Twelve years ago, I stepped into the chaotic yet captivating world of sports journalism—wide-eyed, ambitious, and hungry to prove myself. I found my home in the thunderous roar of arenas, the quiet hum of training gyms, and the flicker of screens that broadcast blood, sweat, and glory.
Today, I mark a dozen years in this relentless, often thankless profession— with several strands of gray hair, battle scars of deadlines past, and a heart that’s heavier but fuller.
There’s a strange poetry to being a combat sports journalist. You become fluent in pain and resilience, both your subjects’ and your own. You witness young hopefuls who transform into champions, and legends who fall from grace. You write eulogies for careers, sometimes even for lives. You learn to sit with tragedy, to find beauty in struggle, and to tell the truth even when it’s inconvenient.
What they don’t tell you in the beginning is how lonely this path can be. There are no medals for media and no belts for analysts. The applause is rare, and when it does come, it’s usually because you got the scoop everyone else missed or dared to say what others were too afraid to. You’re often invisible—until you make a mistake or they come across something they don’t like. Then suddenly, everyone remembers your name.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t stay for the recognition. I stayed because combat sports gave me something that very few professions can—an unfiltered lens into the human spirit. Every fighter I’ve covered has taught me something. Discipline. Grit. The agony of loss. The euphoria of redemption. These athletes trust us with their stories, their vulnerabilities, and their truths. And in return, we immortalize their struggles in ink and broadcast.
In 12 years, I’ve seen the industry evolve—promotions rise and fall, digital media cannibalize print, and algorithms dictate reach. I’ve juggled late-night post-fight deadlines with early morning interviews, sometimes fueled only by coffee and the sheer will not to let a story die untold.
I’ve been blessed to share these years with editors who challenged me, colleagues who inspired me, and readers—yes, even the silent ones—who validated the importance of this work by simply reading.
This job has tested my faith, my endurance, and my sense of self. But it has also sharpened my voice, clarified my convictions, and connected me with a community that spans continents and weight classes. I’ve covered wars waged with fists, but more importantly, I’ve covered the wars within—inside the hearts of those who dare to dream with gloves on.
Twelve years in, I’m still here. Still watching. Still listening. Still writing.
Not for the clicks.
Not for the clout.
But for the craft. And for the fighters — both in and out of the ring — who remind me every day why I started.
Here’s to the next round.
(For comments or questions, reach the author at nissi.icasiano@gmail.com or visit his Facebook page at www.facebook.com/nissi.icasiano.)
