Ronda Rousey’s fall from grace: From America’s brash sweetheart to punch line in only one knockout

www.salon.com|Matt Saccaro

The instant before Ronda Rousey crashed into the mat unconscious, she was America’s favorite athlete. She could count Beyoncé, Chris Pratt, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and Shaq as part of her legions of fans. Dozens of Internetheadlines declared her a role model. She even received glowing praise in the New York Times and the New Yorker – an extreme rarity for an MMA fighter. Hell, just the sight of Rousey sent children into tears of awe.

The instant after Ronda Rousey was knocked out by Holly Holm, she became America’s favorite punching bag.

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“Rowdy” Ronda Rousey is an incredible fighter, an Olympian, a movie star, maybe even a burgeoning fashonista and — if you go by countless Internet headlines about the UFC women’s bantamweight champion — an icon and a role model.

Rousey started fighting in 2011 and quickly captured the attention of MMA fans. She joined the UFC in 2013, but didn’t ascend to international superstardom until recently, in part thanks to roles in “The Expendables 3,” “Entourage” and “Furious 7.” When she finally did become a crossover hit, it was massive. Not many MMA fighters receive coverage in The New Yorker and The New York Times, nor do they get shoutouts from celebrities like Beyoncé, Chris Pratt, Shaq and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. And the people of Brazil don’t start crying upon the sight of other celebrities and sports stars like they did with Rousey.

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The first time I realized I might be wrong about mixed martial arts was a speech I gave in college. I played a clip of a fight: One fighter put another in an arm-triangle choke – a maneuver where you use your own arm and the opponent’s arm to cut off the blood supply to the brain, rendering them unconscious unless they tap out. After the clip aired, I looked out at a wide-eyed audience. “Pretty cool, right?”

“More like pretty deadly,” one girl said.

Later, I shared the story with another MMA-obsessed friend. “Don’t worry about that girl,” he said. “She’s the kind of chick who says shit like that but as soon as her boyfriend can’t win a bar fight, she’d break up with him for being a pussy who can’t fight.”

And just like that, my worries were assuaged. The world retained its familiar shape: The one where the strongest guys won, women were helpless to their charms, and unarmed violence was the ultimate answer to any and all questions. I didn’t know the words “toxic masculinity” yet. I only knew it as my way of life.

It’s the night of March 31, 2012, and I am standing half naked in a chain-link cage. I’m bouncing restlessly from foot to bare foot, trying to vent the tension building at my core. I’m surrounded by a swarm of men in Tapout T-shirts who are hooting at me over cups of beer. I can see the young man coming through the crowd to break my face, to strangle me to sleep. It’s like a nightmare.