Even Deadspin, which prides itself on being above the fray of knee-jerk zeal and illogical sports narratives, hopped on the train with inexplicable vigor. Greg Howard gave weight to the idea that she was “the greatest fighter alive,” pointing to the two minutes and change Rousey has spent in the octagon as a mark in her favor. That number, though, should’ve given as much cause for pause as for praise.

How do we evaluate the skill and success of a participant in a relatively nascent sub-division of a sport when she has barely has to spend time in combat? How do we set odds of any kind — much less the 20-to–1 variety — when a mostly untested woman with Olympic-level judo skills fights another woman vetted as one of the best female boxers in the world? How, in a field with such disparity in skill level between its fighters, can we account for quality control and pretend to any real expertise? On the day of the bout, Howard wrote “to fight successfully takes delusion,” but he easily could have been describing all of those among us — the pundits, promoters, and desperate fans — who were fighting on the lie that was Ronda Rousey’s greatness.

The truth was we had no idea what we were watching, or how to evaluate it. But for many reasons — an eagerness to seem progressive, an addiction to vapid celebrity culture, the headlong rush to avoid being left out of a major story — everyone was afraid to admit that maybe, in Rousey’s case, there was nothing to be seen.

ESPN anointed Rousey “Fighter of the Year” and “Female Athlete of the Year” for a period in which she had spent a total of 30 seconds in the ring with two hopelessly under-qualified opponents in a sport that still significantly lacks history and development of its ranks. The idea of her being a better fighter than Floyd Mayweather, or a more exemplary female athlete than Serena Williams (who was in the midst of a 28–0 run and had won every major title in one of the most popular and competitive women’s sports in the world) was laughable, at best. But the manufacturers of celebrity and the branding agents weren’t about to let reality get in the way of their latest pet project, and the fans were more than happy to buy what was being sold.

It certainly helped that Rousey is a woman. She served as a perfect foil to Mayweather, a boorish and shamelessly brash self-promoter who as of late has made as many headlines for his history of domestic abuse as his pugilistic prowess. Her popularity and media platform received quite the boost as she continually put Money Mayweather in his place. In this way she was executing the will of the mainstream fan, who has a distaste for Floyd having built an empire on being unlikeable.

It probably also helped just a bit that Rousey is white, because she certainly hasn’t projected a particularly humble persona. Her pre-fight and post-fight comments are typically brash and dismissive; she’s never one to pass up an opportunity to take pointed shots at opponents and contrived rivals alike. Nor is she shy about courting celebrity, having appeared in The Expendables, The Fast And The Furious, and Entourage, which was most fitting in that she was riding the coattails of our cultural emptiness to improbable fame.

Without giving at least some regard to race, it’s difficult to fathom Rousey’s rapid ascent in popularity and accolades when contrasted with that of Williams, a notoriously over-scrutinized athlete who, for all of her incredible dominance and ethereal talents, has often received respect and praise from both fans and media that is more cold and begrudging than enthusiastic. Serena’s story is a textbook American Dream narrative, a tale of skill and an irrepressible work ethic transcending impossible odds. Her track record is long and vetted, her achievements unquestionable. Her battle back from a pulmonary embolism is the stuff of legend. Her prominent place in sports history is cemented. Her life is tailor-made for a major motion picture.