"...Mickey Mantle would never pay our rent." - A Bronx Tale
And neither would Dana White for that matter.
Nor would I want him to; I would never hear the end of how each George Washington on every bill was in my bank account because he stepped up, he volunteered...he spoke up like a real president.
But then again, what am I to expect?
Dana White is not my friend. We work together...nothing more and nothing less. He works to make money. I work to watch fights. There is and should never be an implication of a bond between us.
So why is it that mixed martial arts fans consistently seem perplexed when good 'ol D.W. doesn't seem to have "my opinion" or "my concerns" in mind during decision-making time?
Is it the fact that he's a fight fan, just like us?
Is it his demeanor, reminiscent of a "cool" uncle?
Is it a Twitter account, where you can personally contact the president of the UFC?
Is it his free-ticket giveaways, his behind-the-scenes videos, his cursing, his hugs, his high-fives?
Now by no means do I know Dana White personally—I've never met him—but I do know one thing about the man: He is a promoter. White is a bona fide, Wild West, medicine salesman.
He is Bob Arum sans the racism.
He is Gary Shaw without a sweat-soaked track suit.
So when my computer screen is graced with headlines about Chael Sonnen and title shots; or White's new-found acceptance of Alistair Overeem; or White's claims that an injury doesn't warrant stepping out of a bout, I am not shocked.
Because, bottom line, despite White's overzealous attempts at separating himself from the aforementioned promoters, he has one major similarity with all of them: He wants to make money...deserved title shots be damned, PED-testing be damned, fan's apprehension be damned...he must make money.
Because in the end, while White won't pay my bills, he's waiting for all of us to help pay his.