Somebody should have known better: Death of Edmonton man after MMA match raises regulation questions
33-year-old with no high-level experience died following charity match in Alberta
Five years ago this week, I sat on a stool in the centre of a boxing ring at Hardknocks Boxing Club in downtown Toronto to talk about life, death, and the sweet science with Bernard Hopkins, a former world champion and future hall of famer.
We discussed Adonis Stevenson, who at that moment lay comatose in Quebec City hospital after doctors operated to relieve swelling in his brain. The previous weekend Stevenson, a power-punching light-heavyweight champion from Montreal, crumpled in his corner after absorbing a concussive right hand from Oleksandr Gvozkdyk, a hard-hitting challenger from Ukraine. Stevenson lost his title, and nearly lost his life. Hopkins watched the fight, the knockout, and the fallout with both empathy and professional detachment.
He explained that succeeding as a pro fighter means realizing you might die in competition, but proceeding anyway.
"In the fight business we understand that when we sign that fight contract, it could well be a death warrant, too," he told me. "It's what we do. It's who we are. We're risk-takers. That's the separation, for those of us who don't appreciate what we do."
That conversation came to mind in late November when Trokon Dousuah, a 33-year-old Edmontonian with no formal experience as a high-level fighter, died following a charity mixed martial arts match in Alberta.
In the absence of details, we're left to wonder how and why a seemingly healthy father of three died after what looked like a run-of-the-mill mixed martial arts matchup. Last month, an Alberta judge published the results of an inquiry of the 2017 death of Tim Hague after a boxing match in Edmonton, and made 14 recommendations aimed at reducing in-ring risk. Following Dousuah's death, the RCMP is investigating, and the provincial government has already pledged to review fighter safety regulations.
That process should yield answers to some serious questions:
What kind of medical exams did fighters at the charity event undergo?
Was there an ambulance on standby?
And most fundamentally, why didn't organizers recognize the grave danger in imposing professional conditions on raw amateurs, knowing that safety in a fistfight can become a question of life and death?
WATCH | Dousuah's death ignites calls for stronger combat sport safety regulations:
In a still picture, the combatants might not have looked out of place in the Ultimate Fighting Championship or the Professional Fighters League, except that athletes in those promotions earn their spots based on their track records, and undergo a battery of medical tests before being cleared to compete. And backstopping the promoter is a state or provincial commission, there to enforce a clear set of rules.
But on video the fighters look like high-level weekend warriors. Skills wise, it's the pugilistic equivalent of pickup basketball, except recreational hoopers can police themselves, knowing the greatest danger is in some guy going a little harder than his middle-aged body will allow. Organized fights are different. They need stringent safety protocols, and a governing body to make sure everybody follows them.
No commission to oversee regulations in Alberta
In most of North America, a state or provincial commission oversees boxing and mixed martial arts. Alberta is the only province without its own commission, relying instead on a patchwork of local regulators. The setup can cause confusion around rules, and allow some events to slip through loopholes.
In an interview with CBC last week, combat sports lawyer Erik Magraken pointed out that modernizing regulations is often a process of trial and tragic error.
So we don't know how the 30 fighters scheduled to compete on that charity card in suburban Enoch, Alta., were screened pre-fight. Organizers said they trained for eight weeks, but did they undergo brain scans? Get their hearts checked? What about vision tests and retinal health? No reputable commission lets you fight until you check all those boxes, and they're certainly not letting hobbyists dress up as pros to compete under professional rules.
In every other sport, we understand. You show me a celebrity baseball game, and I'll show you a bunch of folks playing slow-pitch softball. Quality pitchers are as rare as people who can put a bat on 90 m.p.h. heat, and a fastball to the ribs could put you in the hospital. If we're playing football for charity, it's flag or touch because it's obvious that civilians aren't built for collisions.
How is mixed martial arts any different?
It's not.
Wait, I lied.
It's profoundly different because its orders of magnitude are more dangerous. It's a perilous combination of physical exertion and head trauma. If you tell me you're sending 30 rookies into the cage after just eight weeks of training, I might not even ask if they're wearing headgear and taekwondo-style body corsets. I would assume they're doing it, just because of safety and common sense.
WATCH | People seek answers following fatal MMA fight in Alberta:
Do you know why Mike Tyson and Jake Paul wore 14-ounce gloves, and agreed to abbreviated, two-minute rounds?
Safety, common sense, and the diminished risk tolerance of everyone involved.
Ever hear the phrase, "you don't know what you don't know"?
Now you have, and it describes most of us, and our understanding of the demands and dangers of fighting five-minute rounds in four-ounce gloves without headgear. We don't really know, but when putting amateurs in the cage for the first time, it's somebody's job to understand. Which means any review of the circumstances leading to Dousuah's death won't just seek to solve questions of regulation and jurisdiction, but questions of stewardship.
Arriving at answers might take years, but we already know two things.
Somebody should have known better.
Somebody let Dousuah down.
