Rich Hansen's Take
HANSEN: An Open Letter To MMATorch Readers
Mar 2, 2014 - 10:30:45 AM HANSEN: An Open Letter To MMATorch Readers

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By Rich Hansen, erstwhile MMA Torch Columnist

I've been staring at a blank Word document for a good hour now, not knowing what I want to write. I know I am supposed to have feelings about Dong Hyun Kim's emergence, Nevada's shortsighted publicity stunt in regards to "banning" TRT, Johny Hendricks' upcoming title shot, Alexander Gustafsson fighting on the internet for the pleasure of 42 people, Patrick Cummins, Ronda Rousey, Quinton Jackson and Muhammad Lawal's pro wrestling debut happening in a Bellator cage, and Dana White's descent into madness. I mean, with the possible exception of Kim's elbow to the ear of John Hathaway, each of those subjects should be worth 1000-plus words apiece. But I just don't have it in me right now. I don't care. Not one bit. None of it matters.

See, my second child was born on February 10. But in the process of being born, he came ever so close to trading his existence on this sphere for that of my wife's. My wife had problems during the birth and we came close to losing her that awful, horrible day. And as I've been nursing her back to health (with the exceptional help of her parents I might add), I've spent every moment intentionally forcing myself not to think about the events of the day my son was born. You can't know how confusing it is to say that the day your only son was born was the worst day of your life. But there it is.

And I've done a pretty good job at it, too. Other than a couple of gigantic meltdowns while my wife was enduring one of her three surgeries on that day, I've kept it completely in check. I have the baby to take care of, my wife to take care of, our three and a half year old daughter to take care of, laundry to do, insurance forms to fill out, bills to pay, sleep to catch up on (usually in two hour increments, but not always thanks to my in-laws), and, well, you get the point.

But I've felt a bit of the MMA itch over the last three weeks. Last weekend I went home to watch the UFC 170 prelims since my in-laws don't have Fox Sports 1, and then came back to their house where we're staying to watch UFC 170 with my father-in-law. Can't miss a Rousey fight, right? After all, the only time my jaded ass still gets that nervous feeling in my stomach, that nervous feeling I used to get for every fight, then for every event, then for every PPV, then for every fight on a big PPV, then for just one or two fights per PPV, is when Rousey fights. She's something like a phenomenon (credit Karen O. Google her).

And then on Friday night, despite telling Jamie Penick back in September that I wouldn't be covering Bellator's tenth season, I somehow found myself back at my house in time for Mike Richaman, Diego Nunes, Mikhail Zayats, and Christian M'Pumnbu (Bellator spelled it that way on the screen, so it's how I spell it from now on, People). And I managed to enjoy myself a little bit, despite my cynical nature; I was able to feel a sense of consternation when Diego Nunes had his victory stolen from him by three judges who were too easily swayed by the hometown crowd. I was able to remember just how boring Muhammad Lawal fights are, and I was able to remember what a blight on society Quinton Jackson can be is.

Fast forward to a few minutes ago, as despite all my little family has suffered in the last twenty days, I've felt somewhat guilty that I haven't been available to be on the MMA Torch Tuesday Night Conversation Livecast. I haven't written my (admittedly infrequent) columns about whatever has been pissing me off about MMA. My roundtable responses have been infrequent and sparsely fleshed out. I've been an absentee member of the staff. Which is fine, of course. There are more important things going on around here. But still, I don't write for MMATorch for the paycheck, I write because I enjoy it. It's a way to communicate my thoughts to a wider audience than most people are able to do. I consider myself fortunate for the opportunity. So back to the grind today.

And here I am, sitting with f***ing Soul Asylum on in the background, staring at a white screen for an entire hour, thinking about how there's no way in hell I'd be equipped to raise two children by myself and how close I almost came to that being my life. For the first time in almost three weeks since everything was turned upside down, the first time I thought about the worst thing that has ever happened to me (by a factor of a gazillion) was when I decided to site down and hammer out something about MMA.

I didn't realize until I started writing this column tonight, which has since become an open letter to, to I don't know who, I'm just not fine. I'm lost and near dead inside, emotionally crippled by what could have been and almost was, incapable of caring about anything as trivial as pay-per-view buyrates, Rousimar Palhares' inability to release a heel hook, or Dan Henderson somehow getting off light for murdering UFC 151.

This is now the twentieth night that I've sat and watched my wife sleep, with her still struggling to complete the most basic of physical activities. The first three of those nights were in the ICU, the next two were in general population, and the next fifteen have been her sleeping on a barcalounger in her folks' basement. And not once, not one damn time did I think for even a moment on how horrible my life almost became. Medically speaking, should have became. But I try to write about Vitor Belfort or Quinton Jackson or UFC Fight Pass and WHAM. I'm a leaking, bawling, burning-eyed mess because trying to pretend I give a f*** about anything involving MMA apparently wears me out to the point that I start to have all of these evil thoughts about what almost happened to my life.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that right now I just have nothing more to say. I'd like to think that someday, maybe soon (?), I'll care about this bullshit enough to occasionally hammer out 2000 words of indignant outrage about the latest idiocy that gets under my skin. But as of now, it's gone.

Readers – Outside of Twitter, I don't interact with any of you, I know that. I don't put my email address out there, I don't participate on the forums, so on so forth. So I don't know exactly what to say to you other than I've enjoyed telling you what you're supposed to think.

Matt Pelkey – Wherever you are, and whatever has happened to you in the last six months, I hope you're well. Check in sometime this decade, as I'm starting to think you've become the MMATorch version of D. B. Cooper. Maybe you can put that fear to ease.

Shawn Ennis – You're literally the most decent person I've ever met. Unlike most people towards whom I gravitate, you have a soul. I won't tell you not to change or something trite like that, because I know you'll always be this guy.

Jamie Penick – Thank you for the platform. You're my best friend and I love you like a brother. I feel like I'm writing my own eulogy, but it's not like I won't talk to you any less, if only to tell you that every third paragraph you write is stuck in all italics and you should always double back to the live site every time you upload something, Ass.

Dan Moore - I'm ecstatic that you're on the staff. Great seats or not in London, you stay on staff, and we'll cross paths this year or next.