Josh Hokit, the 9/11 Joke and the Limits of Fame Inside the Cage

Josh Hokit, the 9/11 Joke and the Limits of Fame Inside the Cage

In a small room overlooking a Hanoi street, my computer screen replays a clip less than a minute long. A heavyweight fighter with a massive frame stands in the middle of an auditorium, microphone in hand, stage lights falling on his sweat-soaked hair. He smiles, tells a joke about September 11. A few laughs ring out from the front rows. Then the screen goes dark, and I sit for a long while in my own silence.

Not because the joke was good. Because of the silence that followed. Within twenty-four hours, the name Josh Hokit turned from a rising UFC fighter into the center of a global firestorm of criticism. What troubles me is not the joke itself, but this: how can a grown man, trained inside a professional sports environment, allow his mouth to cross the boundary of his own conscience for the sake of a short laugh?

I write these lines not to judge a single person. I write because after thirty-three years of covering sport, I have learned one thing: every time an athlete says something shocking, the public looks only at the individual. But behind that individual, there is always a system — the promoters, the media, the fans, and us. And that system, sometimes, is precisely what trained the indifference.

Context: a young man from America

Before he became the center of a controversy, Josh Hokit was a different story — the story of a young man born to collide. He grew up in a Croatian immigrant family, where his father passed onto his son a love for combat sports. Hokit came to American football first, playing running back for Fresno State, then chased wrestling in parallel — a discipline in which he twice earned prestigious scholarships. When his football career did not take him far, Hokit turned to mixed martial arts, and within a few short years, he built a position for himself in the UFC heavyweight ranks.

What is striking: Hokit is not a fool. He graduated from university, has a family, and has fans who follow his every step. He knows how to talk to cameras, how to sell fights to audiences. But that very proficiency is the root of the tragedy. Because in the modern sports entertainment industry, people are taught that: if you don't draw attention, you don't exist. And the line between "drawing attention" and "inflicting harm" has been eroded without anyone noticing.

To a Vietnamese person following football, the name Josh Hokit may be unfamiliar. But the paradox is not unfamiliar at all. We have seen famous players say shocking things to attract attention. We have seen coaches use controversial remarks as psychological weapons. And we, the audience, have laughed at jokes that perhaps should not be laughed at. This is not the problem of America alone or the UFC alone. It is the problem of an entire sports culture that has traded conscience for views.

September 11 and a memory that cannot be touched

To understand why Hokit's joke triggered such an enormous wave of outrage, one must understand what September 11, 2026 meant to America.

On that morning, nineteen terrorists hijacked four commercial airliners. Two struck the World Trade Center in New York, one struck the Pentagon in Washington, and the fourth — thanks to the resistance of passengers on board — crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. Nearly three thousand people died. The death toll exceeded the total population of a small town. Children lost fathers, wives lost husbands, firefighters rushed into burning towers and never came back out.

For Americans, that was not a historical event. It is a wound still bleeding after more than two decades. Every year, on September 11, the names of nearly three thousand victims are read aloud. Those names are read, one by one, in silence. No one laughs. No one jokes. Because this is a national grief, something one does not turn into a joke in exchange for a few seconds of attention.

I have said many times that sport needs powerful emotions. But powerful emotions do not mean one is permitted to touch another person's wound. There are pains before which one must stand at a distance and bow the head, not stand close and mock. And this is true in every culture, not only in America.

The unwritten code of the arena

I remember sitting in the stands at a stadium in Vietnam, watching a young player fouled so brutally by an opponent that he had to leave the pitch on a stretcher. The whole stadium went quiet for a few seconds, then applause broke out for the opposing player — a player who had just hurt his colleague. No one shouted for revenge. No one laughed. Because football, after all, is a game among human beings, and those human beings have self-respect.

The arena is no different. The UFC — the largest mixed martial arts organization in the world — has built an empire on the idea that two people step into a cage, collide, and the more deserving one wins. Violence is their language. But violence within a framework — with rules, with referees, with respect for the opponent — is not savagery. That is combat sport.

The difference between a fighter and an aggressor lies here: a fighter understands that power only has meaning when controlled, whereas an aggressor uses power to fill the emptiness within himself. A joke about September 11 is not athletic provocation. It is an invasion of another's collective memory to earn a few laughs. And in any culture, that is cowardice disguised as boldness.

Years ago, in an article about violence on the pitch, I wrote: Football lives in the silence between two bounces of the ball, where the viewer's heart scores its own goal. With mixed martial arts, that silence is much shorter. But it still exists — in the moment before a round begins, when two fighters look into each other's eyes and understand that their opponent is also a human being with a family, with children, with a mother waiting at home. Whoever understands that silence is the one truly worthy of standing at the summit.

The machinery that fostered indifference

Let us return to Hokit's case. What deserves analysis is not the joke, but the context in which it was uttered — and the fact that it was said before a crowded auditorium, under cameras, at an event attended by the organization.

For many years, the UFC — under the leadership of President Dana White — has built a brand on closeness to fans and gritty authenticity. This is an organization where fighters are encouraged to say what they think, do what they want, as long as they do not break the law. A rebellious personality becomes a product. And when rebellion is a product, the line between healthy dissent and toxic offensiveness becomes thin as paper.

In football, we have witnessed the same. A famous player, to prove he still had value, said things he later had to apologize for publicly. A coach, to create pressure before a great derby, hinted at his opponent with rude words. And the audience, who should be the final judge, eagerly shared those remarks as part of the sports story.

We need to realize one thing: when we applaud rudeness, we are teaching the next generation that rudeness is the road to success. When we comment on a harmful joke with the phrase "but he was only joking", we are teaching our children that another's pain does not matter, as long as the one who caused it has money and fans.

John Wooden, the legendary American basketball coach, once said a sentence I have always carried with me: "Talent will get you to the top, but character will keep you there." Hokit has talent. His punch is strong enough to knock out men weighing over a hundred kilograms. But talent is never a passport to step outside the border of dignity.

From the cage to the stands — who is the judge?

There is one thing I have realized after many years of following professional sport: the public is not united in love, but they are united in outrage. In Hokit's case, within a few hours, hundreds of thousands of comments were posted. Critics called him "heartless", "uneducated", "a clown unworthy of wearing the UFC colors". Defenders said he was only joking, that America is too sensitive, that "these days everyone is angry".

I take no side. I stand on the side of the truth. And the truth is: in any culture, a grown man is responsible for his words. That responsibility does not vanish just because he can punch someone's face in.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, the nineteenth-century American writer, once wrote: "Nothing is truly great but the truth." And the truth here is: a society in which everyone is permitted to say anything they wish, without considering consequences, is a society collapsing from within. Freedom of speech is not freedom from responsibility. It is freedom with responsibility.

For Vietnamese viewers — those who follow sport through screens, through phones, amid the countless burdens of life — this case should not be just a story across the hemisphere. It should be a reminder that every time we share a controversial clip, every time we comment, every time we hit "like" — we are participating in writing the norms for the next generation. And the next generation will look at us, not to learn how to win, but to learn how to be human.

A blind spot in collective memory

The most interesting thing about this story, in my view, is not the joke itself, but that it forces us to look back at how the sports entertainment industry has "normalized" shocking remarks over the years.

Recall. Over the past two decades, we have witnessed countless cases of athletes saying similar, even worse, things. We have heard jokes about war, about famine, about disease. We have seen racist, sexist, religiously offensive remarks. Each time, the public reacted, sponsors left for a few weeks, and then everything returned as before. Athletes came back, earned more money, and after a few months, everyone forgot.

That is the biggest blind spot of collective memory. We are outraged for a short time, then we forget. And each time we forget, we are implicitly sending a message: "Consequences are only temporary." In behavioral economics, this phenomenon is called the "decline of collective memory" — when an event recurs, public emotional reaction diminishes over time. And when reaction diminishes, consequences diminish.

If we are truly serious about building a healthy sports culture, we cannot stop at outrage. We must change how we react to outrage. We must stop rewarding shocking behavior with attention, and start rewarding kind behavior with respect. We must teach the young that fame is not the final goal, only a means. The final goal must be to become a better person.

I will never forget the moment at the 2026 World Cup in Kazan, Russia. After France beat Argentina 4-3 in a classic, Kylian Mbappé — then only nineteen — ran to the Argentine fans who were crying and bowed to them. He did not need anyone to teach him that. He did not need a media expert standing beside him to remind him. He did it because he understood that football, after all, is about people. And people have pain, have joy, have sacred things that cannot be turned into a joke.

Mbappé's speed made Russia question the definition of winter. But his respect made the whole world question the definition of youth. Youth is not the age that is permitted to say anything. It is the age that must learn fastest.

What happened next

After the clip spread, reactions from the UFC and from Hokit himself were issued. The fighter spoke out to apologize, admitting that his joke was inappropriate and hurt families who had lost loved ones in the terrorist attack. The UFC, to some degree, had to speak — not because they were forced to, but because of pressure from sponsors, from fans, from other fighters within the organization.

But is apology enough? That is a question I cannot answer on behalf of the victims' families. There are wounds an apology cannot heal. There are words time cannot erase. And there are people who will carry that pain for the rest of their lives, no matter what the fighter says.

The more important question is: will the combat sports industry in particular, and the sports entertainment industry in general, learn anything from this story? Will organizations change how they train young fighters in media responsibility? Will sponsors reconsider putting money behind individuals who treat shock as a marketing strategy? Will audiences, those who once laughed, change how they press the share button?

I am neither optimistic nor pessimistic. I only believe in the truth. And the truth is: change only comes when enough people want it to happen. Not one person, not one organization, but an entire community — from fighters to fans, to sponsors, to journalists like me.

The role of the writer

As someone who has followed sport for thirty-three years, I understand that the writer is not a bystander. Every time I write, I am joining the conversation. Every time I comment, I am helping shape how audiences see the matter. And every time I stay silent, I am also sending a message — the message that the matter is not worth speaking about.

That is why I write this piece. Not to add fuel to the fire. Not to attack a young fighter. But to say: in sport, as in life, there are limits that should not be crossed. And those limits are not defined by law, but by conscience.

I have witnessed many sports moments. I have seen goals for the ages, impossible saves, the tears of both winners and losers. But the most haunting moment I carry with me is a moment of respect — when a player scores and does not celebrate, because his opponent has just lost a loved one. When a fighter wins and bows to his old master. When a whole stadium stands to applaud an opposing player who has just suffered a serious injury.

Those are the moments when sport truly does what it promises: to elevate human beings, not to lower them.

Ending: the stands are not silent

There is one thing I have learned after many years sitting in the stands: the stands are never completely silent. Even when no one speaks, something is happening — the breathing of those around you, the sound of palms tightening, the quickening beat of hearts as the match reaches its decisive hour.

Those stands, whether in New York, Kazan, or Hanoi, are alike in one thing: human beings have a need to bow before what is sacred. And when a fighter forgets that — even for a few seconds, under the stage lights and before a microphone — the stands will speak. Not to condemn, but to remind.

Josh Hokit will keep fighting. He may win, may lose, may go further in his career. But the joke from that day will follow him forever. Not as a sentence, but as a reminder: in sport, as in life, no word is harmless.

I do not know what Hokit's future holds. I do not know whether the UFC will change. I know only one thing: every time we witness an event like this, we stand before a choice. Either we turn away and say "it's normal", or we stop and think about what we are rewarding, what we are teaching others.

And I choose to stop. Because sport — for me, for millions of other Vietnamese — is not only matches. It is where human beings learn to become human. And when one of us forgets that, all of us need to remember.

In an old notebook in the still winter, I see xHope — hope measured by heartbeat. That hope is not measured by the money a fighter earns, not by the views a clip gets, not by the comments an article receives. That hope is measured by one thing alone: whether we can become better versions of ourselves.

Josh Hokit may not know the answer. But I think, deep down, he knows. And all of us, sitting silently in the stands looking up, know too.