Fedor Emelianenko didn’t lament his losses like his fans did, and he didn’t smite his chest as the world’s greatest fighter back when people argued he was just that. He never talked smack to his opponents, and didn’t tweet smiley faces when bad things happened to business foes.
He’s always been a picture of complicated calm that, realistically, has very little in common with American impulse. Fedor was a vault. He was unknowable. He traveled to his fights with priests who wore beards like Dostoyevsky. There was unnerving depth in his eyes, and when he spoke to you those eyes communicated the cathedral hush of his mindset. When he stepped in the cage, his expression never changed. The world could be falling down around him and he’d still look only mildly bemused.
Such was his faith in what happens.
Where did he summon the violence for that decade when he didn’t lose? Didn’t matter. He used logs, rocks and terrain in his native Stary Oskol to show up in burly, no-nonsense form. Sometimes he showed up a little flabby. Maybe most of the time. But he carried anvils.
One way to look at him was that he was a picture of poise that derived from the better qualities of martial arts. The other was that he was a cold-blooded tyrant with no conscience. Link