The noise started before sunrise.
By 7.30am, lines of Myanmar flags snaked around Lumpinee Stadium as thousands of Burmese fans waited to see Aung La N Sang one last time.
When he finally emerged, wrapped in red, yellow, and green, accompanied by Burmese rock legend Lay Phyu singing his long-time walkout anthem Amae Like Akah, the wristbands handed to every spectator flashed those same colours in perfect rhythm.
And when the 40-year-old finished Sweden’s former ONE welterweight MMA champion Zebaztian Kadestam with a barrage of punches in the second round, the roar that followed was deafening – a sound that seemed to shake the steel roof itself.
Moments later, Aung La removed his gloves, placed them on the canvas, and brought an era to a close.
It felt like déjà vu. In October 2019 at ONE Century in Tokyo, Aung La had stopped Brandon Vera in the second round to defend his ONE light heavyweight title.
The atmosphere then was the same wall of sound – thousands of Myanmar supporters inside Japan’s Ryogoku Sumo Hall, chanting his name as he rained down calm, calculated punches.
That was the night I first met him. I handed him the event programme this week in Bangkok – something I’d kept through six years, multiple Hong Kong apartments, and countless drawers.
‘You’re making me blush,’ he said, his voice wavering just slightly.
Back then, his wife Katie was pregnant with their second child. Today, their family is complete in Florida – where, during the Lumpinee broadcast, cameras showed his four children cheering in front of the television before their father closed the show.
Aung La nearly retired once before. After suffering a head-kick knockout to Russia’s Shamil Erdogan in Qatar in February, he began untying his gloves – then stopped. He knew it couldn’t end there.
‘I had to go out in front of my Burmese fans,’ he told me earlier this week. ‘They’d either be cheering me on or carrying me out of that arena.’
On Saturday, they did the former as he made one last walk to the back.
‘I felt good,’ he said afterwards. ‘I know why he knocks people out – he hits so hard, man. Look at my face. But I was able to impose my game plan, control the fire, and be in that heat. That’s my kind of fight.’
The crowd had already been emotional earlier in the night when a tribute video aired: messages from friends, coaches, and rivals including Vera, Martin Nguyen, and his family. ‘I said I wasn’t going to cry,’ Aung La laughed in the clip – then teared up anyway as Nguyen, his best friend and former two-division champion, spoke.
When Kadestam dropped to his knees under fire, the script was perfect. The same second round. The same precision. Henri Hooft, his longtime coach at Kill Cliff FC in Florida, no doubt shouting from the corner his mantra: ‘KISS’ or ‘keep it simple, stupid’. Aung La did just that – one last time.
‘I’m a professional fighter, bro,’ he said. ‘Nothing else fazed me in there. Just focus. Be in the moment.’
Indeed, pressure never seemed to get to him.
From the early days of ONE’s rise, Aung La carried an entire nation on his shoulders. A gold statue stands in his honour in Myanmar.
After debuting in 2014, he became the promotion’s second simultaneous two-division world champ – following Nguyen – winning the middleweight and light heavyweight MMA belts on home soil in Yangon, and shaking the foundations of the Thuwunna National Indoor Stadium.
Every subsequent fight night back home felt like a public holiday; cafés and teashops fell silent as millions tuned in.
He defended both titles before losing them to Reinier de Ridder – who now looks destined to fight for the UFC middleweight crown. But even as younger contenders emerged, Aung La’s popularity never faded.
Asked about those defeats, he smiled. ‘Life is about proving yourself to yourself. I don’t need anybody’s validation. I’m 40 years old. I know who I am. If I’m good with God, I’m good with everybody else.’
He has seen how far the sport has come. ‘You have killers in ONE Championship,’ he said. ‘And the next generation in Myanmar – they’re going to be amazing. I’m nothing compared to the next generation.’
One of those up and comers, atomweight Muay Thai star Vero Nika, flew to Bangkok to support him and pay her respects. She told the Bangkok Post backstage that Aung La paved the way for her and so many others to compete on the international stage. ‘We didn’t know how to do it. He showed us.’
Another, Thant Zin, bowed at his feet in the hotel lobby after the fight, and hugged his idol. Aung La patted the young fighter’s chest and gave him some precious words of advice.
Outside Lumpinee after the show, the chants continued long after the doors closed. ‘Aung La! Aung La!’ echoed through the concourse. When he finally appeared – still in his fight shorts, cupping a bag of ice in his bruised hands – he was swarmed by hundreds one final time.
‘The Burmese fans . I’m going to miss them,’ he said quietly. ‘No fans like the Burmese fans.’
The man who united a fractured nation through sport walked out into the early Bangkok afternoon, smiling, arms raised high.
He was humble in victory, gracious in defeat. And in every sense, he helped build ONE Championship itself.
Surely, an induction into the Hall of Fame now beckons. But even that would only partly capture what he means to the millions who followed his journey.
For me, it was personal. Without Aung La N Sang, I might never have had a career covering this sport. That first shaky interview with a handheld camera in Tokyo became my starting point. His fans never stopped supporting him – or me.
This week, I asked him to be my daughter’s godfather. He said yes.
The pride of Myanmar. The Burmese Python.
He embodied this company’s vaunted values of ‘integrity, humility, honour, respect, courage, discipline and compassion’ – and we are all better for having known him, watched him, and listened to his words.