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For eager fans hoping for an immediate gem on any given night, the suspense of watching their team possibly lose during the waning moments can provide enough torment to replace the childhood wounds suffered during elementary school. Therefore, the true rabid fans hold no mercy in rooting for their beloved squads as they attempt to bludgeon their opponents.

Maybe those chowder heads up the Mass turnpike claim to have wished for a last-second Pierce fade-away with the time expiring to give the Celts their first title in over 20 years in the most dramatic of ways. But with The Truth and James Posey burying threes in a lopsided second quarter of the title-clinching Game Six of the Finals those donning the shamrocks could avoid the Sam Adams-induced nerves and celebrate over an hour before the end of the affair. Plus, a close game would have prevented the cherry red Gatorade shower of Doc Rivers on center court. A picture that clearly transcends basketball.

For a personal touch, and to rinse the realization that Boston still presides over the sports nation like Batman over Gotham - simple but timely analogy that I could not resist, I recall the ‘02 AFC Wild Card game in which the noodle-armed Chad Pennington led my Jets to a 41-0 debacle over the NFL’s poster child, Peyton Manning, and the Colts. The surreal experience left me aghast and maddened as my ruthless tendencies to root for everything to go my team’s way finally were fulfilled with the lowly Jets.

As an impartial viewer I occasionally root for competition at the highest level from both sides as I did with this year’s Wimbeldon final. The one-on-one sports transform the biased fan into a true lover of athletics. But unlike team sports, a disproportioned pair up in individual competition still incites excellent exhibitions that sustain excitement. Eee-exactly!

Last night marked a momentous occasion for Mixed Martial Arts even with two main events that lasted less time than it will take for you to read this article.

Two tremendous fighters. Nay warriors. Nay athletes, swiftly dismissed their over-matched opponents with such ease and brilliance that despite leaving the ring without a nick, they succeeded in giving the fans an exhilarating spectacle.

Both the UFC’s Middleweight Champion, Anderson Silva, and the now undisputed best Heavyweight in the world, Fedor Emelianenko, added to an impressive reel and resume in their bid to earn the unofficial title of best pound-for-pound fighter. The similarities crossed over the dessert last night as the UFC’s free card in Las Vegas and the first ever Affliction lineup held in Anaheim shared plenty in common.

Both main events generated substantial hype despite the questionable quality of fighter pitted in the cage/ring against two finely crafted specimens. Silva’s sudden rise to the top of the Middleweight class prompted UFC President Dana White to bump up the Brazilian to the stacked Light Heavyweight class. The Spider’s arachnid-like limbs allows him to climb up while most other fighters would have little chance at tacking on, or not dropping, weight. Arguments, however, abounded about the opportunity for a patsy in any weight class to defeat Silva. Yet, despite the lack of credibility, Silva’s opponent last night, James Irvin, knocked out a fighter in a record-tying eight seconds back in April, a feat comparable to Frank Duke’s instantaneous victory in Bloodsport. Where have you gone Jean Claude?

Fedor, unlike Silva, carries a undefeated mark, not counting his one no contest. His creative victory over an Asian goliath in January in which he sustained flush shots from a gargantuan before winning with an arm bar, added to his myth. But last night’s American debut on the fight card of the Summer allowed the novice fight fan to separate the hype from reality. Unfortunately, as is the case in boxing, the days of heavyweight battles like Ali-Frazier or Holyfield-Bowe have disappeared with beasts and potentially terrifying fighters like Big Papi and Antonio Gates seeking their millions outside of the fight world. I was somewhat puzzled by the enthusiasm surrounding the fight with Tim “The Maniac” Sylvia posing as a lumbering stooge to fall at the hands of Fedor in his official entry into the mainstream. Yet, Slyvia’s prowess from his 6’8 frame remains a challenge, and it was not long ago that he owned the UFC Heavyweight title and defeated Andrei Arlovski, who dazzled with a victory before the main draw of the night yesterday.

The dubious justifications for the fights could have riled many anticipating wars but the study of how both Silva and Fedor approached their fights demonstrates why they are masters. Silva rollicked to the ring with a weightless air to him as though he were getting stoked to hit up a club in Rio. Fedor resembled a Russian bear waking from hibernation, as with shoulders shrugged he entered the ring void of exuberance.

And then they showed us all what fighting at a inconceivable level is all about. Silva pranced around the cage to measure his opponent and instill the fear of God into the overwhelmed Irvin. After a minute of solid leg whips from Silva, Irvin finally countered with a body kick. Ten seconds later we felt foolish for not seeing through the veil of this promotion and knowing without a hint of doubt that this was a stage for Silva to show he can bounce back-and-forth at two weight classes while fighting against the best in the world. Silva caught the kick and delivered a knockdown punch before unleashing the fury. Silva did not even leap on top, instead he stood hovering over Irvin while dropping haymakers that left Irvin’s eye bleeding and his psyche ripped. Say goodnight sweet prince.

Fedor, in contrast, waited a millisecond before pouncing on Sylvia with absolute vicious punches. With remarkable grace, Fedor attacked from all angles leaving a giant staggered and vulnerable. Sylvia covered in desperation before dropping to his knees and exposing his back. That’s when Fedor unmasked the sambo skills and hooked in two legs before choking out a man eight-inches taller. Fedor needed only 36 seconds to embarrass The Maniac and most likely break his nose.

Both artists celebrated mildly with an extensive entourage speaking in foreign tongues. The present provided energetic jubilation. A time to breathe and hand out gracious platitudes of gratitude. We shared in an acknowledged gesture of dominance. Like those who saw Hendrix scarping a guitar over his face, we understood the grandiosity of the champs displaying excellence in an effortless spectacle.

With all that said, the fighters elaborated on future plans following a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it type victory. Silva remains intent on holding onto his Middleweight belt but is game to battle the best the UFC has to offer at either 185 or 205. In Fedor’s case I guess the Russians don’t enjoy the act of mincing words as he called out his friend Randy Couture. As The Natural contests Dana White in the courtroom, the fighting public drools over a more delectable main course that stews with anticipation.

No doubt these two men will see tougher and more challenging times but for us the connotation of boredom with dominance ended with adrenaline-laced combat last night. They came. We saw. They conquered. And I got no problem with that.