Mighty [Modest] Mouse

By Julien C. Levy
Photos by Dylan Schattman 

Given the breezy way Demetrious Johnson talks about his profession, hobbies and family, the 36-year-old father of three could easily be mistaken for a harmless desk jockey—a programmer or salesman or marketing director, something like that. “My wife’s calling me a nerd all the time,” he says. “I’m into tech now. I’m part of two startup companies here in Seattle.” Johnson commutes to work every day in a Tesla that’s two years away from being paid off, and he takes his gaming laptop on vacation. “I’m trying to get better about not worrying about gaming when I go on trips with my wife,” he confesses.

Don’t let all of this fool you. Johnson does not work an office job and he is anything but harmless.

With 31 wins, four losses and a single draw, Demetrious “Mighty Mouse” Johnson is the reigning ONE Championship Mixed Martial Arts Flyweight World Champion and, arguably, the best pound-for-pound fighter in the sport’s history.

He’s defended his title 11 times. He’s accomplished a streak of 13 consecutive wins. Johnson once won a fight by suplexing an opponent off his feet and locking him in an inescapable submission hold, mid-air. If Johnson had a mind to strut and flex and crow about his achievements, nobody would say he hasn’t earned the right.

But that’s just not who he is. Fighting, he says with a shrug, is just what he does. “You do it for so long that you kinda get adjusted to it.”

The Greatest of All Time speaks with actions, not with words.

“I’m going to hit [Demetrious Johnson] more and more and more until somebody pulls me off of his lifeless corpse,” barked MMA fighter John Dodson in a 2015 pre-fight interview prior to his second challenge for Johnson’s title. “I will walk through him and destroy his whole life, his whole meaning and purpose… I’m going to murder Demetrious Johnson.” The threat went unanswered; Johnson won by unanimous decision.

In Western combat sport—with titles, reputations, egos, records and money at stake—it’s expected that athletes issue threats, talk shit and generally act the heel. Flashy consumption, nightclub antics and braggadocious monologues are de rigueur. Bluster and drama can draw attention and viewership and money.

Yet even when it may be to his advantage, Johnson declines to play that game. “I never have any ill will toward any of my opponents,” he says. “I want everybody to make as much money as possible. I want them to eat good, I want them to provide for their family and their children, and that’s it.”

There’s speculation that Johnson’s refusal to mouth off is what ultimately led to his trade from the US-based UFC to Singapore-based ONE Championship, but Johnson insists it’s better this way.

“[ONE] just lets me be who I am and just lets me do my thing, which I’ve always been grateful for,” he says. “[ONE’s martial artists] carry themselves with humility and are humble and grateful for the opportunity, so it just works out perfect for me.”

When Johnson circles an opponent, he’s focused, technique-driven, methodical. “I’m trying to be very strategic and mindful of what my opponent is good at and implement my strategy,” he says. “Nine out of 10 times it pretty much goes the way we planned it.” A statement like that could sound like a rare flash of boasting if it wasn’t borne out by a win percentage that’s nearly 90 percent.

Johnson’s philosophy on fighting borders on Zen, focusing on processes he can control rather than worrying about uncertain outcomes. “I’m at a point now in my career where I’m not worried about winning or losing,” he says. “I’m just worried about going out and putting on a good fight.” And this, he explains, is a matter of sticking to the plan he and his team have devised, taking the fight to his opponent and keeping his composure.

The closest you’ll ever get to seeing Johnson lose his cool is when he’s live streaming video games. Where the MMA hype machine has tried and failed to get his dander up, the 88.5k subscribers to his “Mighty Gaming” streaming channel know precisely how to get the GOAT’s goat. He’d previously sworn off the notoriously punishing fantasy role-playing game, Elden Ring, but that’s what the people tuned into his stream wanted to see, so that’s what he plays. As his fantasy avatar dies again and again, Johnson openly groans and growls, hangs his head, covers his face with his hand. Still, he pops back up with a smile, saying, “We got it this time!” Johnson lives for this.

“I could play games for myself all day, every day,” he says. “I stream to interact with the fans. That’s why my wife got me into it.” He then corrects himself for referring to the people who tune into his stream as “fans.” “We’re a community,” he says. And chuckles, adding, “The community loves watching me play [Elden Ring] because I get pissed off at it.”

The irony is most striking when viewed in comparison with his response to a loss in The Octagon.

At the 2018 post-fight press conference directly following the forfeit of his title in a stunning split-decision defeat to Henry Cejudo—only his third-ever loss—a reporter asked about his emotional state. Looking slightly confused with the very premise of the question, Johnson responded, “I’m fine. Losing happens.” Yeah, his foot, MCL and nearly unheard-of 13-fight winning streak may all be broken, but that’s just part of what he signed up for. Next question.

Does Johnson’s methodical approach to fighting—the way he studies his opponent’s weaknesses in order to exploit even the smallest of defensive lapses—translate to a winning strategy when facing Elden Ring’s toughest bosses? He laughs and knocks the theory to the mat: “They’re two different things. I just go out there because I can die and relax.”

Johnson understands the key to his stream’s success is the cross-pollination of sports fans and gamers. “I try to merge both of them,” he says, insisting that he doesn’t pander to either demographic. “I’m the same person when it comes to, you know, being me.” He does, however, acknowledge that the horse race aspect of pro sports can be alienating. “I feel like I click with [the gaming] crowd more,” he tells me. “When it comes to MMA, we all have our picks and viewpoints of certain people—who’s better, who’s not. I feel like gaming, it goes the same way, but we all can do gaming, so that makes it easier.”

Johnson didn’t grow up harboring Hoop Dreams-esque aspirations. “I didn’t watch football, I didn’t watch mixed martial arts, I didn’t watch boxing,” he recalls. “I was just being a kid and doing my best to be a good son, a good brother.” As with many kids for whom poverty closes doors, Johnson found an open window when his mother and sister introduced him to video games. “Gaming was one of those things where you buy a game for 40 bucks and get countless hours of playing, my brother and me.” In a throwback to that era, he’s starting to stream 8-bit and 16-bit games: “Nintendo and Super Nintendo, which were a big part of my life. That’s what I grew up playing.”

Tattoos also represent a connection to his childhood. The inspiration for Johnson’s first tattoo came from the weekends when his mother took him and his siblings to get their hair cut. “She said, ‘You guys were good. I’ll give you two quarters and you pull a tattoo [from the vending machine].’” He had a particular affection for an armband temporary tattoo he wore to school the following Monday. “Once I turned 18, I went and got that exact same armband,” Johnson says. He’s since incorporated it into a Polynesian-style shoulder-to-elbow half-sleeve, publicly unveiled in his redemptive rematch against Adriano Moraes for the flyweight title.

But don’t expect to see DJ get completely covered. He definitely wants more ink, but certain areas of his body are off limits. ”I’m not doing my chest,” he says. “Absolutely not. My chest and my abs are lit.”

As we talk, I can hear Johnson’s kids carousing and squealing in the background, and throughout our conversation he consistently circles back to how focused he is, not on his record or reputation, but on his home life, often using the words “grateful,” “blessed” and “humble.”

I probe further into the origin of his equanimity, wondering if he’s always been this way or if it’s something he’s cultivated. He laughs and slips me by, asking if I want to pose the question to his wife, Destiny Bartels. Referring elsewhere to acts of service as his love language, he speaks about showing his appreciation for his partner by joyfully attending to domestic tasks: cooking, dishes, laundry. It’s not a ploy or a performance, it’s just who he is. “I think I’ve always been a very considerate person,” he says, then deflects the very idea that he’s some kind of exception. “I think most MMA fighters are.”

When I ask who he’s gearing up to fight next, it’s as if I’ve asked what he wants for lunch. “It’s probably gonna be Adriano again,” he says. “I’m sure they want the trilogy. I’m just focused on enjoying my life and enjoying my time off with my wife and kids, and that’s it, man.”