Chapter 41 - Episode 40 – Global Media Conference Call

Dr. Phil's expression grew grave as he listened to Yogan's final request.He adjusted his glasses, swiped across his tablet, and opened a dense graph of data curves charting Yogan's body composition."Starting today," he said, "your diet enters the final phase. All carbohydrates will be restricted. You'll eat only low-GI complex carbs for a few days, then we'll cut them out completely in the last seventy-two hours.Protein will be exactly 2.2 grams per kilogram of body weight. For the first ten days we'll increase your salt intake to stimulate aldosterone. Then, five days out, we sharply reduce salt to force your body to excrete water far beyond its normal rate."He paused and looked up at Yogan. "This method works, but it's like walking a tightrope over a cliff. It can get you to the exact weight you need and still unleash your peak energy on fight night. But the process will be brutal. Your emotions may swing wildly. You may even hallucinate. Sleep quality will directly decide success or failure."Dr. Phil swiped to another chart. "So at the same time we'll overhaul your recovery. No more melatonin. We'll switch to 5-HTP to support serotonin and melatonin naturally without dependency. We'll boost GABA supplements by thirty percent to offset the cortisol spike from hunger and dehydration. We'll also add high-purity phosphatidylserine to shield your nerve cells from stress damage."His eyes met Yogan's with a faint warning. "From this moment on, any 'noise' you let inside can break you before Conor even lays a glove on you. Keep your inner world sealed."Yogan nodded slowly, absorbing every word. Then he turned to Javier, DC and Khabib."My coach brothers," he said quietly. "We're well prepared physically. But it's not enough. I need noise."DC frowned. "What sound?""Real noise," Yogan said, his eyes darkening. "Not just Luke's insults. I want every recording you can find of Irish fans chanting, booing, screaming—everything that will be in the arena at UFC 189. I want it blasting at maximum volume during every high-intensity session. I want Las Vegas in my ears until it becomes my second heartbeat.And don't hire a motivational speaker. Hire the best sports psychologists. I want to learn to focus in a hurricane of malice and even turn that malice into fuel. Before I ever step into that Octagon I'll have walked through Vegas a hundred times in my mind. Conor's home advantage will be a joke to me."The three men exchanged glances, each registering the same jolt of respect. They had thought preparation meant cardio, sparring, game plans. Yogan had widened it into an arena they'd never considered: the soul and senses. He wasn't just preparing to fight Conor's body. He was preparing to break Conor's greatest weapon—psychological pressure—before the first punch was thrown.It was no longer preparation. It was rehearsal for war.---The Conference CallForty-eight hours after Aldo's withdrawal, UFC officially announced a global media conference call. There wasn't time to fly Conor and Yogan around the world for press tours. This call would be their first and only direct verbal exchange before fight week.More than three hundred outlets—ESPN, Fox Sports, major MMA sites, newspapers, podcasts—dialed into a secure system the UFC called "The Line." The combat-sports world held its breath.Inside the AKA office in San Jose, Yogan sat at the head of the conference table, sweat drying on his loose workout shirt. A glass of Dr. Phil's strange-tasting electrolyte drink sat untouched in front of him. His breathing had slowed; his eyes were like a frozen lake.Isabella and Javier flanked him. Isabella's laptop displayed real-time social-media sentiment indexes. She would serve as Yogan's second brain.Meanwhile, thousands of miles away in Los Angeles, Conor McGregor sprawled across a velvet sofa in his villa, whiskey bottle beside him. He wasn't on speakerphone; he held his mobile to his ear like a prop, smiling lazily as if this were his own comedy show.The call connected. Dana White's booming voice opened the event.MMAJunkie veteran John Morgan fired the first question:"Conor, first of all, Jose Aldo has withdrawn. What's your comment? Second, your opponent is now Yogan, an entirely different style, who's been ignoring you these past few months. How will you adjust your preparation?"On the line Conor laughed softly, dripping contempt."My comment?" His voice rose theatrically. "My comment is that the Brazilian chicken finally found his perfect excuse to escape! His ribs weren't broken—his courage was broken. He smelled defeat, hid in his shanty, and history will remember him not as a great champion but as a great fugitive!"Reporters scribbled furiously, headlines already forming. Without a pause Conor pivoted to Yogan."As for this new guy… what's his name again? Yogan?" He dragged the syllables as if recalling a trivial detail. "You're asking how I'll prepare? Do I need to prepare? I spent twelve weeks preparing to knock out Aldo. Now I've got some Chinese kid who makes short films and pretends to be wise. I need twelve seconds.Ignored me? That's not ignoring—that's fear. He knows his so-called Eastern wisdom is worthless before my truth. He's a lucky guy, a brand-new punching bag picking crumbs off my path to the throne!"The temperature of the call spiked.Dana's voice cut in. "Thank you, Conor. Yogan, your response?"Three hundred reporters leaned in, recorders raised. Isabella glanced at her screen and made a subtle hand signal.Yogan lifted the microphone. He waited two seconds. The silence was thunder against Conor's nonstop patter. Then he spoke, his voice calm, metallic, clear."First of all," he said, "I respect Jose Aldo—a champion who ruled the featherweight division for a decade and deserves everyone's respect. He wouldn't want to be verbally attacked from a safe place while injured. That's not bravery; that's classlessness."A ripple went through the journalists."Second," Yogan continued, voice steady but cooling, "Conor is right. I am a lucky man."Even Conor paused. Did Yogan just admit it?"I'm lucky," Yogan said, "because I don't have to wait any longer to face the highest-earning fighter in this division.I'm lucky because I spent two months studying how to beat a southpaw named Conor McGregor while he spent two months preparing for a right-handed champion with a completely different style.I'm also lucky because two days ago every tactical plan on his side was destroyed, and mine is already running perfectly.Yes, I'm a lucky man. But my luck is built on sound decisions and rigorous preparation."His words sliced like a surgeon's scalpel, exposing Conor's awkward position without a single insult."As for your 'human punching bag,'" Yogan concluded softly, "in the Octagon, fists do the talking. Hunters usually stay quiet before the hunt."He set the microphone down.Across the table Javier and DC grinned. This was art—no trash talk, yet every phrase landed. Yogan had refused Conor's trap, stood on higher ground, and coolly painted himself as the hunter and Conor as noisy prey.There was a five-second hush. Reporters scrambled to capture the quote. Tomorrow's headlines were already written.In Los Angeles Conor's smile froze. For the first time a real flame flickered in his eyes. Yogan hadn't attacked his character; he had questioned his professionalism—an unpardonable insult to an elite athlete.Conor's voice cracked: "Damn you… you! You think you're clever? You think you can win with those little tricks? All your plans will collapse in the face of absolute power! I'll break your jaw so you can't utter another word!"Dana tried to steer the call back. "Okay, Conor, calm down. Next question from Kevin Iole—""Calm down? How do you expect me to calm down?" Conor's roar rattled through the line. "This guy's implying I'm an unprepared amateur! Listen carefully everyone: I don't need to prepare for anyone. I am the struggle itself. When the opponent's name appears on the contract they've already lost, because they're facing me—Conor McGregor!"For the next thirty minutes the global conference call devolved into Conor's angry monologue. He attacked UFC scheduling, the Nevada Commission, even reporters he accused of favoring "that hypocrite Yogan."And no matter how loudly Conor raged, Yogan stayed silent. He sat in the AKA office like a mountain, letting Conor's anger radiate through the phone line.The silence was stronger than any counterattack. It was a mirror reflecting Conor's excitement, anger, and hidden insecurity. Listeners worldwide could almost see the superstar's composure cracking in real time.---When the call finally ended, the headlines wrote themselves:"Hunter vs. Prey: Yogan's Calm Answers Ignite Conor's Rage.""McGregor Loses Cool on Global Call—Is the Mental War Already Over?""The Octagon's Silent God of War vs. the Notorious King."In San Jose, Yogan pushed away the empty electrolyte glass. Outside the gym the world was boiling, but inside his eyes were colder and sharper than ever. The storm had begun, and in fifteen days he would step into it.---