by Josh Samman
The team dynamics had already been carefully laid out by social situations and activities we’d been put in, each member falling into their respective roles through long days of wrestling and sparring, then returning to the fighter house. It was a mansion in Vegas, giant, but shrinking by the day.
My team consisted of six other fighters, all with their own unique personalities and peculiarities that began to come out after living together. It was seven grown men, sleeping in one bedroom.
My closest friend in the house was Clint, our team’s first pick. He was a good fighter, athletic to no end, and had the capacity to learn quickly. What stood out most about Clint was his innate ability to get along with everyone. Never once did any of us see him get angry or upset at a single thing. He was the consummate portrayal of composure.
There was Bubba McDaniel, the most experienced in the house. He’d been around the block of nearly every MMA promotion in the world besides the UFC, and had the wear and tear to prove it. He was a good-hearted southerner that probably never went to school long enough to do anything other than labor, which for him, was prizefighting. He reminded me of Matt, and while he rubbed many the wrong way, he and I hit it off. Bubba had lost his first fight a few days prior, to Kelvin, who’d been a huge underdog.
Another likable teammate was Dylan Andrews, hailing from New Zealand. Like Bubba, Dylan had a good amount of experience against tough competition and was an amazing training partner. He was a leader of the team, well liked by everyone, and had wisdom beyond his years.
There was Collin Hart, the quietest of the bunch, although he gave the impression that there were gears turning in there. He was a talented grappler, hailing from the lineage of one of the most elite BJJ coaches in the world, Cesar Gracie. There he lived in Northern California, getting high with the rest of the Californians, while training for a show that none of us were too sure how he got on in the first place. He didn’t say much in the house, instead spending his free time making elaborate slingshots, and contraptions out of sticks and rubber bands. I liked him because he was intelligent, and enjoyed playing chess, helping me pass the time between training sessions.
Also on the team was Adam Cella. With a quick wit and a sharp tongue, Adam could make even the most somber person laugh. He often commanded the room’s attention, everyone wanting to see what he would say next. Although he’d competed in several dozen kickboxing matches, he was the least experienced of the group in MMA. He’d been on the receiving end of a devastating knockout the week prior, courtesy of Chael’s second pick, Uriah Hall.
Adam wasn’t the only one on our team who’d been knocked out, as seventh Team Jones member Gilbert Smith had gotten the consciousness kneed out of him, in a fight that he’d picked himself. We tried to tell him calling out the tallest guy on the other team wasn’t a good idea when he was a whole foot shorter, but he was adamant.
Gilbert’s knockout came courtesy of 6’6” Luke Barnatt, the tallest middleweight in UFC history. He’d flown over from England, having just picked up MMA a few years prior after owning a fashion shop in the UK. He was an intellectual, and a pleasure to live with, though I thought we may end up fighting in a later bracket.
Also on the opposing team was Zak Cummings, a friend who I’d ran into at several previous tryouts. We had a comical connection, as he was the only one that had tried out as many times as I had, knew what it was like to be chasing this damn thing for years.
There was Jimmy Quinlan, a cop from Boston. He talked with every bit of Bostonian accent that he could muster, and described everything as “wicked.” He had an inability, or unwillingness, to pronounce his “r”s correctly, and we rubbed each other the wrong way from day one.
Kevin Casey was also on the opposing team, the guy I’d gotten in the altercation with in the van. His tough character facade faded quickly, although he kept it up as long as cameras were rolling. His nickname was “King” he explained, because every man has a right to be a king, with a queen, and a kingdom. He was a king he said, not the king. It was poetic, at least.
Kelvin Gastelum, the youngest of us all, the last pick, the chubby little Mexican, was fresh off his upset win against Bubba. Kelvin was young, inexperienced, had a shitty diet, and from what his team members said, never won a single round in practice. He did have one intangible that managed to carry him to success, an intensity that he could flick on when it came fight time, that let his opponent know that he was going to be a handful.
The 6th member of Team Sonnen was Uriah Hall, the Jamaican ninja with spinning attacks. He’d given us the spectacular knockout against Adam Cella, and looked to be a front runner for the show.
The final member of team Sonnen was Tor. He’d flown under the radar while I’d researched potential opponents. Tor was quiet, with an aura of intelligence. He doubled as an engineer in his native land of Sweden. Besides his nationality and unique day job, we didn’t know much about him. Whatever else I was to learn about Tor would take place inside the cage, as his team had picked the two of us to compete next.
The fight started evenly, both of us vying for dominant position and inside control. He fought safely, as I expected him to, doing his best to thwart my attacks in the opening minutes of the bout. It was not particularly exciting, until the end anyway.
It finished the way most the fights in my career had, referee pulling me off of an unconscious heap of bone and muscle below me. With a second first round TKO stoppage, I was one step closer to becoming The Ultimate Fighter.
28.
Late Winter, 2002
I was with one of the bus stop kids, skateboarding at the same Dunkin’ Donuts from 6th grade. We were daring one another to do tricks, trying to one-up each other. The kid I was with was good at skateboarding, and I was doing my best to keep up.
He did one, I did one, he did one, I did one. Finally, he did one, I tried to do one, and seconds later I was on the concrete, clutching a broken leg, feet and all dangling from right above my ankle. I’d suffered a break of the tibia and fibula, and was on the ground, yelling in pain.
I’d never broke anything before. It was loud, then shocking, then painful. My friend ran and threw his weed in the bushes, then tried to wave someone down from the side of the road.
The man he waved down was a neighbor, and he rushed over to help. He gave me his cell phone so I could call my mom. I gave it to my friend and told him the number. He looked terrified.
“Hey.. Uh.. Ms. Cheryl?” He stumbled and stuttered. “Yeah. Josh is here. He says his leg is broke. What do I think? I.. Um... It looks pretty broken.” I cussed at him and told him to give me the phone back. I told my mom I was calling an ambulance and to meet us at the hospital. She said she was close, and to wait there.
She got there the same time the ambulance, and rode with me to the hospital. The first thing they did was stick a needle in my arm.
Hey there. Haven’t felt that one before.
Everything went dark, and blurry. My leg stopped hurting, and I forgot where I was. I would come to every so often, and open my eyes to see my mom beside me.
I don’t remember how long we spent in the hospital. The break was so bad that they had to put a full leg cast on. A cast below the knee could not bear the break, so one had to be made which carried the weight on my kneecap. It was horrifyingly painful, trying to get up the first few nights to use the bathroom. I finally resorted to pissing in bottles, my mom sleeping on the couch next to me to empty them when needed.
I’d never been injured before, never had to rely on anyone else. I was just 14, and wheeling around high school in a handicapped chair. The cast went all the way up to my crotch, and I couldn’t use crutches.
There were perks to being handicapped, if only temporarily. I was the first one allowed out of class and the last one in. Girls would all volunteer to wheel me around, and help me with my stuff. The doctor prescribed lots of medicine.
The first time I ate a painkiller it wasn't like I’d found the holy grail like marijuana was. I never l
oved it. It was just there. I didn’t have to go anywhere to get high, didn’t need to worry about drug tests, or sifting through cow dung. We went to the store and picked it up. Shit, my mom even paid for it.
29.
The Tor fight was short, but I left the cage more battered than I’d have liked. I limped down the cage stairs with my left thigh in a knot, and a rib popping out with every breath. I’d managed to get a few good weeks of training in with the team, but the rest of the time filming I’d be rehabbing injuries, with continuous cryotherapy between ice bath and sauna. In the meantime, I had some of the brightest minds in martial arts to learn from.
Jon Jones was lead. He was more of a team captain than a coach, as he didn’t do much technical teaching. MMA was something that came naturally to him, which can transfer into a difficulty explaining theory. He was an inspiring person to be around, with the charisma and attitude of a champion, but not too egotistical to prevent his team members from drifting in whatever direction we were most comfortable in. Most of the team were older than he was, and several of us had more professional fights. Jon enjoyed success by the boatload and brought with him people to help us achieve the same.
Frank Mir was an assistant coach. Anyone who’d ever watched a Mir interview knew he was well spoken, with confidence that didn’t hesitate to delve into the realm of pompousness. I had an ex that told me I reminded her of Frank, or maybe the other way around. When I met him, I saw what she saw.
One of the first conversations I had with him was about his tattoo above his stomach. Two bodies, many minds, one spirit was the transcription, a clever allegory for his love with his wife. She had the same inscription on her lower back so that the two tattoos were uniform with each other when sleeping belly to back. Corny, but I liked it.
With Frank came Ricky Lundell. Ricky was a genius; a physical phenom in his own right, and the mental acuity to match. Ricky was better at analyzing details of a fight than anyone I’d ever met. He taught applicable techniques and emphasized tiny nuances within the game. I looked forward to every bit of instruction he could afford to spare.
To complement Ricky and Frank’s grappling expertise was Bubba Jenkins (yes, another Bubba). Bubba J was a 5x national wrestling champ and had defeated a who’s who in the sport. Like Jon, he was an athlete who things came naturally to, while still having a respect for work ethic. “Are you out‑working or just working out?” he would yell all practice. “You gotta be comfortable being uncomfortable.” He had all sorts of quips and motivational slogans that he’d picked up through years of world class coaching and wrestling camps.
In addition to those was John Wood, MMA coach to the stars. Of all the coaches, he had the most actual experience training MMA fighters, and successful ones. He owned Syndicate MMA, one of the largest gyms in Vegas, and a hot spot for UFC fighters of all sorts to come and visit. He had competed on a much earlier season of the show, before having to retire from injury.
Last was Stonehorse. First name Stone, other part of first name Horse, no last name. Not that we knew of anyway. He was Jon’s first ever striking coach and was one of the most hilarious people I’d ever met. He was an old Native American, like the guy I’d beat to get on the show, that grew up on a reservation. Some days he would be full of energy, hollering around the room about 720 spinning back elbows and triple flying knee strikes. Other days he would be calm and cool as ice, waxing poetic about what it meant to go into battle, and embracing true warrior spirit.
It was a dynamic group of individuals, our coaches and fighters, all from their respective ends of the Earth. We were all there to work towards a common goal; a tournament win for Team Jones, while still keeping our selfish interests in mind. The coaches, for their part, realized who they favored early, and all of us got to build our own little relationships with one another.
The whole time filming was going on, there was this special feeling between the cast, the coaches, and production that this was going to be a good one, this was going to be a turning point in our lives. All the fights were exciting. People were getting finished left and right. The payoff wouldn’t come for months, but the suspense of delayed gratification in filming was a thrilling experience.
The production team allowed no contact with the outside world. No phone, no internet, no television, no email, not even any radio or music. They gave reason for confidentiality concerns for contact with loved ones, and cited copyright laws on the music, although I was convinced it was a scheme to make us go crazy, and do it on camera. There wasn’t any instance where anyone lost their shit. No super confrontational scenes like the producers may have been accustomed to.
I thought of Isabel often. I wondered how she was doing. I wondered if she’d relapsed. I wondered if she’d done good on her promise to do well at her job. I wished that I could’ve called her.
30.
Early Spring, 2003
“In 2012, 259 million prescriptions were written for opioids, more than enough to give every American adult their own bottle of pills. Four in five heroin users begin by misusing prescription painkillers.”
-American Society of Addiction Medicine
First, the doctor gave me too much. He gave me a ton. But then my tolerance grew, and the pills slowed. It wasn’t that my mom was vacant. It was just easy to keep things from her. She’d never been a mischievous child and didn’t have the capacity to understand the mindset of one who was.
I kept eating painkillers. I didn’t eat handfuls like I had that one night years ago. I kept myself on a steady diet. A few throughout the day, and more at night when she’d go to sleep.
I didn’t have my prescription anymore, so I had to buy them elsewhere. They weren’t hard to find. The only problem was I was running out of money. My leg wasn’t ready for lawn care, and my get-rich-quick schemes weren’t sustainable. There were only so many grocery stores and movie theaters in town, and some had caught onto my tricks. My morals changed with my drug use, and petty strategies for fast cash morphed into full-fledged theft.
The manager of the Hungry Howies in the grocery store shopping center was a nefarious character, and had made an offer to all the bus stop kids; that he’d pay cash for anything we stole from neighboring stores, at half price value. We all did it. Sometimes we dared each other to take things as outlandish as bags of dog food, just to see if we could. It became a challenge.
Some of my friends began to steal other things. Some of them stole things from people we knew. What’s the difference? They’d ask, on occasions when I didn’t join them. Many times they’d go around at night “car shopping,” taking things out of unlocked vehicles. Many of those cars were the same customers that had paid me to mow their lawn. I never stole from those ones and tried to make my friends skip their cars.
There was one neighbor that I could not resist. He was in his 40’s and sold weed. I could always smell it coming from his house, and people constantly stopped by for minutes at a time. I’d asked him once if I could buy some, and he acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about.
I knew that he knew what I was talking about, and I wanted to find out. He left his side door open all the time, even when he left, to let in and out his tiny yappy dog that guarded the house. One day Baxter the bastard and I were feeling ballsy and wanted a gander at whatever he was selling.
We tossed the yappy dog a treat and tiptoed over and in. The hairs on my neck stood. The house reeked of weed, although we couldn’t find any. That’s all I’d gone there for. I didn’t want to plunder further, and I was ready to leave when Baxter found something else entirely. Sitting right on top of his dresser was a giant wad of cash. We sat there for what seemed like forever, adrenaline pumping.
I wanted to leave it. Baxter wanted to take it. People didn’t call the police when drugs went missing, cash was a different story. Baxter said that if I didn’t, then he was going to anyway. We compromised, and left some of it there, hoping maybe he wouldn’t notice.
When we got back to my h
ouse and counted it, it was a little over $800. We split it up, and Baxter went back to his house. I called my drug dealer, bought a half ounce of weed, a bottle of painkillers, and hid the rest.
It was the first time I’d felt sorry for stealing something. The thrill wasn’t worth the way it made me feel afterwards. There would be much worse consequences than a guilty conscience.
My mom came home the next day and asked me where it was.
“Where’s what?”
“The rest of the money, you little shit.” She was furious. She already knew; otherwise she wouldn’t have been cursing at me. I kept playing dumb. She was giving me a chance to own up, and I failed. She’d come home at lunch and looked through my stuff once the neighbor called her, asking if she’d seen anyone at his house the previous day. I wasn’t even cognizant enough to realize she’d already found it.
She went into the kitchen and called the police. I bolted out the side door and ran as fast as I could. My leg hurt, and my heart was beating out of my chest.
I didn’t know where I was running. I tried to cut across to the next neighborhood and ran directly into a squad car. I turned to run the other way, and he got out and chased me. I’d been sprinting for minutes, and he caught up quickly.
He tackled me to the ground. I didn’t resist once he reached me. I laid there, face in the grass, and let him cuff me. I wondered how I’d fucked up so badly.
31.
“That word, tournament, I want you to keep using that word.” I listened carefully as Chael spoke. I was explaining my journey to him about the show, and what it meant to me. I was surprised to have him express interest in my story.
He had come in and set the tone for the season. Jon was not sure what to expect of the typically brash and confrontational Sonnen, but Chael had made it clear to the cast that he and the coaching staff of both teams were there to cater to us. This was our opportunity he said, and he wanted to help make the most of it.
