As of the middle of this week, Brock Lesnar’s health remains vaguely defined. We only know that he would prefer we not be discussing it. That’s according to UFC President Dana White, who then proceeded to do exactly that in Manchester last weekend, citing that Lesnar was very ill and may not fight again -- a condition downgraded in severity when Lesnar’s trainer, Greg Nelson, said Lesnar would be returning home soon.
Whatever Lesnar’s collapse is attributable to, the time and energy spent speculating whether or not it will end his career is a waste. A car helped crumple Frank Mir’s leg; serious staph infections have eaten holes in flesh; Ken Shamrock, as his legend is quick to remind you, once broke his neck. They all came back to fight. Athletes in particular have a tendency to resist doctor proclamations that they will never compete again. This is due either to incredible physical constitutions or incredible egos. Lesnar has no shortage of either.
There’s something truly bizarre about the roundtable Internet discussion over his symptoms and piecemeal suppositions: Lesnar has diverticulitis; no, a bacterial infection; no, a tapeworm; no, he’s just gassy. It’s like a satellite gathering of a doctoral think tank where no one has doctorates, medical records, or the patient’s cooperation. I doubt that anyone -- including Lesnar himself -- has any idea about how his career will be affected. So what’s the point in dialoguing it to death?