5 Cult UFC Referees

Meet the men behind the fighters.

“No Nonsense” Keith Peterson

Keith Peterson has a prodigiously low tolerance for nonsense. The list of simple pleasures the pro ref classifies as nonsense includes, but is not limited to, song, conversation, weekends. 

Pro curmudgeon, Keith Peterson, always gives you the feeling that "Sir, are you ready?” is the first thing he’s said to anybody all week. The only emotion the man has ever expressed, personally or professionally, is faint amusement at a fighter claiming an early stoppage.

It is said that Peterson was born with his withering aversion to nonsense. At just 9 years of age, young Peterson denounced oxygen as nonsense, exclusively inhaling Marlboro cigarettes ever since. Later, Peterson would elect bottom-shelf bourbon as his chosen source of hydration, after rejecting water - again, on the grounds of nonsense.

Not to be trifled with, MMA’s favourite grouch rules the octagon with the attitude of a New York fire hydrant.

Chris “Dulcet Tones” Tognoni

Chris Tognoni is a sweet, lullaby of a man whose soul seems too pure for the world of bloodsports. This softly spoken referee hands out a groin-strike warning, like a kids’ doctor dispensing a lollipop. Only on wayward punt No. 3 does he let the offender know he’s been a very, very naughty boy. 

A latter-day nut whisperer, Tognoni was blessed with the exact timbre for coaxing a hesitant set of testes from a fighter’s stomach. For you see, Chris Tognoni is the patron saint of prime-time nuts shots. The veteran referee was canonised for his years of dutiful service to the throbbing bollocks of MMA. There is no other man alive one would rather have whispering hushed reassurances into their aching sack. 

As prophesied, Tognoni’s divine scrotal interventions have transcended the octagon. Sightings of, what local media have dubbed, ‘celestial testicular phenomena’ have been reported statewide. As wave upon wave of dull pain hits, St Tognoni appears kneeling before the owner of the aggrieved testicles, “Just hold tight there, bud, it’s going to be ok, you’ve got all the time you need.” 

The question remains, how did this man of peace find himself as the shadowy buffer between unconsciousness and death?

Some say Tognoni was a cocky, young prizefighter who spent two decades in an island monastery, after leaving a man dead in the ring. Some say Tognoni was a barbarous mercenary who, upon finding Jesus, lost his lust for war. Some say Tognoni was a wandering assassin who fell madly in love through the scope of his rifle and traded everything for his target’s life. 

But, all agree he’s a thoroughly nice chap. 

Moustache’s Mike Beltrán 

Sadly, the enormity of Mike Beltrán’s moustache has got in the way of as many career opportunities as it has breakfasts. Beltrán has largely been confined to the prelims by the almighty tash from which he sprouts. As, in just a few mesmeric swings, even a Conor McGregor card becomes a ‘Good God, that guy’s Moustache’ card. 

In a crime against MMA, the ‘stache-deficient powers-that-be made Beltrán tuck it in. A string of early, dangled stoppages had brought the integrity of his upper lip into question. To this day, some maintain Mike’s sentient bristles were favouring moustachioed scrappers. Eventually, the commission caved to a fighters’ union blaming KO losses on its hypnotic presence. Nevertheless, spare a thought for that poor commissioner breaking the news to porno Obelix himself. 

Even though it’s tucked away that bulge leaves little moustache up to the imagination. We still know exactly what's chafing about underneath there. We’ve seen it. We’ve seen it all. 

Mark Smith

Mark Smith is the man of many faces. Well, two. In those few, sure steps towards the centre of the cage, the ref’s fun-loving expression turns cold. At the exact same moment, the official reminds his face it's responsible for the fighters’ lives. Smith swipes between expressions as if he’s trying to make a baby gurgle. Click. He flicks on the serious switch, every bit the absent pallbearer. Then, the ex-fighter pilot proceeds to handle his duties with military gravity.

Fingers-out-the-cage Ref

Fingers-out-the-cage ref made a huge splash in one mediocre early prelim a fews years ago, but I won’t reveal his identity for fear of exposing him…

For this licensed pedant, upholding the unified rules of MMA comes a distant second to preserving the virtue of the octagon cage. His loyalties lie with the cage, his cage, not the fighters within it.

The moment the fighter makes the first infringement, nearing his cage, it begins. “FINGERSOUTTHECAGE. FINGERSOUTTHECAGE. FINGERSOUTTHECAGE” he thinks. “FINGERSOUTTHECAGE. FINGERSOUTTHECAGE. FINGERSOUTTHECAGE” he says.

But, why?

Well, when the ESPN lights dim, he whiles away the twilight hours in an amorous enmeshment no one understands, but the cage and he. He knows the cage feels. He knows in the way her taut chain link meets his touch, the way the woven steel teases back into shape, as he surrenders his embrace. 

It’s the feel of bloodied canvas underfoot he longs for so. Sure, he has his favourites. The breathlessness of the APEX 25-footer, even slumming it with an untrademarked structure brings its own cheap thrill. Although, the fight night octagon is the true object of his affections - and you better keep your fingers, and toes, out of it - or else.