Call the Brocktologist – Lesnar got his ass kicked

It’s the most satisfying 4:12 in mixed martial arts history. More joyously heartening, even, than watching Mauricio “Shogun” Rua claim the light heavyweight title that was rightfully his when he beat Lyoto Machida (the second time).

That was an injustice righted, a reason to high-five strangers at the bar. This, UFC 121, this was something else, a spiritual cleansing, an elimination of a foul stench like sweaty jock straps that has clung to the UFC since Brock Lesnar was gifted a title shot with only two wins under his belt and allowed to spin a man-mountain physique and a JD Salinger-meets-Larry the Cable Guy cult of personality into the sport’s most-hated, most-watched athlete.

Maybe it was the sheer domination, the suddenness and ease of the dethroning, the blood streaming down Lesnar’s once-smug mug or the look of fear and bewilderment in his once-fierce eyes as he realized a truth many of us already knew – his game, based on size and strength and intimidation as much as wrestling skills, is not enough, was never enough and would never be enough, not to keep the UFC heavyweight title for more than a little while, just long enough to send the old guard scurrying.

But Lesnar’s flaws – and they are as mountainous as the man himself – were never a secret. It was only a matter of time before someone with the right combination of size and strength and speed and skill – make that skills – came along to knock Humpty Dumpty off the wall.

Lesnar is no dynasty, merely a dinosaur, an aberration, literally and figuratively (and physically). Watching Cain Velasquez hunt down and destroy the vanilla gorilla, my heart in my throat as Velasquez survived the opening rhino charge of knees and fists and takedowns – he survived the NCAA Division I national champ’s goddamn takedowns and made it look easy! – before hitting Lesnar where it hurts: his face, his big Easter Island statue of a face. Lesnar hates being hit, cowers when he is, and Velasquez took him down and punched him in his ego over and over and Lesnar’s training went out the window and he’s under his desk like he’s a schoolgirl during a ‘60s nuclear attack safety drill. Damn, it was fun to watch.

Ding dong, the witch is dead.

Well, not dead. Not even close, really. You’d literally have to drop a house on Lesnar and watch his toes curl up and shrivel. More like Darth Vader spinning through the galaxy in his Tie fighter at the end of Star Wars. He’ll be back. There’s already rumblings of a (pointless) threepeat with Frank Mir or a rematch with Shane Carwin, although Carwin’s locking horns with Roy Nelson next. Personally, I’d like to see him take up the challenge thrown down by the Undertaker to return to the WWE, at least for a night.