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Earlier this month, former Ultimate Fighting Championship welterweight and middleweight titleholder Georges St. Pierre made headlines by expressing interest in fighting the winner of UFC 229’s main event between newly minted lightweight champion Khabib Nurmagomedov and former titleholder and superstar Conor McGregor. Speaking to Submission Radio during his speaking tour in Australia, “Rush” branded a mega-fight for the 155-pound title as a “win-win situation” in terms of his legacy and bank balance, and indicated he could be ready as early as UFC 230 in November or, more plausibly, UFC 231 in December to make his return.
The fight, which would make St. Pierre the only combatant in the UFC’s history to challenge for titles in three different weight classes, already feels like something of an inevitability. UFC President Dana White has been quick to shut down the idea, asserting the organization was “not interested” in booking a one-off title fight only for “Rush” to vacate the strap. But the MMA community has interpreted these assurances glibly if for no other reason than White’s nasty habit of making similar pledges right before doing the thing he promised he wouldn’t. More operatively, the sheer economic impact of such a fight, especially if it is McGregor standing across from the French-Canadian, is considered by most as an inducement that the UFC’s famously short-sighted parent company would be loath to miss out on.
Assuming the fight goes ahead, it would be a fitting entry in GSP’s career, a career that is in many ways defined by paradox.
On the short list for the greatest mixed martial artist of all-time, St. Pierre’s unlikely rise to UFC stardom was built on an image of clean-cut professionalism and an unwavering commitment to defending his welterweight title against all comers. After early speed bumps -- he lost his first title bid to Matt Hughes and was the victim of a shocking upset to Matt Serra at UFC 69 -- he came to guard against complacency like few of his peers, and strung together a then-unprecedented nine title defenses that helped launch MMA into the margins of mainstream sports and solidify the UFC’s expansion into the Canadian market.
Seen to embody traditionalism, loyalty and discipline, “GSP” represented everything that the UFC wanted to sell to a public still skeptical about dudes fighting in cages. The guy wore suits at press conferences, eschewed trash talk and almost never displayed a preference for his opponents. The lengths he went to prepare for battle bordered on the psychotic, and when quizzed on whom he wanted next, his answer was always the same: “I want to face the best guy.”
When GSP fought, MMA felt like a sport and less like a pro-wrestling dictatorship. In a sea of Tapout t-shirts, poorly thought-out tattoos and faux drama, GSP stood above the fray, quietly carving out a legacy as one of the best fighters the world had ever seen.
But despite everything GSP did to elevate MMA -- White would laud him as the perfect champion and a peerless ambassador for the sport on more than one occasion -- his departure in 2013 was marked by ingratitude and bitterness.
Having bested power-puncher Johny Hendricks by a narrow split decision at UFC 167 before declaring his intention to “hang up [his] gloves for a little bit,” St. Pierre was the object of a scathing indictment by the UFC president, who declared he owed an immediate rematch to “the fans… the belt… this company… and Johnny Hendricks.” So bad was the judging in White’s opinion that he called for the governor to intervene (no, seriously), and "GSP" would later claim that UFC staff tried to prevent him from attending the press conference where White delivered his diatribe.
After spending the better part of a decade pursuing a dream of retiring as the best pound-for-pound fighter, St. Pierre’s fairy-tale ending was supplanted by altogether unflattering storyline.
What should have been a farewell party for the ages -- finally, a champion that went out on top -- instead turned into an acrimonious divorce, with White later pooh-poohing the idea of a St. Pierre comeback because, in his estimation, he longer had the hunger to compete. A war of words ensued as “GSP” enjoyed semi-retirement, including criticisms made by the former champion regarding the UFC’s lax attitude towards drug testing, and in 2016 he emerged ever so briefly as one of the faces of the Mixed Martial Arts Athletes' Association -- an organisation dedicated to challenging the UFC’s hegemony and fighting for better pay and conditions for its fighters.
A champion who left the fight game at the perfect time versus the guy who left a division in turmoil after being gifted a dubious split decision; the reliable company man versus the subversive double agent lobbying to overthrow the empire. These conflicting narratives stood at the heart of GSP’s legacy until he made his foray back into competition last November to win -- and then immediately vacate -- the middleweight title.
Now, as he seeks to leapfrog perhaps the deepest pool of deserving contenders that has ever blessed the 155-pound division, a new plotline is forming.
No longer interested in the plight of his fellow fighters, “GSP” is seeking to parlay the UFC’s cavalier attitude towards divisional maintenance and unmitigated capitulation to the almighty dollar into an opportunity to become the organisation’s first “champ-champ-champ.” No longer of the belief that MMA is a sport, St. Pierre defines himself as an “entertainer first” and sees nothing wrong with green-lighting celebrity fights under the UFC banner. No longer a barricade upholding the legitimacy of UFC titles, “Rush” expedites their devaluation. No longer fighting for something bigger, he is fighting only for himself.
For a sport as Darwinian as cage fighting, and within an organization that has become more responsive than ever to pecuniary inputs, it is perhaps little wonder that GSP has chosen the road of individualism and opportunism.
But when you look back at everything he did to advance this sport, it’s bittersweet to think of the second act of his career as what helped tear it back down.
Jacob Debets is a recent law graduate who lives in Melbourne, Australia. He has been an MMA fan for more than a decade and trains in muay Thai and boxing at DMDs MMA in Brunswick. He is currently writing a book analyzing the economics and politics of the MMA industry. You can view more of his writing at jacobdebets.com.