Brand New Day: Day 2 promised a first look at the UTA Hall of Fame Class of 2026. What the UTA delivered was something bigger than a name—something that felt like a page from the company’s past being ripped out, held up to the light, and finally given the credit it’s owed.

The arena went dark. The screen faded to black. And then the production didn’t just “announce” an inductee… it curated a memory.

Film grain. Monochrome UTA logo flickering like it was being projected from an old reel. Piano notes placed carefully, like footsteps in an empty hallway. Then the words that mattered:

UTA HALL OF FAME — CLASS OF 2026 — FIRST ANNOUNCEMENT — TONIGHT

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t trying to be. This was a moment designed to land in the ribs.

John Phillips: "We told you earlier tonight that the first inductee into the UTA Hall of Fame Class of 2026 would be revealed here on Day 2…"

Mark Bravo: "But this isn’t just an inductee, John. This is a whole era getting its flowers."

From there, the package took off—fast cuts and high-contrast footage like half-remembered highlights from a time when the building shook easier and the rules felt more like suggestions than structure. A barricade rattling. A referee shouting. A cameraman stumbling to keep up as the chaos spilled beyond the ropes.

And then the narration, deep and documentary in tone, framed it perfectly:

“They didn’t arrive to be accepted.”

“They arrived to take over.”

For anyone who lived through that stretch of UTA history—or has heard enough stories to feel like they did—the meaning was clear. This wasn’t a tribute to a team. It was a tribute to a takeover.

The music shifted. The beat crept in beneath the piano. And the names started landing like hammer strikes—one by one, with the kind of presentation that told you the company understood exactly what it was invoking.

BOBBY DEAN

Bobby’s reel hit like a runaway shopping cart with no brakes—wild expression, reckless momentum, the kind of chaos you could spot a mile away and still somehow fail to stop. The footage leaned into it: the frantic movement, the roaring crowd, the absurdity that never fully hid the danger underneath it.

“The chaos you could see coming… and still couldn’t stop.”

CANCER JILES

Then came Cancer Jiles—swagger in its purest form. The smirk. The hands raised. The mouth running like a fuse looking for a match. His presence was always louder than the moment, because he made sure it was. The package didn’t need to explain why it mattered—it just showed you the expression on an opponent’s face when they realized the talking wasn’t a bit… it was a plan.

“The mastermind with a mouth like a matchstick… and the patience to light the fuse.”

DOOZER

And then—Doozer. The tone changed. The footage got heavier. Less laughter. More impact. Bodies thrown like luggage. A clenched fist. A stare that didn’t ask permission. If Bobby made the riot visible and Jiles made it inevitable, Doozer was the weight behind it—the force that turned comedy into threat and threat into certainty.

“The force that made the jokes feel dangerous… and the danger feel inevitable.”

Then the music dropped out for a beat—just long enough for the package to set the hook.

Three silhouettes on screen, side by side, backlit by stage lights. The camera push-in. The freeze frame.

THE eGG BANDITS

And the line that made the whole building react like it had just been punched with nostalgia and adrenaline at the same time:

“Together… they were never just a group.”

From there, the montage turned into a declaration. Chanting crowds. Ring posts rattling. Referees separating bodies like it mattered. A belt held overhead. Laughter—then brutality—then laughter again, like the UTA itself couldn’t decide whether to grin or flinch.

“They were a culture.”

“A riot.”

“A legend you couldn’t sanitize… even if you tried.”

When the final card hit—Bobby Dean. Cancer Jiles. Doozer. Then the name as a collective—The eGG Bandits—the arena didn’t treat it like a simple reveal. The crowd buzzed in that specific way that only happens when a fanbase collectively remembers a dozen stories at once.

And on commentary, the point was driven home without needing to oversell it.

John Phillips: "There you have it. The first announcement for the UTA Hall of Fame Class of 2026—"

John Phillips: "The eGG Bandits. Bobby Dean. Cancer Jiles. Doozer."

Mark Bravo: "That’s not just three names, John. That’s a whole chapter of UTA history."

The UTA confirmed that this was only the first reveal, and that the full Hall of Fame ceremony date will be announced later. But the message of Brand New Day: Day 2 was already loud and clear.

The future is being built. But first, the UTA is finally giving its past the spotlight it deserves—and it started by honoring one of the most unforgettable forces the company ever unleashed.