MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 530: The Battle for the Middleweight Crown
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE ARE LIVE!"
"THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING!"
"SANCTIONED BY THE NEVADA STATE ATHLETIC COMMISSION, CHAIRMAN: ANTHONY MARDELL III, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR: JOHN CULLEN."
"OUR THREE JUDGES SCORING THIS CONTEST AT OCTAGON SIDE ARE: MIKE BELL, DEREK CLEARY, AND SAL D'AMATO. AND WHEN THE ACTION BEGINS, OUR REFEREE IN CHARGE OF THE OCTAGON: MARC GODDARD!"
"AND NOW!"
"FOR THOSE IN ATTENDANCE, AND UFA FANS WATCHING AROUND THE WORLD, THIS IS THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!"
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"LIVE FROM THE SOLD-OUT T-MOBILE ARENA IN LAS VEGAS, NEVADA!"
"IT'S TIME!"
"FIVE ROUNDS FOR THE UNDISPUTED UFA MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP OF THE WORLD!"
"INTRODUCING FIRST, FIGHTING OUT OF THE BLUE CORNER!"
"A MIXED MARTIAL ARTIST HOLDING A PROFESSIONAL RECORD OF 12 WINS, NO LOSSES."
"HE STANDS 6 FEET 2 INCHES TALL, WEIGHING IN AT 185 POUNDS."
"FIGHTING OUT OF GROZNY, RUSSIA, PRESENTING THE NUMBER ONE RANKED MIDDLEWEIGHT CONTENDER IN THE WORLD, BALIM 'THE WOLF' CHEMASOV!"
"AND NOW, INTRODUCING THE REIGNING, DEFENDING, UNDISPUTED UFA MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD!"
"A MIXED MARTIAL ARTIST HOLDING A PROFESSIONAL RECORD OF 20 WINS, 2 LOSSES."
"HE STANDS 6 FEET 1 INCH TALL, WEIGHING IN AT 185 POUNDS."
"FIGHTING OUT OF CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA, PRESENTING THE UNDISPUTED UFA MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPION, PDD!"
Jon Goodman: "Here we go, folks. This is it. The main event of the night. PDD, the reigning champion, defending his title against the undefeated Russian machine, Balim Chemasov."
Rich Alvarez: "These are two of the most dangerous middleweights on the planet. One is explosive and unpredictable. The other is relentless and calculated. This is gonna be a war of styles."
Marvin Duke: "Chemasov's pressure is insane. He doesn't stop walking forward. But PDD? That man can take your head off with either hand. We're looking at a matchup where any mistake might be your last."
Jon Goodman: "You can feel the tension in the air. This one's not just about the belt, it's about setting the tone for the division. Damon Cross is watching closely. He's next in line."
In the cage, both fighters stood face to face.
Marc Goddard stepped between them, raising his voice so they could hear clearly over the roar of the crowd.
"Alright gentlemen, we've been over the rules. I want a clean fight. Protect yourselves at all times. Follow my instructions at all times. If you want to touch gloves, do it now, back to your corners."
Neither man moved. No glove touch.
Just locked eyes.
Then they backed away, bouncing in place, waiting for the bell.
.
.
The bell rang.
And just like that, it began.
PDD moved first, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His guard loose, chin tucked, eyes locked. His frame looked thick, solid, confident. Years of striking sharpened into knockout instincts. He didn't charge in recklessly, though. He knew who was in front of him.
Balim Chemasov.
A storm of pressure.
The Russian didn't circle or bounce, he marched forward. Shoulders relaxed, chin slightly high but eyes predatory. His footwork wasn't fancy, but every step closed distance. Cut off the cage. No wasted movement. He wanted contact. He wanted a war in the pocket.
Jon Goodman: "No touch of gloves. No surprise there. There's real tension between these two."
Rich Alvarez: "Chemasov doing what he does best, forward pressure. But PDD's dangerous off the back foot. He can end it in one shot."
Marvin Duke: "You can already see what this is, fire and pressure."
PDD threw first, a sharp calf kick.
It cracked across Chemasov's lead leg, clean. The Russian didn't even flinch.
Another kick. This time a bit higher, touching the thigh. Just enough to force Chemasov to shift his stance for a second.
Chemasov responded with a long jab. It missed by an inch, but it was a message. He was closing in.
Another jab, then a level change.
PDD read it.
He sprawled, fast reflexes, and circled out, cracking a right hook as he moved. Chemasov absorbed it and kept walking forward.
Jon Goodman: "Chemasov's chin... man. That was a clean shot."
Rich Alvarez: "But that's the game. PDD doesn't need to land 20. He needs one."
Chemasov finally got close enough to clinch. Underhook. Pressure. He dug his head under PDD's chin and walked him toward the cage.
PDD landed a knee to the body.
Chemasov responded with a body lock takedown, driving through, nearly getting it. PDD stuffed it with a wide base and ripped a short uppercut that snapped Balim's head back.
The crowd reacted.
They broke the clinch. Back to striking.
PDD feinted, then landed a jab, then a quick straight right. Chemasov didn't even blink. He fired back with a wild left hook that grazed PDD's temple and backed him up.
Marvin Duke: "You can't back up straight against this guy. Chemasov will walk through shots just to pin you."
PDD started circling more now. Landing kicks, calf, body, mixing them up. But the more he moved, the more Chemasov advanced.
By the final minute of Round 1, Chemasov had pushed PDD into the fence twice. He hadn't landed anything clean, but the pressure was building.
The final exchange came with a sharp counter right from PDD that forced Balim to step back for the first time.
Jon Goodman: "That's the shot that keeps you honest. That's why this guy is champion."
Horn.
Round 1 ended.
PDD took a deep breath, nodding to his corner.
Chemasov just walked straight back to his stool like he was starting a warm-up.
Chemasov sat on the stool, arms resting on his knees. He wasn't breathing heavy, his face was calm, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. Unblinking.
His coach leaned in, towel around his neck, speaking with intensity but control. He spoke in Russian, quick and to the point, his tone clipped but not rushed.
Coach:
"Он чувствует твое давление. Но ты не ловишь его. Он слишком умен. Используй углы. Не просто иди прямо."
("He feels your pressure. But you're not catching him. He's too smart. Use angles. Don't just go straight in.")
Chemasov gave a small nod, sipping water, but kept his eyes on the mat.
Coach continued:
"Он устает от обороны. Заставь его работать. Потом взорвись. Не охоться. Подходи, рви клинч, бей корпус. Он не хочет бороться."
("He's tiring from defending. Make him work. Then explode. Don't hunt, trap him. Close the distance, rip the clinch, hit the body. He doesn't want to grapple.")
Another nod.
The cutman dabbed at his brow, not much swelling. Just routine.
The second coach leaned in briefly.
Second Coach:
"Будь умным. Не злись. Он не может остановить тебя, если ты будешь думать."
("Be smart. Don't get angry. He can't stop you if you keep thinking.")
The horn sounded faintly in the background.
Chemasov stood before the ref could even call him up, shook out his arms, and marched back toward the center like it was round one again.
Ready to drown his opponent in pressure.
