by Nick Gullo
It’s fair to remark, at least in passing, that muay Thai resembles karate. But watch side-by-side videos and you’ll see karate as a more light-footed samba of deft jabs, circular footwork, and surgical kicks. Which jibes: the Tao of karate emphasizes energy flow and patience, whereas the Tao of muay Thai focuses on explosive aggression, and thus yields a nitrous oxide bang-fest. Think Theogenes dominating his opponent, hurling hammer-fists. Boom! Boom! Boom! Muay Thai kickboxers meet center of the ring and throw savage kicks shin-on-shin, spinning elbows that cut foreheads, flying knees.
Despite this brutality a great muay Thai leg kick is a thing of beauty. Not in the classical sense but in that release-of-primal-force sense. Most powerful athletic movements equate to cracking a whip: relax muscles as the whip arcs overhead, increasing in velocity until a last-second wrist snap delivers that crack! Same with throwing a baseball. Or hitting a racquetball. Or serving in tennis.
The formula is simple: relaxation equals speed, and speed equals power.
BACKSTAGE UFC
Half an hour before the Michael Bisping versus Brian Stann fight during UFC 152 in September 2012, I’m roaming backstage, camera in-hand, security guards at every corner, checking my credentials. After my first UFC fight, I traveled with Dana to an out-of-town event and over lunch told him I wanted to shoot photos. It was just before the pre-fight press conference, and we were at a pizza joint. He as usual was texting on his antiquated flip phone: fork in one hand, the other thumb flying across tiny keys. That’s how slammed things get in the days leading up to an event—endless production questions, media requests, shouts from friends—so the moment there’s a break in the responses, he sneaks another bite.
“Cool if I shoot photos?” I ask.
He gives me a no-look nod.
“You sure?”
“Dude, I don’t care,” he whispers, but he’s so lost in his phone I feel compelled to press.
“Of everything, like backstage, the fighters warming up in their change rooms—”
I’m pushing because I recognize the gravity of this moment in history. That’s the beauty of wife/kids/job—you learn that all of life’s big-or-small moments are fleeting, and hesitation leaves you squinting in the rearview mirror, regretting you didn’t chronicle what just transpired. This too shall pass.
“—that cool with you?”
“Pass me the water,” he says, so start shooting I did.
That first night I was skittish, glancing over my shoulder and wondering how far to push it: ducking into dressing rooms, roaming cageside, poking my lens into the post-fight medical tent. Staff stopped me at every corner, told me no cameras allowed backstage. Photographers are confined to the Octagon.
Well, I’m not much of a listener.
Anatomy of a Kick
I enter the change room just as Michael Bisping unloads several muay Thai kicks on the bags, each shot backing Tiki Ghosn, his trainer, across the mat. Bam! Bam! Bam! As a teenager Bisping won the Pro British kickboxing title. After transitioning to MMA he beat ten straight opponents, knocking out or submitting every one. During season 3 of The Ultimate Fighter he won the show as a light heavyweight. Now he sits atop the UFC light heavyweight rankings, awaiting a title shot. Bisping heads a wave of elite European fighters, and after a decade of throwing muay Thai kicks, it’s as though his body’s absorbed all the kick’s nuances and now it’s merely a matter of summoning his chi—a split-second furrowed brow and intense glare, then a coiling of the hips, a short step, and Bam!
Michael Bisping, leg kick. (Mural by El Mac and RETNA)
Bisping demonstrates a correct muay Thai kick as Tiki watches: he steps before the target, foot angled forty-five degrees in the direction of his momentum, and rising on the ball of his foot, he lifts his leg and quick-shifts his hips, thus snapping the kick through the target.
It’s a difficult movement, totally unlike kicking a ball across a field. But drill the kick ten thousand times and in a bout, I’m told, the recall is pure autopilot.
Why is this kick so important?
For head shots, the physiology is intuitive. Throw an uppercut to the chin and—as though detaching battery cables—an opponent slumps to the canvas. That’s why the chin is coined the button. A targeted shot whiplashes the head backward, the gray sponge sloshes against the skull, and the light bulb that signifies consciousness blinks out.
Fairly straightforward, but to truly appreciate the damage inflicted by a proper muay Thai kick requires a more detailed anatomy primer. So cageside between fights I asked Dr. Jeff Davidson, UFC’s lead doctor, to explain. He pointed to my lower back. “Longest, thickest nerve in the body,” he shouted over the music, “like an electrical wire to the central nervous system, it weaves through this dense muscle [buttocks], twists down along the femur, and emerges surface-level here [right above the knee] for just a few inches before retreating deep into the calf.”
That’s the body’s second button. The leg button. Slam a shin into this area and it’s more than just intense cramping pain, it’s a shock that radiates groin to foot. One solid kick and a fighter’s limping. Which slows down his double-legs, weakens his punches. Renders him gun-shy. Unable to weight that leg for an effective counter-kick. A few more strikes and he’ll drop.
Watch highlights from World Extreme Cagefighting (WEC) 48 in April 2010, featuring the Urijah Faber versus José Aldo title fight. Early on Aldo steps and winds up that whip, crack!, and kicks Urijah just above the knee. Once, twice, and the third time Faber winces in pain, then smirks: Thank you, sir, may I have another? The Brazilian obliges, over and over serving up that brutal dessert with Matrix-like speed and precision.
How effective was this strategy? Well, by the end of the third round Faber’s muay Thai coach, Master Thong, entered the cage and physically carried Faber back to the stool. It’s a testament to Faber’s ferocious will that he survived the five-round title bout.
“I was in a lot of pain, man,” Urijah said the next day during an interview, propped on crutches while speaking into the camera. “From the second, middle-end of the second round … it was like, it was pretty painful in my legs. His leg kicks are deceiving. Feels like I was getting hit with a bat. First time I’ve ever been punished with those.”
Urijah is smiling, but in his brief pauses it’s clear he’s awed by the power of those blows. “He caught me with a couple [leg kicks] in the first round. Like three, and they were starting to accumulate. I think he caught me with like seven in the second round. I’m not sure exactly when, but I went back to the corner and it looked like I had softballs on my—it was all lumped up on my leg, so … I was immobile after that. I couldn’t really get spring. I was just kind of pushing through it.”
Urijah pulls up his surf shorts and chuckles. “You can kind of see, here”—revealing his purplish thigh—“my leg matches my shorts.”
The cameraman cannot contain his revulsion. “Oh my God, look at that,” he moans. “Jesus, look at that bruise.”
“Yeah, my leg’s like twice the size of the other.”
And Urijah is not exaggerating: his left thigh appears swollen and diseased. No wonder he’s on crutches. “Even after the [post-fight] interview I felt like I was gonna pass out … I’ve never really felt like that before.”
It’s not mere muscle trauma that causes that body-core sickness but repeated strikes to the sciatic nerve.
Elbows
The elbow is ultra-effective in the clinch or on the ground, where there’s no distance for a kick or a punch. With just a few inches of air a fighter can swing and deliver an unfathomable amount of power.
Jon Jones is the undisputed master of elbows. Held in closed guard, he lays an arm on his opponent’s shoulder, baiting him to grab the wrist for control. Jeez, I’m so tired, go ahead, it’s yours. Soon as fingers encircle the wrist he lifts the elbow and, pivoting off his opponent’s grip like a fulcrum, drops an elbow onto the face.
Knees
There’s no more dangerous
position than the muay Thai clinch. Often initiated against the cage, a fighter grabs his opponent’s neck with one hand, then the other, and lacing fingers behind the neck he jams elbows against the chest to control the distance, then yanks the head down while driving a knee into the solar plexus or chin. It’s a textbook example of kinetic energy: the mass (m) of two bodies colliding at velocity (v). Now whether you grock the variables or not, it’s easy to appreciate our opponent crumpling to the canvas. For a textbook example of this strategy, rewatch the UFC 64 bout in which Anderson Silva, the challenger, grabbed Rich Franklin, the champion, by the neck, and for three straight minutes held tight and delivered knee after knee until Franklin dropped. TKO, 2:59 of the first round.
Most sensational is the flying knee. Needing to close distance, center of the ring a fighter hunches, leans forward, and jumps sometimes the length of his body. Mid-air the legs scissor, the chest bows out, and he delivers a knee with incredible force.
BOXING
After Royce Gracie so handily defeated Art “One Glove” Jimmerson in the inaugural UFC tournament, many armchair analysts, me included, felt boxing had no place in the cage. But I was wrong, again. In the ensuing years, numerous elite fighters have proven that incorporating boxing—the classic footwork, sliding head movements, punching angles—into a total MMA package nets a tremendous advantage.
Junior dos Santos, former UFC heavyweight champion, is renowned for his boxing prowess. Despite holding a brown belt in jiu-jitsu, Junior favors dropping overhand bombs, and at six-foot-four and 240 pounds, he believes he can stand to toe to toe with either of boxing’s world-champion Klitschko brothers. “I wanna have a boxing fight one day, just to test me,” he said prior to UFC 146 in May 2012. “I used to train a lot of boxing. I’m a boxing guy. This could be a good challenge for me [to fight a Klitschko] … give [me] three months of preparation and I can fight anyone in the world, doesn’t matter the sport, boxing or MMA.”
Jason Parillo coaches numerous professional boxers as well as several MMA fighters, including Vitor Belfort, Tito Ortiz, and B.J. Penn. Backstage before the UFC 152 weigh-ins in September 2012, I asked him the differences between muay Thai and boxing punches.
“Muay Thai fighters stand face to face and exchange, but boxers, they’re stepping laterally, ducking to change levels, all while staying in the pocket—”
The pocket?
“That’s what separates boxing from other [combat disciplines], the pocket. A boxer will stand inches from his opponent, and when a punch comes he ducks, weaves, drops a shoulder, and avoids the blow. Then, boom!, delivers a counter[-punch]. It’s all angles.”
Jason Parillo holding mitts for B.J. Penn.
Nate Diaz warming up backstage.
Angles?
“Okay, that’s probably the most misunderstood term in boxing. When you hear the world angle, most people think footwork, stepping this way and that, cutting off the cage, but that’s only one aspect. It also means shifting the shoulders a few inches, the head, the hips, the knees. These subtle movements allow boxers to stand in the pocket, avoid and deflect punches, then boom!”
I keep hearing about dirty boxing—why?
“The clinch, that’s when fighters exchange in the clinch. Tying up arms, bumping with shoulders, grinding with the head.”
Ah, that fighting against the cage … so who are the best boxers in MMA?
“Junior [dos Santos] is unreal. His hand speed, power—”
You think he could actually challenge Klitschko?
Jason laughs. “No disrespect, Junior is an unbelievable boxer, but that’s like saying [boxer Floyd] Mayweather is gonna enter a jiu-jitsu tournament and beat Rafael Mendes [three-time jiu-jitsu world champion]. Not gonna happen. He might be the best MMA boxer, but that doesn’t qualify him for the highest ranks of another sport. And boxing is another sport.”
He’s dropped other MMA fighters in seconds, so why not?
“Yeah, he’s got power, but in a boxing match you’re not worried about kicks, elbows, and takedowns. All the Klitschkos train is boxing, so they’d stand before him—in that pocket—and slip his punches. MMA fighters in the pocket are more flinchy because that next blow could come from anywhere. No, he would be outclassed. No disrespect.”
How does boxing fit into an MMA fight strategy?
“It’s front line because without throwing punches [MMA is] just a Pancrase match with guys slapping each other. And it’s not just about striking or dodging blows. I teach fighters to judge distance with their jabs, and to control that distance with footwork. Miss and pay, miss and pay. You want your opponent to miss, then make him pay. That’s what boxing is all about.”
Is it different training boxers, as opposed to MMA fighters?
“Yes. With both you work on the mind-body connection, so those reactions are instant—slip and counter, slip and counter. The problem is MMA guys don’t like to wear headgear, and that gear allows them to sit in the pocket, get comfortable while they’re slipping punches. It allows them to train that instinct to flinch.”
Any other great MMA boxers?
Jason scanned the fighters in line for the weigh-in, and seeing none of interest he rubbed his chin. “The Diaz brothers,” he finally said. “They’re good—really good. Nick spars with professional boxers, and I think he’s had a few bouts.”
So could he challenge at the pro boxing level?
“Doubt it. With that style he’d take a lot of damage. Like I said, it’s so different when you’re not worried about knees and kicks. But in the cage, those two [Nick and Nate] are dangerous.”
On May 5, 2012, the circus rolled into East Rutherford, New Jersey, for UFC on Fox 3. Oh, and what a great night of boxing it would be: Nate Diaz was slated to face Jim Miller during the main bout, and minutes after the post-fight media scrum, Floyd Mayweather Jr. was squaring off with Miguel Cotto back in Vegas. We entered Dana’s backstage dressing room just as the IT engineers finished wiring a flat-screen to carry the PPV stream.
Dana always loved boxing. When we were teens, I’d watch him and Artie Garrelli, another friend, pore over the betting lines, comparing fighters like horses: he’s got no legs … eight rounds, that dude’ll gas … you’re an idiot, his hands are soft … ah, he’s got no chin…
The Diaz brothers: gameface.
My freshman year at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas (UNLV), we’d gather at our friend Marty Cordova’s apartment, down beers, and scream at the television while playing Rocky on the Sega gaming console. And if Mike Tyson was fighting, well, we couldn’t afford tickets for the actual bout, but we’d sneak into a bar or crash a party carrying the stream.
Dana left Vegas before my sophomore year at UNLV, and settling in Boston he took this boxing passion to the next level. He found a trainer and put in the hours working the bags, the mitts, learning footwork. For the first time in his life he found a calling and even fought a few amateur bouts.
Minutes before the UFC on Fox 3 weigh-in, I run into Nick Diaz backstage. I’m pumped on the night’s events, so I quiz him on Mayweather’s dirty boxing, like how after a punch he lays his left forearm on an opponent’s neck and, grappler-like, pushes off and even blocks blows. Nick mumbles something I don’t quite get, then he searches the ground and wanders off.
Uh, okay.
No offense taken. Welcome to the world of Nick Diaz. Five times over the past year I’ve tried engaging him, and five times he ignored my comments and beelined for the exit. Nothing personal. Prior to his long-sought welterweight title bout with champion Georges St-Pierre at UFC 137 in October 2011, he blew off a series of pre-fight press conferences. And when I say blew off, I mean he straight up went MIA. Fiasco doesn’t come close to describing the ordeal. UFC needs fighters to promote bouts. That’s the game. Fighters host media interviews, pressers, open workouts. So these no-shows sabotaged not only Nick’s fight but also the entire UFC 137 card.
After the second vanishing act Dana hit the roof and yanked away the bras
s ring. “I’d had my reservations about Nick Diaz for a long time,” he said at a later press conference. “You’ve heard me use the term ‘play the game.’ All I asked him for was this much. When he signed, I said, ‘Let me tell you what, kid, add up all the purses of your career, this will be biggest fight of your life.’ You have the opportunity to fight GSP and win the welterweight title. But I need you to do certain things.”
St-Pierre chimed in: “I just don’t understand why someone doesn’t show up to an opportunity like this. Just can’t believe it. It’s amazing. It’s crazy.”
Crazy.
“He was going to make life-changing money for this fight,” Dana said. “And maybe the thing is with Nick Diaz, maybe he did crack under the pressure. Maybe he folded under the spotlight.”
A few days later Nick posted a response on YouTube: “Sorry I didn’t make it to the beauty pageant … but, um, you know, I’ve never not showed up to a fight … I’ve never backed out of a fight in my life.”
Not quite an apology, but that’s Nick Diaz.
(Diaz was pulled from the card, but later fought, and lost to, GSP at UFC 158.)
Anyhow, enough about the elusive brother. Nate is just now entering the Octagon for his Fox 3 main bout, and I’m cageside, listening to the referee’s instructions. Nick and the rest of Nate’s camp post-up a few feet away. The ref yells, “Fight!” Nate stalks forward, cruises straight into Miller’s low kick, a few punches, then he answers with that trademark jab. Nick leans on the cage’s outer runway, watching his little brother’s every move. And watching him watch I wonder if he’s studied fighting’s ancient history. Does he know of the Olympic Games in the Colosseum? Does he know of Theogenes, the greatest MMA fighter to ever live? He and Nate so pass for spawns of this bloodline: the knotted brows, the flattened noses, the cauliflower ears.
