There’s something magical about coming down from the mountain pass and seeing the Strip spread out in the valley in the distance. It brings a sense of hope, possibility, and excitement that nothing else can compare to. During the daytime, sunlight glints from the mirrored sides of buildings and reflects off the peaks of the Spring Mountains. All the colors have been muted, and instead, the dusky browns and tans of the desert take over. At night, when the lights come out, Vegas beckons like a shining beacon in the distance, guiding all to it like some modern-day Tortuga with its excess and debauchery.
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.)
Thanks man that was fun
Fun write up!