Street Cred to Spotlight: Photos, Press, and Rogan
They said I was some street kid. I figured I'd head straight to the locker room, but the staff redirected me to the photo zone. They quickly explained the situation to my crew. Apparently, some Brazilian investors were big fans of mine—Brown's message was that they'd love a few photos. No way was I skipping any WFC duties, though. Even if I'm known for being headstrong, I had to show I was a fighter who listens when it makes sense.
It wasn't a tough fight anyway. The space was cramped, but reporters were there, along with some Brazilian VIPs waiting for me. As I posed for pics with everyone, a guy fired off a question in English.
"Got any food cravings?"
"Tteokbokki? Samgyeopsal?"
"What's tteokbokki and samgyeopsal?"
"Tteokbokki's like gnocchi, and samgyeopsal's pork belly."
I signed autographs and snapped individual shots, and they all grinned like kids. Only after that could I finally hit the locker room and change. The ring doctor checked me out, then we moved on. Weird to hold a press conference after a non-main-card bout, but my stock must've skyrocketed in Brazil for promo reasons.
Callum, who got carried out, skipped it entirely. Tahar said his nose was shattered and his jaw split clean open. My straight-right instincts were spot-on as always. I hit him hard enough to end the fight, but no grogginess threw me off.
As we recapped the fight, a reporter raised his hand.
"Great job out there, Beom-ho Lee."
"Yeah, thanks."
"Was that mid knee to counter the takedown?"
"Just keeping it standing. If we trade strikes, I don't lose."
He'd won the belt with grappling before, so I instinctively prep for it. But I'd stick to defense only. Now that everyone knows my striking gift, I'd lean into it hard. That's why crowds go nuts—I'm a stand-up striker.
"Any preferred next opponent?"
"Brown handles that. I just trust he'll bring the best."
Unlike before, it felt like a normal presser with regular folks.
We partied with the Brazilians, then flew back to San Francisco. Young-hoon, fresh from security training, rejoined us. He hadn't slacked—looked solid.
"Time to prep for amateur bouts."
"For real?"
"Can't train forever. Gotta get in the ring."
No need for me to handle amateur bookings—Tahar had it. Young-hoon would crash at Might's, so I headed to Grandpa's estate.
The family had watched live. Hitting #7 had them hyped, welcoming me like a hero.
"Bro! Pic with me!"
I was basically king among the cousins now. WFC hits different in the States. Even Little Uncle headlocked me for a photo brag.
We gamed with Might and the cousins, pizza in hand. My look screams Asian, but Dad's side shows in the features—proves the mixed heritage.
Lounging on the sofa, munching pizza and gaming with the kids, Grandpa shot me a look. The tiger tat on my chest couldn't peek out anymore. His eyes said now was the time, so we went for more ink.
It wrapped my shoulder, dipping a third down my bicep. Short sleeves would hide it perfectly. The artist's soul poured into it—pure art.
Full right arm when I go independent... Assets growing real-time, fame exploding post-Callum. Everything felt perfect.
Tattoo meant no sweat for two weeks, so pure gaming. Needed vids for my YouTube too. Then back to training with Young-hoon, adding ink care to my routine. Dry skin flakes and fades it, so morning-and-night oil rubs.
Every mirror glance brought Mom to mind—kinda fucked feeling. Her warm smile hit, that guilt brick thumping my chest. Future me's problem, though.
Shooting inquiries piled up. Uncle Jake fielded them. No Korea plans, so rejections—except John Logan wanted me on his podcast.
'The Joe Rogan Experience'—free-talk interview style. Skipped proper post-fight chats before, just ranted and bounced. So I said yes.
"Oh? You're doing it?"
"Yeah. Not far."
"True. Woodland Hills, LA. Staff'll meet your flight?"
"Hook it up."
Joe Rogan's show as commentator? Face time's smart. Fighting skill alone doesn't build value. Exposure makes legends. I'd grind till fans frenzy every bout for ticket power.
Time up, changed, headed to LA's Woodland Hills. Fist-bumped airport fans. Squatted for a kid who recognized me.
"Comon! Huge fan!"
"Yeah?"
"Autograph?"
Handed my Callum poster—Korean sig for him.
First-class lounge, veggie-packed sandwich, flight wait. LA's right below SF, but six-hour drive. Pre-regression bus hell flashbacks—chills. No hesitation dropping first-class cash now. Tears-worthy.
"This success's taste...?"
Wasn't broke back then—just Whittaker's rule.
Landed LA, Rogan's staff picked me up. Hit the set, light greet with prepped Joe.
"Been a while."
"Sit here."
"Straight to filming?"
"Usually. Drink?"
Vibe was chill. Joe nodded, staff handed water. Sipped, silence fell—show on.
Melody faded, Joe leaned back comfy.
"Today: Korean Monster, Beom-ho Lee."
"Hey, Yi Beom-ho."
"Whoa, Korean greet? Fresh."
"Glad you like."
He digs relaxed flow. My table had his questions—long breaths, quick read.
"How'd you get here?"
"Flew."
"Don't you live in SF?"
Right-next-door flight jab—hilarious. Americans' distance sense is off. They think state's a backyard, blind to scale.
"610km ain't next door. Covers all Korea."
"Korea that small?"
Yawned, rolled sleeve slight.
"Folks always ask this."
"What?"
"Why fight if you're loaded?"
"Grandpa and Dad—world's strongest in my eyes. Thought military."
He wants my story—leaned in serious as I spilled. Natural poise shows why he's WFC's voice.
"Loved games young, aimed top. But pros wrecked me. Parents-insulting trash."
"Oof."
"Starcraft—Koreans savage."
Joe reacted big, chuckling.
"Grew, saw I dwarfed peers."
"Yeah... get it."
Heavyweight frame buzz even here. 94kg starvation-look.
"Wanted physical strength kid-me. Fell for fighting."
"Start age?"
"Born training—family thing. Boxing at 9, yearly US month camps. Korea other sports."
Joe nodded deep. His full-listen stance eased me.
"Saw MMA on TV—wanted in."
"For strength?"
"Nah. Prove I'm different."