The man arrived at just the right time, an underground character delivered through a disruptive media platform meant to broadcast from all the dark corners that never saw light. He was a block of muscle who said little but communicated with his presence a message easily understood.
The struggle is real.
We're out here literally fighting for a future.
And when we heard his name, it was all too perfect.
It slid off the tongue with ominous intentions.
Even if it turned out to be a nom de guerre, it turned out to be a perfect one.
It was the name that launched a million headlines.
Kimbo.
It also propelled a promotion, hit the big time and paved the way to an American dream.
That dream ended far too early.
Kimbo Slice, aka Kevin Ferguson, died Monday, as confirmed by his team, American Top Team, and various news outlets. He was just 42 years old.
For those who only saw him appear on their screens, Kimbo was a character designed to elicit response. In a sense, he was a marketing gimmick. He was never going to be a championship-level fighter in either boxing or mixed martial arts. He started way too late for that. But he could be interesting. He could draw eyeballs like few in either sport. He could be special.
He was, in a sense, one of the first reality stars.
After his YouTube videos captivated millions of people, he got the opportunity to go national. Signed as a building block for the upstart EliteXC, Slice attracted such huge audiences to Showtime that parent company CBS could not resist the lure of putting him on national television.
On May 31, 2008, in a move that was nothing short of surreal, Slice, just two years removed from obscurity and a dozen years removed from homelessness, headlined MMA's first show on primetime network television. It drew a then-record 6.51 million viewers.
Not Randy Couture or Chuck Liddell or Royce Gracie.
Kimbo Slice.
In a way, it was perfect, the arrival of MMA with both its unmatched buzz and undeniable blemishes.
Here we are. Take us or leave us.
There is much to be said about the career Slice had in the mixed martial arts cage, which was mostly uneven. He won his share of fights, lost others, then tested positive for the steroid nandrolone.
But to the end, he remained a draw, pulling in over 2.7 million viewers for his last bout with Dhafir "Dada 5000" Harris at Bellator 149 in February.
Away from the cage, Slice, known as "Ferg" or "Big Ferg," was soft-spoken, gentle and insightful.
He was also unaffected by his celebrity. Years ago, I was scheduled to interview Slice at a hotel in New York City. When I arrived with a media relations person that morning, we knocked on his hotel room door to find him and a group of family members, some sitting around, some laying around. On the floor, on the bed, on the couch. Everywhere. The media relations person asked Slice how they liked the accommodations.
It's a little cramped but otherwise OK, he said.
"The other room, too?" the media relations person asked him.
"What other room?" Slice asked.
While a TV network had booked multiple rooms for him and his entourage, they had slept six or seven to the one room without complaint.
When the interview began, he was polite but reserved, so I decided to switch gears to open him up. I had read that his son was an excellent football player and asked about him. His eyes lit up, and we spent much of the rest of the interview discussing his family and his motivations.
Turns out, Kimbo was a sweetheart.
Like the rest of us parents, he was just trying to do the best he could for his children: Kevin Jr., Kevin II, Kevlar, Kassandra, Kiara and Kevina.
Like the rest of us children, he was just trying to make his mom proud.
They can lay him to rest knowing he did both.
Slice is many ways is a 21st-century American dream, a self-made man who took his gift and marketed himself to the moon.
In that, he was a winner. That was the end goal—not a championship or the respect of the sport's followers. He wanted to put on a show and be paid for starring in it. Everything else was secondary. In that way, he was a prizefighter's prizefighter.
It was not a Hall of Fame-worthy career, but it was a Hall of Fame-worthy life, something out of the movies. Maybe one day it will be one.
Fighting takes its toll on a man. Slice had done it so long, it became part of who he was. If there is any silver lining to the early passing of a gentleman and a father, it's that he doesn't have to fight anymore. For now and forever, his incredible American success story will speak for him.
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