Saturday night’s U.F.C. fight, between Stipe Miocic and Daniel Cormier, was advertised with a two-word slogan: “THE SUPERFIGHT.” This is a designation with a particular history. To some older fight fans, the term may evoke “The Super Fight,” the 1970 pseudo-documentary that told the story of a purely hypothetical fight between Muhammad Ali and Rocky Marciano. But, in the U.F.C., the term has generally applied to a less fantastical phenomenon: a fight between two champions from different weight divisions. Even so, the idea of a so-called superfight retains something of that old, outlandish appeal—as if fans’ most extravagant wishes were coming true.

In some ways, Miocic vs. Cormier certainly qualified. Miocic was the heavyweight (two-hundred-and-sixty-five-pound) champion, having won the title two years ago, in Brazil, in the middle of a six-fight winning streak that transformed him from a respected contender into an all-time great. By the time Miocic strolled into the cage on Saturday night, fans generally agreed that he was one of the most skillful and accomplished heavyweights in the history of mixed martial arts. And Cormier was unquestionably the best light-heavyweight (two-hundred-and-five-pound) M.M.A. athlete of his generation—with an asterisk. He became the champion three years ago, and hadn’t lost since—again, with an asterisk. Even better, Cormier had previously competed, with great success, as a heavyweight. Cormier and Miocic, were, literally speaking, the two biggest champions in the U.F.C. Why not have them fight each other?

The idea of this fight seemed somewhat far-fetched back in January, when Dana White, the president of the U.F.C., suggested it. To his credit, and to fans’ delight, White was able to put his idea into practice. This was a particularly risky fight for both champions. The superfight was a heavyweight-title fight, which meant that Miocic risked losing his title to an opponent who was viewed as smaller than him—although in fact, at the weigh-in, Cormier was revealed to be slightly heavier. (Perhaps Cormier took the opportunity to pack on some extra muscle, although much of that new muscle seemed to be located in his stomach and backside.) And while Cormier’s light-heavyweight championship wasn’t at risk, his body was: the oddsmakers listed Cormier as an underdog, four years older (age thirty-nine, where Miocic is thirty-five) and five inches shorter (five feet eleven inches, where Miocic is six-four). Their willingness to fight, regardless, made them both seem braver.

Somehow, though, this superfight didn’t quite feel like the world-conquering blockbuster it should have been—perhaps because neither Cormier nor Miocic was quite as big a star as his record suggested he should be. Cormier is one of the most likable figures in the sport: a friendly, unpretentious wrestling Olympian who also serves as a television commentator, and who somehow, despite his astonishing skill, comes across as a normal guy. (Four years ago, when Cormier was preparing to make his light-heavyweight début, his opponent dropped out and the fight was cancelled; freed from his pre-fight diet, Cormier managed to eat four pieces of Popeyes fried chicken before White called to tell him that a replacement had been found.) Worse still, Cormier has often been overshadowed by Jon Jones, his brilliant but erratic light-heavyweight rival. Jones is the only person who had beaten Cormier, and he did it twice, but neither victory stuck. Jones beat Cormier by unanimous decision in 2015, although, after a hit-and-run a few months later, Jones was suspended and stripped of his light-heavyweight championship, which Cormier won. (Jones pleaded guilty but was not sent to prison.) Last year, in the rematch, Jones knocked out Cormier, but he tested positive for Turinabol, a steroid, and so the fight was ruled a no-contest, and Cormier was reinstated as champion. (“I would never do steroids,” Jones declared on Twitter. “I put that on my children and I put that on my Heavenly Father.”) The Jones saga supplied those asterisks to Cormier’s astonishing light-heavyweight record: he was No. 1—officially, anyway.

Miocic had no asterisks on his record, just a list of impressive heavyweights who couldn’t find a way to beat him. Miocic’s parents come from Croatia, but he is native to the Cleveland area: he marched in the Cavaliers’ victory parade, in 2016, and, despite being a world heavyweight champion, he worked part-time as a firefighter in Valley View, Ohio. He was, in other words, a potential folk hero—except that he hadn’t attracted the kind of passionate national following that a folk hero requires. During the most recent season of “The Ultimate Fighter,” the U.F.C.’s reality-show competition, Cormier and Miocic were coaches of opposing teams: they created an atmosphere of cheerful and respectful competition while generating a minimum of viral moments. (One of the most memorable aspects of the show was Miocic’s speaking voice, which can be hard to understand—a possible consequence of his day job, and perhaps a reason for him to consider a different one sometime soon.)

When two people get locked inside a cage wearing four-ounce fingerless gloves and no shoes, the best-case scenario is that something bad will happen. On Saturday night, in Las Vegas, fans got a chance to think anew about this paradox. In the ring, Cormier looked every bit the underdog, shorter and stubbier, with his trunks pulled high, as if to emphasize his roundness. Miocic had won five of his previous six fights by knockout, and Cormier seemed susceptible—after all, he had been knocked out less than a year before. Even though Jones’s drug test nullified the result, it is hard for fans to unsee a man being kicked in the head and staggering backward around a cage before collapsing in a heap, pummelled so brutally that the referee is forced to intervene. Officially, that never happened. But it did.

Cormier, though, is an exceptionally crafty fighter. He drew Miocic into a clinch and then, when Miocic dropped his left arm, punched him, tracing a short arc with his right fist. It was one of those punches that looks too compact to cause damage, but Miocic collapsed onto his back, allowing Cormier to bounce four more punches off Miocic’s face before the referee could intervene. “I’m a two-division champion, baby!” Cormier cried when it was over. More important, perhaps, Cormier deserves to be considered one of the greatest fighters alive—although how great, exactly, depends on what you make of that asterisk, which survives even a victory as thrilling as this one.

Cormier’s post-fight interview was interrupted—by arrangement, it seemed—by Brock Lesnar, a veteran of two forms of wrestling (collegiate and W.W.E.) who has also pursued an inconsistent but high-profile career as an M.M.A. heavyweight. His official record is 5–3, with one no-contest: his most recent fight, two years ago, was a victory that was overturned after Lesnar tested positive for clomiphene, a banned anti-estrogen drug. (Lesnar denied that he had intentionally used performance-enhancing drugs.) For this and other reasons, Lesnar played the heel on Saturday night: he shoved Cormier hard, and delivered a few lines of pro-wrestling incitement. “Miocic’s a piece of shit,” he said, and then he pointed to Cormier, saying, “D.C., I’m coming for you, motherfucker!” For emphasis, he threw the microphone at the camera.

Not everyone enjoys seeing the noble art of cage fighting cheapened by this kind of behavior. An M.M.A. reporter at ESPN.com suggested that Lesnar—and, by extension, the U.F.C.—had “tarnished” Cormier’s victory by adding a “clumsy postscript.” But Lesnar, playing the heel, also gave Cormier another chance to play the face. (“Push me now, get slept later,” Cormier said in response.) And considering that Lesnar hasn’t officially won an M.M.A. fight since the early years of the Obama Presidency, he may well give Cormier what every fighter wants: an easy victory against a famous opponent. Cormier is, let’s hope, drawing close to the end of his extraordinary career, and Lesnar’s appearance hardly detracted from the delight of watching Cormier’s ascension, at last, to the top of his sport. The sight of one man bludgeoning another into helplessness cannot usually be described as “heartwarming.” This is the rule, but Saturday’s semi-superfight provided an exception to it.