Demons continue to haunt Nick Diaz
I feel bad for Nick Diaz. I really do.
After displaying the heart of a lion at last Saturday's fight against Carlos Condit for the interim welterweight title at UFC 143, Diaz abandoned all grace and class when the judges chose Condit as the winner. The 28-year-old became petulant, claimed he was the true winner, said he was going to retire.
And then Thursday came another huge misstep by Diaz that'll cost him the Condit rematch UFC president Dana White had wanted: The Nevada State Athletic Commission announced Diaz failed a drug test after last weekend's fight in Las Vegas. It's his second failed drug test in five years, both for marijuana, and it could result in a one-year suspension.
Let's first get all the bad stuff about Diaz out of the way, and let's do it quickly, because there's a bigger point here. In 2006, Diaz lost to Joe Riggs in UFC 57, and later that night started a brawl with Riggs at a hospital when the two were undergoing post-fight examinations. In 2007, he defeated Takanori Gomi — then failed a drug test after the fight, resulting in a fine and six-month suspension. He's famously uncomfortable around the media, so much so that White cancelled Diaz's scheduled October fight against UFC legend Georges St. Pierre after Diaz missed several press events.
Sounds like the perfect person to hate, no?
Well, no, not at all. Because when I visited Diaz at his gym in California before this fight, the dude seemed kind and talkative, thoughtful and authentic, nothing like the thug stereotype bestowed upon him.
Nick Diaz, for all his flaws and missteps and enormous errors in judgment, is the perfect foil to the well-spoken, well-crafted media dream the UFC gets with a St. Pierre or a Jon Jones. For all his rough edges, Diaz is real. When he decides to appear before the cameras, he doesn't dress to impress. He seems a tortured soul, that kid who always tries to do right, but can never seem to do so. He's that person we all know with a good heart deep-down, but also a self-destructive streak that always gets in the way.
Truth is, Nick Diaz doesn't fit into polite society. He doesn't play nice. He hates to shake a fighter's hand at a media event then step in the Octagon a couple days later and try to beat the daylights out of him. That seems fake, and Diaz isn't fake. He needs to hate his opponent, and that hate needs to be genuine.
And it's his deeply-felt hate and his never-fit-in mentality that makes him a lion when he's ready to fight.
It's a foreign concept to most of us, especially when all the pre-fight hype feels just like that: Hype. (Hype: "Exaggerated publicity ... hoopla ... a swindle, deception, or trick.") Nothing about Nick Diaz is hype. Love him or hate him, Diaz, with all his flaws, is the most human fighter in the UFC, even if he's not the guy you'd want to invite over for a family dinner.
After Diaz's positive test, I spoke with Keith Kizer, executive director of the Nevada State Athletic Commission, about why a failed drug test for marijuana was on virtually the same plane as a failed drug test for steroids. Kizer told me some athletes have told him they look to marijuana to help them focus, stay calm and deal with pain; that, I assume, could count as a performance enhancer. But the commission doesn't punish marijuana violations as strongly as drugs like steroids because steroid use could do damage to an opponent, not simply damage the fighter who took the drugs.
Kizer also said no athlete has applied for an exemption for using marijuana for therapeutic use; remember that Diaz lives in California, a state with some of the most liberal medical marijuana laws in the country. Who knows what legal questions could come up if Diaz appeals?
But instead of the legal ramifications, let's look at two very different reactions to Nick Diaz that occurred last week in Las Vegas.
A couple days before the fight, Diaz sat at one of those hated press conferences. The assembled media plus a few hundred fans at Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas pelted him with questions. He kept most of his answers to one sentence, as if he were afraid of screwing up or saying too much or looking stupid. Someone asked if he were excited at the possibility of being a UFC champion at the same time as his brother, lightweight Nate Diaz.
"That's what we're working towards," Nick answered. "That's the idea."
The assembled media giggled and laughed at his no-kidding answer. It felt elitist, like they were making fun of this fighting genius who isn't good with words. Nick Diaz had no expression. I remember thinking that if I were him and all these people were laughing at me, I'd be ready to explode.
Fast forward to fight night. When Diaz's name was announced before UFC 143, he got a huge response from the crowd. But it wasn't that bloodthirsty feeling you usually get, like this crowd couldn't wait for Diaz to bash Condit's brain in. It seemed more authentic, like UFC fans had embraced this legendary screw-up, and that they wanted nothing more than Nick Diaz to become an inspiring tale of redemption. Maybe I was projecting my own sympathetic feelings about him, but the crowd's embrace of this supposed villain made me feel UFC fans identify with a fighter like Nick Diaz more than any scrubbed-clean superstar who fits the perfect marketing demographic for this exploding sport.
A few weeks ago, I visited Diaz as he was getting ready to spar near his home in Stockton, Calif. I was prepared for the most difficult interview of my life. I'd heard about his disdain of reporters. When I met him, he was standing in a boxing ring a few feet above me, wrapping his hands and punching the air. The funny thing? He wouldn't shut up. He talked about his training; he talked about how he learned to fight; he talked about how he was afraid of pesticides in fruits and vegetables. He seemed in his element, just a fighter preparing for a fight, not some superstar doing media hits and coping with the anxiety of fame.
I was surprised. I took a liking to Nick Diaz. I wanted to see him win, wanted the kid who kept screwing up to finally right his way.
He didn't. That Diaz lost his fight was one thing; there would be a rematch, another chance at redemption. But that Diaz failed the drug test was quite another thing. It was his demons bringing him down, that self-destructive nature always getting in his way. He screwed up, screwed up really, really bad, especially considering the tightrope he was already walking with the UFC. Rules, after all, are rules.
And all I could do when I heard the news was shake my head, wonder how he could have messed up again, and feel terrible for Nick Diaz.
You can follow Reid Forgrave on Twitter @reidforgrave, become a fan on Facebook or email him at reidforgrave@gmail.com.
