Pictured: Fedor Emelianenko suffers a shocking defeat at the hands of Antonio Silva last night.

(Editor’s Note: A full account of last night’s fights will be posted soon. But first we’re offering a personal note in this unusual piece from longtime Fedor fan George Do, who like many fans sometimes found himself living vicariously through his favorite fighter. Here George expresses his sadness over Fedor’s loss, and probable retirement. — Tommy)

As I sit here on the 3:00am train back to Philadelphia, I find myself at loss for words.

When I was first introduced to MMA, I watched the Gracie family dominate the scene. Then I watched the great Sakuraba dispell the myth of the Gracies. Then Takanori Gomi. Wanderlei Silva. Mauricio Shogun Rua. Some of my favourite fighters. All great. All flawed.

In those days, those Pride days, one man stood above the rest. One man was flawless. The great heavyweight. The PRIDE Champion. Fedor Emelianenko.

He fought with such ferocity, every one of his punches thunderous. He fought so fluidly, seamlessly transitioning from striking to grappling. He was always stoic, even in the midst of combat - but I always got the impression that he was stoic only because he put his whole heart, the entirety of his human soul into his craft.

It came to the point where he was the one guy I could rely on to win. Without fear or doubt. And even as my hands shook and my heart raced every time he fought, my rational side told me that I was being silly. Fedor was the guy you can count on. Victory over over Crocop and Nogueira, over Arlovski and Sylvia, and so many other fantastic fighters. In many ways, as an MMA fan I live and die by the fighters I love, and Fedor was always the one who I survived with, the one who I pulled through with. We went through hell and back together, and always lived to tell the tale.

Then came the Werdum loss. But it was a mistake. It was carelessness. He lost, but he wasn’t beaten. So many excuses in my head, so many that I read, helping me justify my denial. As I turned to other fans of Fedor, we became enablers for each other, arguing, insisting that this was a fluke, a one off. Something that could be written off in the annals of history as an anomaly.

And yet here I am on this 3:00am train, and I have no excuses.

Antonio Silva put my hero through hell, but just this once he didn’t come back. Today was the first time I had ever been to a live MMA event. The event was magnificent, good fighters putting on great fights. Then Jimmy Lennon, Jr. said those magical words to begin the main event.

“IT’S SHOWTIME!”

The first round seems typical. It’s close, but Fedor won it. Everything is going to plan. The crowd’s collectively thinking that a finish is coming in the next round. We’re right, and yet so wrong.

The bell rings, and Silva shoots. Silva goes through Fedor’s guard like a hot knife through butter, to half guard, to mount. He’s raining down punches. Fedor tossed and turned, gave up his back and bumped his hips. But there was no escape. In the last moments of the round, Silva goes for a kneebar. Fedor gets out and looks for an anklelock. The round ends. Surely he can come back from this? Silva might be gassed. Fedor’s seen worse.

The next couple minutes went by as fast as any moment of my life.

The fight is waved off. We’re outraged, we’re in shock. The Russians are booing. Interviews. Antonio Silva is incoherent, but none of us care what he has the say. Gus Johnson moves to Fedor. Asks him something. The reply is in Russian; yet I understood the solemn tone, those ever so slightly disappointed eyes. His voice is soft and he speaks with just a hint he’s of sadness. I know what he’s saying. He’s done. This is it.

This is the end of an illustrious career. The end of an era. This is the last time I can live through my favourite fighter.

The situation might be superficial, but that heartbreak is real. It sounds irrational, almost downright stupid that my mood should be so easily dictated by athletes I’ve never met and will never truly know as men. I suppose that in a few years time, this night will be a nostalgic moment, a bittersweet memory of having the privilege to watch the greatest heavyweight of all time compete for the final time. For now though, I only taste the bitterness.

In honour of his great career and the way he carried himself so humbly throughout it, a few words of farewell from the Russian poet, Aleksander Pushkin:

“It’s the last time, when I dare
To cradle your image in my mind,
To wake a dream by my heart, bare,
With exultation, shy and air,
To cue your love that’s left behind.
The years run promptly; their fire
Changes the world, and me, and you.
For me, you now are attired
In dark of vaults o’er them who died,
For you — your friend extinguished too.
My dear friend, so sweet and distant,
Take farewell from all my heart,
As takes a wid in a somber instant,
As takes a friend before a prison
Will split those dear friends apart.”