victories, one submission and four decision wins, giving her paths to victory in all phases of the fight. At 5-foot-6 with a 66.5-inch reach, Guerrero will be two inches taller than Bittencourt, although their listed reaches are nearly identical. She has also experienced a full five-round fight, going the distance against Gomez before the result was overturned to a no contest. Her most apparent vulnerability has come on the ground, where Barbosa submitted her with an armbar on the Contender Series. Guerrero’s path to victory against Bittencourt is to use her speed and movement, avoid prolonged exchanges in the pocket, and force the heavier hitter to work over five rounds rather than allowing Bittencourt to plant her feet and unload power shots.

On paper, the two title fights offer very different questions. Jackson’s power will be tested against Galvan’s speed and versatility, while Bittencourt and Guerrero enter a five-round fight having proven exceptionally difficult to put away. By the end of the night, Tuff-N-Uff will have two flyweight champions crowned beside the pool at SAHARA.

HOW TO WATCH — TUFF-N-UFF 157: JACKSON vs. GALVAN

Date: Friday, September 25, 2026
Location: The Pool at SAHARA Las Vegas, 2535 S. Las Vegas Blvd., Las Vegas, NV

Preliminary Card:
6:00 PM PT / 9:00 PM ET
Streaming FREE on Tuff-N-Uff’s YouTube, Facebook, and Kick channels.

Main Card:
7:30 PM PT / 10:30 PM ET
Streaming LIVE worldwide on UFC Fight Pass.

In Person:
Doors open at 5:30 PM PT. First fight begins at 6:00 PM.
Tuff-N-Uff 157 is a 21+ event at The Pool at SAHARA Las Vegas.

Featured Bouts:
• World Flyweight Championship — Devon Jackson vs. Israel Galvan
• Inaugural Women’s World Flyweight Championship — Paula Bittencourt vs. Rainn Guerrero

Tickets and event information: TuffNUff.com and Eventbrite.

For one Friday night in Las Vegas, the usual ropes separating resort relaxation from fight night disappear: the cage is coming to the pool.

As of publication, Tuff-N-Uff has not announced the remainder of the card.

Update, Sept. 21, 2026: This article has been updated to include additional information on how and where to watch, as well as updated details about the pool venue.

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A man wearing a fedora and a headset is counting down loudly; two camera operators stand next to him, their cameras pointed at the door just to my left and behind me.

“Five! Four! Three!”

The house music has gone silent. The crowd hushes. The two cutmen stand still as statues – waiting.

When his count reaches one, the double doors at the end of the walkway swing open.

The first thing I see is a production crew member, his hand on a strap in the back of the camera operator’s vest, tethering them like a lifeline. The crew member strides toward the Octagon. A foot behind him, the camera operator matches his pace while walking backward, lens trained on the fighter following behind. The blue of the fighter’s shirt catches my eye through the bars to my left. He stares straight ahead, his expression fixed. A smattering of applause and a few whistles go up, but the prevailing sound is that of silence.

“Let’s go, Christian!” someone screams next to me. It’s louder because of the room’s small size and stillness. The cameras will pick up the shouted phrase on broadcast.

The fighter, Christian Natividad, yanks his shirt over his head. His corner catches up to him, and his brother, a UFC veteran, Kevin Natividad, pulls Christian in. Their foreheads press together for a long moment – long enough to draw chuckles from the crowd.

“That’s his brother,” someone explains before the moment ends and Christian turns to one of the two cutmen to receive his pre-fight application of Vaseline to the forehead and cheekbones. Then, he steps into the cage.

His opponent, Colton Loud, is a much taller redhead. Moments later, at 1:10 of the first round, Loud is doubled over in a fetal position at the center of the Octagon after Natividad lands two body shots in quick succession, the second a crushing left hook to the liver. The crowd erupts. Dana White stares into the cage and mouths, “Wow.” Beside him, Hunter Campbell turns toward White, raises an index finger, and speaks emphatically.

For the first time in its ten-season history, Dana White’s Contender Series is selling tickets to the public, and the presence of a paying crowd changes the atmosphere inside the Meta Apex. The largely silent walkouts of previous seasons now attract applause, whistles, and individual voices loud enough to be heard on the broadcast.

But attending the show also reveals another performance unfolding outside the cage: the carefully choreographed production required to make a live fight appear effortless on television. One spectator notices that the fighters receive neither walkout music nor a formal introduction.

“They’ve got to earn it,” another replies.

That is the premise of Contender Series. But while the fighters are trying to earn UFC contracts, dozens of people surrounding the cage are working to direct it.

For the third fight, Martin Kozak hit Christian Echols with what looked like a body shot at the end of the first round, doubling him over. The crowd cheered until the blow was revealed to be low, then booed, shouted “cheater,” and chanted, “take a point!” Kozak turned their boos into cheers when he stopped Echols with strikes at 1:32 of the second round. The most impressive contender was Quentin Pasley, who headlined the show, defeating Arlind Berisha with a KO at 4:41 of the first round. “That guy fought like Jon Jones,” one man behind me said. Dana White would later say that Pasley had “shades of Jon Jones” when awarding him a contract after the final bout

The television broadcast is carefully crafted for viewers. Dana White has been known to be a big stickler for production excellence. Court testimony from earlier this year by Hunter Campbell revealed that Dana is “completely obsessed with production and how the product looks,” while Hunter is the one running the fight business. Just look at the spectacle of UFC Freedom 250. Its production was undeniably spectacular.

While the majority of the audience at the Apex focuses on the fighters and the fights, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the other “show” going on around me across the roughly dozen times I have attended there. I’ve been so caught up in what the production crew is doing that I have missed major KOs multiple times.

The camera operators rarely remain in one place. Their movement resembles a carefully orchestrated ballet that occasionally looks like chaos. Two cover the fighter walkouts. During the bouts, three more occupy small platforms extending from the Octagon posts. Another circles the cage at floor level, shooting through the chain-link fence. An assistant follows, feeding and gathering the thick cable attached to the shoulder-mounted camera so it neither snags nor restricts the operator’s movement. One unseen operator pilots a boom-mounted camera that swings 360 degrees, both over the crowd and into the Octagon.

Around them, a half-dozen photographers, each carrying lenses nearly the length of my forearm, move from position to position, capturing still images while trying to remain invisible to the broadcast cameras. One of them perches on an unoccupied cage platform during bouts, shooting down over the edge of the fence. Another two drape across the rail of the new Mezzanine area, getting a bird’s-eye view of the cage.

One crew member appears to be responsible for Daniel Cormier’s chair. When a knockout sends Cormier to his feet, the man restores the chair to position. When Cormier prepares to enter the cage for the post-fight interview, he helps him into his suit jacket and threads an earpiece cable through his collar, connecting him to an unseen communications system.

DC’s chair guy, if you’re reading this, please contact me. I have an unreasonable number of highly specific questions about your job.

Mixed among the production crew is another layer of personnel responsible for making the contests official and safe: the Nevada Athletic Commission officials who sanction and oversee the event. I’ve seen the same people over time – judges, referees, commission inspectors, ringside physicians, timekeepers, and the executive director.

Mike Beltran had the honor of reffing the final bout, and as he came out of the cage, he stripped off his latex gloves and threw them into a red medical waste bin next to the Octagon stairs. After he did this, he pulled his long beard, tied into twin tails, out from under his shirt with a flourish. My eyes narrowed as I made a mental note: ask Mike Beltran why he has to tuck his beard in Nevada for UFC events but not in California for amateur promotions (I previously saw him at UNF 35 and EPIC 65–both in SoCal).

The ring announcer is licensed by the commission but paid by the promotion. At most Apex events, that voice belongs to Justin Bernard, a longtime Tuff-N-Uff announcer who began working with the promotion in 2010. Bernard told me the UFC has steadily expanded his responsibilities. He now serves as the dedicated announcer for Apex cards, including UFC BJJ, and also works Road to UFC and Power Slap. He recently appeared at UFC Fight Night in China. When I asked whether an announcers’ union helped distribute assignments, Bernard said his opportunities had come through networking and hard work. Justin, who has become one of my favorite announcers, is incredibly humble in person. When he asked if I was an announcer, I laughed and said no. Journalism is, in fact, the most I want to expose myself to the public. We then agreed that UFC BJJ seemed like the optimal gig, since he gets to sit behind the desk and announce for the majority of the show, aside from title matches.

The promotion supplies still more personnel: ring card attendants (or ring girls to you sickos, although I am campaigning for ring boys too), matchmakers like Shelby and Maynard, security, and EMTs stationed off to the side with an ambulance and gurneys ready.

Campbell’s position beside White is new this season. In previous seasons, matchmakers Sean Shelby and Mick Maynard flanked White while Campbell occupied the far end of the table. Through the first five episodes of Season 10, White has instead sat on the left end, with Campbell directly beside him, followed by Shelby and Maynard. Campbell repeatedly turns toward White during the fights’ biggest moments.

On Contender Series, the arrangement matters. The broadcast frequently cuts away from the cage to show the executives’ reactions as they evaluate each fighter for a contract. Moving Campbell into the seat closest to White places him more visibly at the center of that decision-making process, an arrangement consistent with his increased authority over the UFC’s fight business.

Campbell attends virtually every UFC card and, according to his recent court testimony, runs the promotion’s fight business. His responsibilities extend far beyond what happens during the broadcast. Fight Inc. documented Campbell managing last-minute withdrawals and other crises, while fighters increasingly acknowledge him after bouts as the executive responsible for making fights and advancing careers (Just don’t bark at him—please, Im begging you). For now, at Contender Series, he remains beside White, watching prospects attempt to earn their way into the organization he increasingly runs.

After the contracts had been awarded and the broadcast ended, Dana White and the other three members of his “War Room” crew—Hunter Campbell, Sean Shelby, and Mick Maynard—stood and began to exit. Pathside, a man stood with a belt in a velvet carrying case over his shoulder. Earlier that night, I asked him about it, and he replied it was one of the limited-run Freedom 250 replica belts. He had Diego Lopes sign it on a prior Contender Series night (I’ve spotted Diego each week so far) and hoped to have Dana sign it, too.

“Why stop there?” I asked. “Have Hunter, Sean, and Mick sign it, too.”

“Who are they?” he asked.

It was a useful reminder. Most UFC fans know Dana White, whose fame has eclipsed that of many fighters. The executives and workers surrounding him remain largely invisible, even when they are sitting only a few feet away. At $25, Contender Series tickets have opened the newly expanded Meta Apex to fans who previously might never have considered attending. From these seats, there are no arena nosebleeds and little distance between the audience, the fighters and the people making the broadcast happen. The UFC’s machinery is not entirely exposed, but it is more visible here than at any arena show. I will be at UFC 331 in Los Angeles. But given the choice between watching from the upper reaches of an arena and sitting close enough to hear a crew member count down a fighter’s entrance, I know which version of MMA I prefer.

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I kid.

I know little-to-nothing about Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and what I do know comes exclusively from watching the UFC and other MMA promotions. So I had no idea what to expect when I arrived at the UFC Apex for UFC BJJ 10.

What I do know is that the ring is not a cereal bowl. The sloped-wall Pit design was first pioneered by Karate Combat, who used a square version, and then adopted by the Craig Jones Invitational (CJI). The UFC’s version, though, is octagon-shaped, since the UFC holds exclusive rights to the octagon shape in fighting enclosures. That’s what gives the Pit its distinctive UFC look and flair, no matter what combat sport is taking place inside it.

I’ve been to the UFC Apex countless times since it opened to public access, both for the Las Vegas Fight Night series and, more recently, Dana White’s Contender Series. But UFC BJJ was new to me, and I wasn’t sure what to expect walking in. The entryway and lobby were unchanged: same security process, same slightly-altered lobby. The first real difference wasn’t architectural, but the tickets themselves. Instead of assigned seating, UFC BJJ was General Admission, priced $45.00–$56.72 after fees. I had no trouble grabbing a ticket last minute, and I don’t think the event even sold out.

Then came the first change I noticed inside the Apex itself. Instead of walking straight into the main chamber, guests were funneled to line up on each side of the lobby, then led in behind the bleachers before emerging to pick their seats. Unlike MMA, there’s a reason to sit further back here: higher seats give a better view down into the recessed bowl at the center of the space. Still, seats weren’t hotly contested despite the general admission format, and I had no trouble finding a prime spot. A source inside the Apex put attendance at approximately 500 guests. The crowd itself felt different from a typical Apex fight night: far more children, more families, and more hardcore BJJ fans. Guys in front of me wore fight gear branded with the Pride logo and cheered for specific fighters they seemed to know personally, while the couple behind me discussed BJJ technique with the kind of detail that suggested they trained themselves.

A number of things were different for the event. A desk for announcer Justin Bernard and other officials sat on a raised platform to the right of the ring, while the Mezzanine level was used for post-fight interviews and the VIP room above held commentators on camera. Camera crews, photographers, and videographers surrounded the Pit, one of the real spectacles of being at the Apex for a live TV broadcast (in this case, UFC BJJ streamed on YouTube). The Pit featured ads from the likes of Palantir and Turning Point USA, continuing the UFC’s recent embrace of more overtly political and ideologically aligned branding. Michael Chiesa and Din Thomas opened the show on camera, standing in the middle of the Pit. I half-expected some booing directed at Thomas given the recency of the Gillian Anderson situation, but none came.

I found myself wondering how much effort it took to break down the Octagon and swap in the Pit (or, as the UFC did for Adin Ross’s Brand Risk promotion, a boxing ring). I wondered too where they stored the Octagon pieces and how long the changeover took. Given the engineering feat of erecting the “Dome” at Freedom 250 in front of the White House, this looked easy by comparison. The UFC clearly prides itself on this kind of production.

The grappler walkouts played out much like they do in MMA, except grapplers climbed a short flight of stairs to the top lip of the Pit, then walked its edge to reach their corners. Announcer Justin Bernard didn’t step into the ring for introductions, staying at his desk instead. Four camera operators stood at each corner filming, while several people sat Pit-side, two of them with notebooks and pens in hand.

When it was time to start, the competitors ran down into the Pit and began to grapple. One thing was clear from the first bout: grapplers used the sloped wall constantly, running opponents into it to build momentum for takedowns. In the opening match, Kelly pushed Lima onto her back against the top ledge, and the ref made them reset in the middle. There was also a clear emphasis on finishing fights, same as in MMA, and there were plenty of finishes that night. The crowd came alive whenever a submission attempt started, but nothing that night was louder than the end-of-round horn. That thing was ear-splitting loud.

The first match ended with both strawweights, Lima and Kelly, tangled in dueling heel hook attempts, the two of them rolling like some interlocking worm until the horn sounded. Kelly was the more aggressive grappler and got the decision. She perched on the edge of the Pit for her post-fight interview. I still didn’t understand how BJJ was scored, but the fight cards handed out at the door had the rules printed on the back: 10-point scoring rounds like MMA, three rounds total, with points awarded for match-ending techniques, initiating the action, and duration of control. I wondered how the rest of the card would play out. Would the lack of striking and ground-and-pound bore me? Would I want to leave before the main event? The decision win in the opener didn’t give me much to go on, but that was about to change.

Middleweights Rocha and Varela came out next. Rocha paused to pray at the edge of the Pit, something I’ve often seen MMA fighters do before entering the cage. Varela, surprisingly, had a female coach in his corner, something you rarely see with male MMA fighters. Jason Herzog reffed the bout, and the two men spent noticeably more time on their feet, fighting for position, before Varela took an accidental eye poke. When one fighter drove the other into the edge of the Pit, production and coaching crew at the rail pushed them back in, the same way people at the edge of a mosh pit shove wild dancers back toward the middle. Varela ultimately submitted Rocha with a crescent choke in the third, in a genuinely competitive match. I had to turn around and ask the clearly knowledgeable woman behind me what the move was called; I don’t remember ever seeing it in MMA. Varela said afterward he’d tried the crescent choke many times before, and this was the first time it ever worked. There’s a first time for everything.

Bantamweights Fonacier and Ramirez fought next. Ramirez nearly sank a rear-naked choke at the end of the first round, but the fight went the distance, with Fonacier getting the decision.

William Tackett’s entrance brought a huge pop from the crowd. I’d been told beforehand that the Tacketts were good, so I knew to watch for them, but I wasn’t prepared for just how good. With his brother Andrew in his corner, William and his opponent Nikolav both survived the first round. Andrew fanned William with a towel between rounds, and William came out and got a heel hook in the second. Who knew BJJ could be this fun? On his way out, a little girl ran up to the barrier begging Andrew for a picture, and another fan asked for his shirt. These guys were BJJ superstars.

The card kept moving. Fornarino got a straight ankle lock sub over Brunacio in the first round of the women’s flyweight bout; the winner climbed the edge of the Pit and the crew switched on big bar lights for her interview. A lot of the grappler intros leaned into religious themes, a common thread in combat sports generally. Moura followed with a first-round armbar sub, then climbed the stairs to the Mezzanine after her Pit-side interview to appear on camera again.

Next up was Brianna Ste-Marie, known as “BSM,” who got a head-and-arm choke in the second. “Yes, Bri!” her coach shouted from the corner. The co-main was a title fight, and a woman climbed into the Pit to award the belt afterward. The interviewer climbed in too, along with two cameramen, for the winner’s interview. When it wrapped, one cameraman set his camera on the lip of the Pit, took a running start, and sprinted up the sloped wall to retrieve it. The same fan who’d gotten his shirt signed by William Tackett was waiting at the edge of the walkout path; he reached over and shook Brianna’s hand. When he pulled back, his buddy was there to congratulate him, grinning ear-to-ear, face red.

After seeing William fight, I had a sense of how Andrew Tackett might perform in his main event against Jonnatas Gracie (whether he was actually part of the famous Gracie family, I couldn’t confirm), but I still wasn’t prepared. Andrew came out with swagger, medium-length hair swept back to perfection; I could already see why he was the main event. As he marched down the walkout path, a cameraman ran backward ahead of him, tethered by a loop on his back to an assistant pulling him along. Once the fight started, Andrew was immediately aggressive, driving Jonnatas into the wall for a takedown before the fight hit the ground. He sank in a rear-naked choke and made it look easy. The crowd went wild. Andrew was awarded the belt and called out Sean Brady and Paddy Pimblett, two UFC MMA names I’d genuinely like to see him fight.

I left the Apex satisfied with my first BJJ event. Going in, I had my doubts about the sport’s “excitement factor”; I’d once clicked on a free UFC BJJ stream on YouTube and turned it off within minutes. But live BJJ, like live MMA, is a different animal entirely from watching it on a screen, and I’m glad I saw it in person. I might even go to the next one. Musumeci has become a favorite of mine in the sport, and if the UFC can bring enough star power in front of the camera and keep pushing for finishes, I could see this thing going the distance.

Until next time.

Upcoming reporting will detail events like Tuff-N-Uff 156, EPIC 66, and Up Next Fighting 35.

Updated September 4, 2026: tightened for clarity and flow, and added a detail about ringside advertising in the Pit.

Updated September 5, 2026: clarified terms preferred in BJJ vs MMA.

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Have you ever had a favorite band you used to see at small venues? It felt intimate, personal, tailored just for you. You’d chat with fellow fans about how great it was to be in on something, and eventually the band started recognizing you back — never quite friends, but casually known. You’d talk to them and the roadies outside during smoke breaks, beer in hand. It felt like insider access, and it felt like something you’d never want to give up.

Then the band “sells out.” Suddenly they’re playing arenas. The casual access disappears. You’re genuinely happy for them — everyone deserves to experience a band you love — but there’s a quiet sense of betrayal underneath the happiness, one you know you’re not really entitled to feel. That’s gatekeeping, and you know it.

That’s exactly what happened with the UFC Apex. Bigger. More corporate — rebranded with Meta’s name on the building. More accessible to fans who never had a shot at it before. And I’m the guy who has to admit he misses when it wasn’t.

What Changed

Walk through the doors now, and the differences start small. A giant, light-up blue Meta logo competes for space with the red UFC one outside. Inside, a new interactive exhibit lets you scan yourself into an AI-generated fight poster with your favorite fighter, in the spot where a real fight night poster used to hang. The UFC store, once occupying the whole end of the lobby, has been squeezed into a smaller alcove. The other photo-op poster, the one with fighter mannequins, is gone too. The one constant: the large wall-sized poster near the bathrooms and concessions.

The real transformation is in the room that holds the cage. The red and blue crossbeams that used to hug the walls are gone, and the space has been pushed out and upward. Black fabric walls have been replaced with cream-colored surfaces and vertical strobing lights in red and blue. The press area, once open, is now fenced off and under security control. A new mezzanine, reserved for VIP guests, sits above the entrance side (I watched announcers use it for interviews during UFC BJJ 10). The octagon still sits dead center, exactly where it’s always been.

And the seats. Where the Apex once held 609, it now holds 1,113. Nearly double.

Access and Cost

The math on tickets tells its own story. I paid roughly $350 for a row-three seat at UFC Vegas 120. For Dana White’s Contender Series, I paid $25 for front row (about $42 after fees). Compare that to the old Apex, where the cheapest seats ran $350, and getting in at all meant having UFC Fight Club presale access or gambling on resale. More seats means a lower price floor, and a lower price floor means more people get to walk through those doors at all.

What hasn’t changed is how close you can still get to the people who matter. During the Contender Series, I watched a man sitting next to me get a replica UFC Freedom 250 belt signed by Dana White, no hassle at all. He got a trading card signed by Diego Lopes the same night. In my experience, fighters at the Apex are still generous with their time, happy to stop for a photo or an autograph before moving on. That part of the old Apex, the part that made it feel like you were somewhere real, hasn’t disappeared. It’s just competing with a lot more people for the same handful of moments.

What’s Lost

I already told you I’m the fan who has to admit he misses the small room. What I haven’t fully said is what that costs me, specifically.

The bathroom lines are longer now. So are the concession lines. Those are minor. What’s harder to name is the shift in the room itself, the loss of a certain familiarity that used to come standard with a smaller crowd and a smaller space. The old Apex felt like watching regional MMA with UFC-level talent, if regional MMA also had incredible sightlines. It made it easy to actually get to know staff and fighters, which matters more to how I report on this sport than almost anything else.

There’s also a cost I don’t think most fans clock, because it’s mine specifically. I deal with sensory issues, including sensory overload, and the new Apex is louder and more charged than the old one in a way I feel physically.

What Stayed the Same

Not everything changed. Parking is exactly as easy (or as beside the point) as it always was, since most people still show up by rideshare. And the air conditioning, crucial for a Vegas summer that regularly hits 111 degrees, still holds up. Some things about the Apex, thankfully, didn’t get the memo about growing up.

What’s Next

With more events landing at the Apex, from UFC BJJ to Adin Ross’s Brand Risk Promotions, the expansion tracks with a building that outgrew its COVID-era footprint. The open question is what the UFC does with that extra room: keep leasing it out to more third parties, or use it to host more of its own events (Zuffa Boxing, anyone?). Either answer probably means more growth, which probably means less of what made the old Apex the old Apex.

I’m not going to pretend the improvements aren’t good for fans as a whole. They are. Die-hards like me, the ones who show up to every Apex event we can get into, are allowed to grumble about the place “selling out.” But grumbling is where it stops. I don’t get to gatekeep a room that was never mine to gatekeep in the first place.

Look for me in the crowd at Week Three of Dana White’s Contender Series. I’ll be the one in a ballcap that says “SD,” or “Sharks,” or some other weird shit. And who knows. Maybe one day I’ll finally apply for press access and get approved.

Stick around for my next post, which will cover my experience of attending Tuff-N-Uff 156.

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It’s fight day, and the fighter for the main bout has just dropped out of the card. Everyone is scrambling. The card must go on. The matchmaker, William ‘Chorizo,’ is calling his backups to see who can fight, and the CEO of EPIC Fighting, Jason Stewart, is calling his guy: Pedro Batista Silva Neto.

Pedro’s already put untold hours into making EPIC look epic—each fight card promo image takes four to ten hours to create from scratch—and this is just another part of his job. Last-minute dropouts come with the territory, and Pedro’s got a game plan for it: work overtime. It doesn’t matter what time it is at home compared to local San Diego time. He’s the guy Jason can rely on, and the guy fans and fighters can rely on for the most up-to-date, professional look for the promotion.

Pedro gets to work, and soon there’s a new fight poster featuring the replacement fighter’s image, with the matchup cards updated to reflect all the new information. He sends them to the print shop EPIC works with, which can churn out promo material with as little as two hours’ notice—just in time for fight night. Then he opens the code editor for EPIC’s website, updates the matches, and edits promotional fight video, if time allows.

Doors open at seven, and fans start arriving. The new fight posters are already front and center, and attendees grab a fight postcard featuring all the updated bouts on their way into the venue. Someone pulls up the EPIC Fighting website on their phone to see which matches are scheduled for the evening, and the replacement fighter is already listed. No one sees the work that goes into making it all come together—for them, it’s just a seamless experience. That’s thanks to Pedro and the rest of the crew at EPIC Fighting.

Twenty-four-year-old Pedro does a little bit of everything: graphic design, web coding, 3D modeling, video editing, and music composition. Anything that has to do with design or creative work for EPIC Fighting, he does it. His role has spanned almost a year, covering EPIC 64 through 66.

But Pedro didn’t get his start in MMA-related creative design. He used to work in sales for an interior design company in Miami before he had to drop that job. Determined to break into screen printing design instead, he spent nine months cold-calling shops everywhere, not just San Diego, but all fifty states and over a hundred cities. What kept him going during that stretch was freelance work he picked up from print shops in Arizona, Nevada, Florida, and Georgia. One of those calls was to Mulado Designs, and though the job wasn't there, it was how he ended up on the radar of Joselin Fuller, a manager at EPIC Fighting, who called him back about a design position.

“‘We’re looking for a designer; could you give us a minute and let’s talk about it?’ I said, ‘Okay, sure, 100%.’ That’s how I first got into it.”

What he didn’t know at the time was that he was the only candidate willing to download a 30-gigabyte file—the archive of work from EPIC’s previous designer—something the other designers in contention for the spot wouldn’t or couldn’t do. Pedro made a few posters, Jason loved them, and Pedro soon became the go-to guy for EPIC’s graphic design.

EPIC’s hexagonal cage presented Pedro with an early challenge: no 3D model of it existed anywhere online, so he built his own, to the cage’s exact real-world dimensions. That model mattered practically, too: Pedro is the one who places sponsors on the cage pads and canvas, a 20-by-18-foot area, before it’s sent out for printing. The same model lets him set keyframes and export video for the broadcasts that air on local San Diego TV, online, and during the livestream. He’s especially proud of a drone shot he produced for the website, showing the branded cage in full 3D.

Pedro brought real print-shop knowledge to the role—print margins, safe areas where no design can go, the four-inch overhang margin the canvas requires. He works across Adobe’s suite (Illustrator, Photoshop, CorelDRAW) as well as Canva and CapCut. He’ll use AI for small elements he integrates into a larger design, but no further—AI isn’t near the quality level he demands. Besides, he loves the work, so why would he outsource it to something that produces an inferior product?

Pedro is from Brazil, the home of modern MMA, so one might assume he’s always been a fan. Not so.

“It’s funny,” he says. “I wasn’t a fan of MMA before. It was coincidental. I didn’t watch MMA; I was more into the NFL and baseball. When this opportunity came up, I suddenly became a fan.”

Now he can’t get enough of it—UFC, PFL, SoCal-based MMA, even BRAVE Combat Federation. He watches all of it, because watching is part of the job.

“What is the UFC doing? What is PFL doing? What are the top promotions doing? I stay tuned to that, especially the visuals, because I want to do better than them. They’re huge; they already have a name, so it’s easier for them to put out a fighter or a hot poster and promote the fight. But we want to create something bigger every year, so I stay tuned to where I can improve, what I can do better than UFC, and what options I have to improve the company.”

When Pedro first started, he didn't know nearly as many of the tricks he'd picked up since. His first task was a poster for EPIC 64. The brief: “Hey, throw these fighters here and there, just do it and make it look nice.” That first poster took sixteen iterations before he was satisfied—and he'll admit it doesn't hold up to what he makes today. He learned on the job, and every last-minute dropout or new arrival became an excuse to hone his craft, all in service of the goal that still drives him: outdoing the top dog. He wants someone to look at a poster and say, “This looks better than the UFC and way cooler.”

Event week is by far Pedro’s busiest. Between last-minute changes and prepping for the next event before the current one has even wrapped—updating the website, prepping promotional materials and the livestream, promoting the pay-per-view—he’s online basically all week, some days running twelve hours. While the event is underway, Pedro monitors the livestream to ensure everything runs smoothly, which he counts as one of the real perks of the job.

Pedro didn’t attend university for any of this—he’s entirely self-taught. But no one looking at the finished product would know it, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

He can’t just sit behind a computer and code, either. Jason relies on him heavily, but Pedro stays in close contact with the rest of the operation too—EPIC’s ads manager, the matchmaker, the venue, and the team running the livestream—since his job depends on knowing what everyone else is doing.

That people-skills side of the job extends to merchandise, too—Pedro handles the calls to produce stickers, signs, and whatever else EPIC needs, often on tight turnarounds.

His creativity has been making a splash. His poster for the fight with Snake The Nate got a huge buzz from the Comic-Con crowd—a jungle theme he says was inspired by Alex “Poatan” Pereira. EPIC’s street team knew exactly where to place the posters, and their movie-studio polish caught the eye of a crowd already primed to respond to something flashy. He’s now designing merch for EPIC too, including an upcoming Jiu-Jitsu line.

That love for the sport has only grown since he took the job, and he goes on deep dives into it—fight breakdowns, fighters, the moves they use. As a Brazilian, his favorite fighter is a Brazilian one: Diego Lopes. He wishes he could get out to see a fight in person, but he lives in rural Brazil, between Rio and São Paulo—a four-hour drive to the nearest big city, and eight hours to Belo Horizonte, where BRAVE MMA is held. Without his laptop, he can’t just pick up and go; setting aside the risks of the trip itself, everything he needs is on his desktop, and he could be needed at a moment’s notice.

“If I don’t love what I’m doing, I’m not going to do it well,” he says.

Still, Pedro dreams of traveling one day. Vegas is on the bucket list—he was struck by UFC Noche at the Sphere. But more than anywhere he wants to go, he wants people to know how hard he works, and that he can build something huge. He wants to be known not just for the work itself, but for trying his best at everything. Above all, he dedicates his life and work to his faith and hopes that, through it, he can be a blessing. He knows not everyone has what it takes, so he tries to carry himself as someone nice and professional. When he pictures people driving out to San Diego for EPIC Fighting, he wants them to come because it’s something unique—and he hopes the promotion grows huge, not just in the US, but around the world. He wants to be part of something like that. He wants the Lord to make it happen, and to be part of something truly epic.

Thank you to Pedro Neto and EPIC Fighting for agreeing to the interview. My next article will focus on my experiences at the newly remodeled UFC Meta Apex in Las Vegas. Until next time.

Correction (Aug 25, 2026): This article originally misspelled Mulado Designs. It has been corrected.

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Many were beckoned to Vegas the week of International Fight Week. They flew and drove from across the U.S. and from around the globe, hoping to see the one-and-only Conor McGregor return to the Octagon to face Max Holloway in a rematch. And the 111-degree Fahrenheit heat didn’t stop anyone from packing T-Mobile Arena for the press conference, the ceremonial weigh-ins, or the bout itself — a sold-out crowd of 20,078 and a record gate of $26.4 million.

Despite Dana White’s claim that no rooms were available in Vegas for International Fight Week, I had no problem booking my stay a month or so in advance, when tickets for UFC 329 went on sale. At a reasonable price, too, in a nice enough hotel in the suburbs of Henderson/Boulder City. When you travel to Vegas as much as I do, you learn to do it on the cheap, and I’ve never been much of one for gambling. (In fact, the woman who checked me in at the hotel & casino balked when I wouldn’t accept the free $25 gift card for the slots). It helped that I got my ticket at face value through the UFC Fight Club presale, and that I only needed one seat (unfortunately, my spouse is not a fight fan — nor a Vegas fan, for that matter). So, I only paid a whopping $750 for a face-value ticket in Section 101, at mid-height of the arena! (Hmm, so that’s how they make those record gate numbers! They raise the prices!)

This being my first International Fight Week in person, I needed a plan for hitting all the events I wanted in the sweltering heat. My time as a U.S. Army serviceman in Iraq would come in handy here — I knew what to expect from extreme dry desert heat in the summer, and how to prepare for it. I wanted peak positioning for the press conference and weigh-ins; this would require waiting an hour or so outside the arena before the doors opened. The first thing they taught us in preparation for the Middle East was to wear long, loose clothing. This keeps the sun off your body and lets sweat evaporate easily from your skin, cooling you down. Direct sun on your skin actually raises your body’s core temperature. So, ditch the shorts the next time you’re in town and it’s baking outside. I brought SPF 50 clothing, SPF 50 sunscreen, a hat, sunglasses, Liquid IV packets, moisture-wicking underwear, and a sun umbrella. Hydration was the key, though (all the convenience stores in Vegas sell massive water bottles with handles on them).

No one really prepares you for how annoying it is to park on the Strip and navigate to where you want to go on foot. This wasn’t my first rodeo in Vegas, and I still had difficulty getting where I needed to go the day of the UFC Hall of Fame induction ceremony and press conference, which had been pushed back an hour — likely so it wouldn’t overlap with Power Slap 21. T-Mobile Arena is located on the Strip and doesn’t have dedicated parking (why the hell not, I’ll never know), requiring one to park in one of the many parking garages nearby and walk. By the time I got to the arena, I had already spent more than enough time in the sun navigating the pedestrian bridges that cross the Strip. Hundreds were in line before me, with a smattering of umbrellas dotting the crowd. Luckily, vendors were set up in the square selling water and beer, and people on foot came through the lines with their buckets of beverages. Even luckier for me, I arrived at the perfect time to get in line right under the shade of one of the few trees. By the time the doors opened, the lines were moving, and we were inside the air conditioning quickly.

Once inside, people quickly moved to get the best seats next to the stage. For the public, this consisted of the seats in the lowest ring, with floor seats reserved for invited family and VIPs. I managed to snag a single seat a few rows up in the leftmost section next to the stage. As the arena began to fill in, fighters and other celebrities would occasionally walk through the pathway in the middle of the floor and next to the barrier. People like Chael Sonnen, Justin Gaethje, and Charles Oliveira were some of the notables (Poatan also got a loud “Chama!” each time he was spotted). In an odd sight, one man kept running down the stairs to the barrier every time a celebrity came by, trying to get his UFC hockey jersey signed. The loudest representation in the audience was not the Irish, but the back-and-forth between the singing, flag-waving French BSD supporters and those there for Paddy “the Baddy” Pimblett.

I’d like to say the UFC Hall of Fame induction ceremony (Jon Anik hosting) was worth going to. It was not: three hours of long speeches, drawn-out Oscar-style transitions, and Hunter Campbell peeking out from behind a pillar like a cave troll in waiting. Dominick Cruz, Demetrious Johnson, and Chris Weidman — among many others — gave heartfelt speeches and deserved the honor, but there was no “we cut you off after thirty seconds” here, and the UFC absolutely knew what it was doing putting the ceremony and the press conference back-to-back. I hate to sound like a dick, but nothing kills crowd energy like a long-ass speech full of tears (full support to men showing emotion in public, however). So I did what I always do at events like that: watch the production crew and try to figure out what their jobs are. One man, seated, held the cable for a large Zamboni-shaped camera on a track, unspooling it and reeling it back in as the camera traversed the floor. He did this for the entire three hour ceremony. It’s one of the things I find most fascinating about live productions (not the fights, you ask? Well, yes, the fights too, obviously).

Watching the production team tear down an entire awards ceremony stage and replace it with the press conference one was interesting. These things are definitely more fragile than they look on TV. When the public press conference finally got underway, the crowd came back to life. Looking around, I saw the UFC’s base demographic heavily represented: young males aged 18–34. No doubt this was their first time seeing McGregor in person, and they wanted to experience the hype of the UFC’s yesteryear, as did I. Still, Paddy — a huge favorite of mine — got a big pop, too. If he had been less deferential to McGregor, he might have kept the audience on his side. The questions from the media, meanwhile, were truly dumb. I understand that they held a private, press-only press conference a day prior, so maybe all the good questions had been asked by then.

When we were let out of T-Mobile Arena, the Paddy supporters and BSD fans met in the middle of the square, continuing their same (albeit friendly) beef from earlier, chanting and waving the flags of their countries. After an exhausting Thursday, I made my way back to the hotel to rest and recuperate.

On Friday, it was time to do it all over again. I had less trouble navigating from the parking garage to the arena this time. Everyone crowded into the shade at the base of the arena rather than standing in orderly lines at each door, and I met a guy from San Diego who recognized my SD hat. They opened the doors early due to the heat, and we made our way in. I wanted to go all the way to the right, and did so (a mistake, I would later find out). I got prime seating once again, but a huge camera on a crane took up most of the view (think of a giant metal fishing pole with a camera on the end). At least they zoomed it over the crowd in a fun way to test it out — but I’m sorry, fellow San Diegan, for leading you astray. The crane camera swung over the stage and got a foot away from the fighters during the face offs. How weird would it be to turn around and bump into that thing?

I had always wanted to see a ceremonial weigh-in in person, and this one did not disappoint. That music they play at every weigh-in? Thunderous. Joe Rogan’s voice? Grating. Dana White came out with Hunter Campbell to lead the face-offs, followed by Sean Shelby and Mick Maynard. Paddy fired up the crowd once again — a crowd that spent the waiting period before the show battling in the stands (aka chanting and waving flags at each other, back and forth). If this was to be a preview of Saturday, I couldn’t wait. Conor and Max came out and looked good (although Conor taking forever to put on his shoes had the crowd chuckling a bit nervously). The stands were noticeably packed to the brim — far more than at other ceremonial weigh-ins I had live-streamed. Then it was over. But I couldn’t stick around for the concert outside in the square, for I had somewhere to be.

Ah, Power Slap. I felt guilty the first time I went to one of these. But don’t knock it before you try it. I took a short walk to the Cosmopolitan, making it just in time for the first bout. The venue is great — every seat has a view. The matches are so quick it almost feels like it’s over too soon. The drinks, plentiful. (Speaking of drinks, while I was in the lobby getting one, I ran into a desperate Michael Chandler looking for the bathroom, and despite me pointing at the very bright green sign indicating where it was, he still couldn’t find it). Dana White and Hunter Campbell were there, since Power Slap is their baby (Dana and the Fertittas are co-founders, while Campbell and Craig Piligian — producer of The Ultimate Fighter — are executive partners with founding equity). Half the crowd seemed to be influencer types, with the whole bottom-floor section next to the stage reserved for them — Nina Drama among them doing her livestream. It’s not exactly my scene. It’s both the douchiest people imaginable on the lower tier and the reddest-of-neck white-trash types in the stands (one of these, a drunk woman, punched me in the back for sitting in front of her and telling her I wouldn’t move). That probably says something about me for being there among them. But — it’s exciting. What can I say? The knockouts are generous (as is the brain damage, I’m sure). It’s like distilling the most explosive moments from MMA—when someone gets finished—and shooting it out of a canon at your face. The clips do not do the live experience justice. And that closed out my Friday.

Then came Saturday, the ultimate day of International Fight Week. I spent the morning at breakfast with an old friend (Blueberry Hill Restaurant — look it up) before heading out to the main event. The last time I had tickets to a numbered UFC event was UFC 270: Ngannou vs. Gane in Anaheim, CA. Since the UFC opened up the Apex to outside crowds, I have been to far more of those than numbered events. I was excited. I was hyped. Who wouldn’t be? Of course I had to get there before the prelims — I wasn’t going to let all the money I paid for that ticket go to waste — but the arena was conspicuously empty at the start of the early prelims (who are you people who pay that much for a ticket and don’t get as much out of it as possible? Then again, I’m the type of person who can never miss the previews at the movie theater, either).

The card was off to a good start. I was sad to see Cody Durden get subbed, but happy for Luke Riley (or Paddy’s protégé, as I like to call him) to get the KO. Gable Steveson looked sloppy but put on an entertaining fight, at least (and that sprawl… Christ). Robert Whittaker’s win drew one of the biggest eruptions of the night. King Green’s matches are never boring, either — his comeback, after looking like he was almost done, was a hell of a lot of fun to see in person.

But speaking of seeing: as an old Millennial who now has to wear glasses, thank god I brought them. Honestly, I couldn’t see as well as I would have liked, since I was on the long end of the arena and mostly watching the jumbotron. Something to note for the next time the UFC brings a numbered event near me (reportedly Crypto.com Arena in Los Angeles this November): be more intentional about exactly where I buy seats. Another gripe: as the arena filled, so did the heat in my section, and having been there since the early prelims, I was feeling done by the time the main card rolled around.

Paddy’s walkout absolutely got me back into it. Yes, the chanting was piped in, but the crowd was also singing along (as was I). His entrances always make the place feel like a club, and he’s so full of energy — how can you not love Paddy? Knowing what a sick grappler he is, I totally had him taking this fight against BSD (seriously, watch all his matches on Fight Pass through his early time on Cage Warriors; he had like one loss early in his career). But I’m also a fan of BSD and his French Special Forces story, and I know he can be a tough opponent, so I was eager to see how it would go, either way. We just had no way of knowing Paddy was going to submit the guy that quickly! I remember being on the edge of my seat, knowing he had the choke in tight. The build-up was tremendous. I was leaning forward. And then the ref grabbed BSD’s arm and dropped it — limp — and the whole fucking arena erupted. I’m sorry to the French couple behind me. I know you were there to support your guy.

After seeing Paddy demolish BSD, we were hyped as fuck for McGregor and Holloway. But McGregor seemed oddly muted. It was a stark contrast to the Paddy entrance, which had the whole arena going. I just remember the shock of seeing him “slip” — once, then twice. Someone next to me said, “Something is wrong.” And it was. When the fight got called off, we were stunned. No one could believe what we had just watched. People began to stand up and slowly file out. There was no loud cheering or chanting, none of what you’d expect after an event of this magnitude — just twenty thousand people trying to process what had happened. Next to me, a kid of perhaps 15, there with his father, looked crushed — forlorn, even. The dad kept trying to make him feel better, but that kid wasn’t going to be told how to feel. Jokingly, I turned to the dad and said, “Well, he could have at least hopped around on one foot like Ullberg,” and the dad looked at me blankly, like he didn’t understand the reference. There were some smatterings of “Paddy the Baddy” chants, but mostly everyone kept quiet. It felt like filing out of the arena after your NHL team had just lost game seven of the playoffs.

Outside, the crowds moved like molasses down the Strip, and to top it all off, they started setting off fireworks all along the Strip from the rooftops of the casinos — in Holloway’s colors. Brilliant, I thought. Wonder if McGregor can see those now?

I pushed past street preachers with microphones and made it to my car, and, perhaps against my better judgment, decided to drive home instead of staying in that city with its excesses and great wins and terrible losses. With the Strip receding behind you, the fading lights become like a memory as you’re enveloped in the darkness. Soon you’ll be past the Mojave Desert and climbing through the mountains, and when you crest the other side of the pass — San Bernardino County spread out below, the air a chill 66 degrees — you’ll know you’re almost home.

And all I got was this stupid cup!

(Until next time. I’ll be reporting on the remodeled Meta Apex sometime after August 8th.)

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