by Nick Gullo
Nate is lankier than the stocky Miller, and he easily holds him off with the southpaw jab. Right after right in the face. Miller answers with a low leg kick, then wrestles Nate against the cage, anything to close the distance. But even in the clinch Nate is wiry, hard to control.
Nick screams at Nate: “Attack, attack, motherfucker!”
Nate breaks free, slides laterally, and jabs, upping the pace, using that reach to keep Miller at bay. He circles and cuts off the canvas, rat-a-tat-tatting that glove until Miller is blinking, ducking—anything but more sweaty leather in the eyes. During a clinch Nate ties Miller’s arms and throws uppercuts—gut, gut, chin—using that dirty boxing to out-strike Miller 3:1.
End of the first round Nate throws a jab and follows with a straight left, crushing Miller’s face and dropping him to the canvas.
Pace. Though Nate rocked Miller with a bomb, the knockdown wasn’t just the result of a hard blow, it was due to the ever-increasing pace. Pace is the tried-and-true Diaz weapon. It’s not their black belts in jiu-jitsu, their deadly accuracy, or their muay Thai knees. It’s their relentless pace. Coming and coming deep into rounds when most fighters hang back, trying to regroup. Pace is why the brothers regularly compete in triathlons, honing their conditioning outside the gym—running, biking, swimming.
“Competing against the clock is the only way to tell you’re improving,” Nick told me. “Otherwise it’s up to your trainer’s best guess. Uh, yeah, you’re sparring better than yesterday—what the fuck is that? Shit. A guy steps in that cage, you see whether he’s put in the work. Looks great during a fight, well, that’s ’cause he worked his ass off. Dude looks bad, he slacked.”
In the second round Miller tries to slip the jabs, but he’s eating leather. Nate senses desperation, raises his hands to taunt Miller, then slaps his own face. What’choo got, bitch? Miller leaps with a flying knee. Nate blocks with elbows, answers with a jab, hook, jab—a cat battering an exhausted mouse. Only in this nightmare the cat draws blood while ridiculing the mouse, which is another Diaz tactic: head games.
Ever the boxer, Junior Dos Santos in Academia Champion, the gym of famed trainer Luiz Carlos Dorea, Salvador, Bahia, Brazil. (Credit: James Law)
During UFC 94 in January 2009, Clay Guida endured the Diaz (Nick) taunts. In a Fight! magazine interview later that year, he recalled, “He was sort of on my back near the cage and he kept yelling, ‘209, bitch! 209, bitch!’ and I looked up and there was like 3:12 left on the clock. Later on I said to my coach, ‘Dude, this guy can’t even tell time! He kept yelling, ‘209, Bitch!’ Then he told me that 209 is Stockton, California’s area code—not the time left on the clock! I had to laugh.”
Nate again raises both hands, mocking Miller. Where you going?! Which really means: That’s it, I’m done playing. Nate throws Miller against the cage, dishes punch after punch. Miller shoots a half-ass double leg—Just stop this, please. Nate sprawls, wraps an arm around Miller’s neck, rolls him into a guillotine, and chokes until Miller goes red-faced and taps, his first time ever.
Nick scrambles up the Octagon steps and grips the cage, and when the gate opens he hugs his swollen-faced little brother in a touching family scene straight out of American Horror Story.
After the post-fight media scrum, we rush into the dressing room and once again huddle around the TV—only this time not for video games but the Mayweather bout. The couches fill and Nick Diaz crams in beside me. As the fight progresses I comment on how in close quarters Mayweather keeps raising his left elbow to block Cotto, and I mention this because Nate pulled a similar move on Miller.
“Yeah, Mayweather’s slick like that,” Nick says, then mentions Mayweather’s slap hook. “Watch Cotto step inside the pocket. Right there, Mayweather throws that quick left to the head.”
What about muay Thai? I thought it was better suited to MMA than boxing, it’s more brutal, more—
“Fucking kickboxers stand upright.” Nick scowls. “Hands here [illustrating hands alongside temples], moving straight forward. That shit’s predictable. But boxing, I’m coming at you more [crouched] like a wrestler, backing you up with jabs. I see an opening, I can shoot a takedown without really changing levels.”
But if I guy’s throwing kicks, like José Aldo, how does boxing help with that?
“Fuck muay Thai. How you gonna kick me when I’m backing you into the cage with my jab? Boxing’s where it’s at.”
Translation: If you’re ever in a fight with Nick Diaz, and he’s coming and coming with that ruthless jab, too close to kick, shoot a double-leg or count yourself fucked.
WRESTLING
A fourteen-year-old wrestler runs the dirt roads near his home, mile after mile, on through sunrise. He lifts iron, trains with teammates, and starves himself every week to make weight, all in hopes of winning a state championship, competing for his favorite college, and perhaps climbing that Olympic podium. (As of this writing, wrestling is in jeopardy as an Olympic sport. The UFC is working with the International Wrestling Federation for the reinstatement of the sport at the 2020 Olympic Games.) But that’s the end of the rainbow. Not even a hope of financial compensation beyond coaching.
Yet the UFC explosion has changed this kid’s dreams. MMA coaches now scout collegiate tournaments for potential recruits. Why? Because wrestling is the perfect minor leagues for MMA. Wrestlers endure grueling three-hour practices of non-stop conditioning; drilling moves, sparring, usually while dehydrated and starving to make weight for that week’s match or tournament. And glory? Wrestling sits on the lowest shelf compared with football, basketball, baseball, and soccer. Most girls are repulsed by thoughts of sweaty guys in leotards rolling on ringworm-infected mats. No empirical data here (just my own experience as both a high school wrestler and football player), but scan the bleachers at any wrestling match and you’ll see the lowest girl-to-athlete ratio of any sport, save, I don’t know, maybe bowling, or badminton. But this unloved sport translates perfectly to MMA.
Johny Hendricks in New York City.
“Wrestling is basically a simulated fight with certain rules,” Urijah Faber told me. “It’s about imposing your will on somebody, holding the guy down, and putting him in a position he does not want. And that’s what fighting is about.”
Wrestlers are grinders; thus, they easily slide into the grueling training sessions required of MMA. No balking at the countless hours required to learn muay Thai, jiu-jitsu, boxing. Also, having competed in weekly matches and multi-day tournaments for most of their lives, wrestlers enter the Octagon less prone to the backstage adrenaline spike-and-dump that leaves many inexperienced fighters sapped just as they enter the cage. That’s no small thing, as managing nerves is a big part of the fight game.
Johny Hendricks, two-time Division I National Wrestling Champion and UFC welterweight contender, told me: “By the time I first [fought MMA] I’d competed thousands of times. And wrestling in college, that’s the elite level—the pressure is enormous, but you learn to tune all that out: the crowds, the expectations. So I don’t get nervous before a fight, not even during the walkout. I’m just there to enjoy the experience.”
But more than a Sun Tzu mindset, there’s a style advantage to wrestling. A wrestler’s low, explosive stance enables him to shoot and, like that, penetrate a striker’s radius—yeah, I saw you ’bout to throw that overhand right, but here’s what I’m thinking we do—and with that our wrestler wraps and slams him to the mat. Now the fun begins. Crushing an opponent against the cage, snatching legs, ground-and-pound, and, of course, takedown defense are all critical elements of an effective fight plan, and each requires wrestling skills.
That’s why so many college wrestlers populate the MMA history books: Chuck Liddell, Randy Couture, Tito Ortiz, Cain Velasquez, Ben Askren, Rashad Evans, Chael Sonnen, Matt Hughes, Matt Hamill, Johny Hendricks, Quinton “Rampage” Jackson, Chad Mendes, Gray Maynard, Matt Lindland, Joseph Benavidez, Shane Carwin, Brock Lesnar, Jon Fitch, Urijah Faber, and so on.
; And the wrestling takeover is only just beginning. Hear that rumbling in the fields? That’s the wrestling masses coming for this newfound fame and cash. According to berecruited.com, every year in the United States alone, roughly 260,000 wrestlers compete in club, high school, and college meets; and for these up-and-comers the path from wrestling to mixed martial arts is the new Yellow Brick Road. That’s why the leading annual MMA conventions—the UFC Fan Expo and the Fight Summit Industry Conference—feature not only vendor booths and seminars but also prestigious wrestling tournaments.
Irony of ironies, one of the greatest wrestlers in MMA never wrestled in high school or college. Georges St-Pierre, the current welterweight champion, tested his mat skills at UFC 74 in August 2007 when he faced famed wrestler Josh Koscheck, four-time Division I All-American, who, during his junior year at Edinboro University, smoked forty-two straight opponents, never losing once, en route to winning the National Championships.
It was a tough fight to predict: GSP had just lost his belt to Matt Sera, while Koscheck was charging through the ranks, screaming for a title shot. Handicappers gave GSP the striking advantage, but they questioned whether he could withstand Koscheck’s grappling. Wrestler versus striker, a classic matchup. Let’s cue up the bout: Octagon announcer Bruce Buffer introduces the fighters. The crowd roars. The ref starts the action, and after circling a bit Koscheck jabs and whiffs an overhand right, jabs, jabs and whiffs another overhand right, while GSP backs away and throws a half-hearted kick. Just what you expected, until the script flips and Koscheck kicks and GSP counters with a pristine double-leg takedown. Cheers erupt. Joe Rogan, calling the action, quips, “Whoa, good takedown,” and he seems just as surprised as Koscheck. From then on GSP outwrestles Koscheck fence to fence, at times rag-dolling the grappling standout and earning a unanimous decision.
Josh Koscheck warms up backstage.
“I didn’t believe he could possibly take me down,” Koscheck said in an MMAweekly.com interview after the loss. “I didn’t think that was an option. Throughout camp my mental game was work on my stand-up, work on my stand-up, because this guy isn’t going to be able to take me down … that’s something I’ve learned over the past couple of years, it’s just not wrestling, I gotta become a complete fighter.”
There it is. GSP proved a fighter can master wrestling skills much later in life. An hour before his walkout at UFC 154 in November 2012, as GSP lays out his gi, he tells me: “I wrestle four hours a week. Karate I don’t train so much, it’s more incorporating specific techniques into my regimen. But wrestling I still work on nearly every day.”
That’s impressive, as wrestling practice sucks. Nothing I’ve done compares—not football, not jiu-jitsu. Nothing. As I’ve never trained for an MMA fight, I asked Josh Koscheck if that’s the case.
How does wrestling prepare a fighter for career in MMA?
“Ground-up wrestling, competing at the highest one-on-one level for twenty years, makes you a man. Wrestling is the hardest sport in the world when it comes to training and competing. I’ve never put my body through workouts like wrestling workouts.”
Why is wrestling so effective in MMA?
“Wrestling is the best sport for MMA because [wrestling provides] the foundation for controlling where the fight takes place. If you have the ability to take the fight to the ground, and keep it there, you will most likely win the fight.”
So you still train straight wrestling?
“Yes, we train wrestling one day a week. And during every sparring session we wrestle.”
Was it difficult to transition from wrestling to MMA?
“Not really. The biggest transition was learning to put everything together.”
How does MMA training compare, intensity-wise, to wrestling?
“Pure wrestling is way harder. Not even a comparison. If I was to only train for a wrestling match, that’s a son of a bitch. Not that MMA training isn’t hard, but straight wrestling training is nuts. You put in so much work, and the only reward is getting your hand raised at the end of the match. MMA training is also hard, and sometimes I ask myself what the hell I’m doing, but the reward is much sweeter. You get your hand raised, and you get paid.”
TRADITIONAL MARTIAL ARTS
It’s 1973—the year of bell-bottoms, brown acid, and war protests. Riots in the streets. Enter the Dragon dropped in theaters, and across the country hippie kids staggered from double doors arguing whether Bruce Lee was indeed the baddest motherfucker ever to walk the earth.
This wasn’t just another Hong Kong flick; this was a culture bomb whose fallout still radiates today. Take the film’s opening fight: Lee circles his opponent wearing MMA-style kenpo gloves and modern fight shorts, they tangle, Lee throws him several times, fairly typical fight choreography, but then drops on his downed challenger and wrenches an armbar for the submission.
Ask any UFC fighter to name the most influential kung fu legend and no doubt nine out of ten will reply “Bruce Lee.”
Even Manny Pacquiao, world champion boxer, idolized the master. “Bruce Lee was a big influence on me,” Pacquiao said in a Yahoo! Sports interview. “The first movie I saw was Enter the Dragon, when I was 8. Every time we’d leave the movie theater after one of his movies, we’d all jump around and kick. In my early years [as a fighter], I tried to emulate his style in terms of speed and quickness. And I still do a little now.”
If you haven’t seen the film, set this book down and cue up a copy. Now skip to the climactic fight scene where Lee, cat-like, enters the room of mirrors, slinking past his own muscled reflections. Those black pants and clenched fists. That scowl—
Press Pause. In the background cue up Wu-Tang Clan, light some incense, and press Play.
Lee stalks through the room while Shih Kien sneaks behind him, that steel Wolverine claw locked and loaded. Lee turns the corner and Kien is everywhere at once. Lee rubbernecks this way and that, swings and misses, for a moment lost in the surreal mind-trip.
Taoism teaches that the world is a series of illusions, which acolytes must shatter to find Nirvana. Lee knows this. He exhales, goes zen, and punches a mirror, then another and another, each smash negating Kien’s advantage. Revealing the real and forcing Kien into the open. Lee smirks, throws a side kick into Kien’s solar plexus, and launches him across the room, impaling him on a spear.
That’s how a revolution takes root. Enter the Dragon inspired kids across America to seek out and join neighborhood dojos, and traditional martial arts (TMA) flourished: kenpo, tae kwon do, shotokan, aikido—like religion these disciplines infected American culture, spreading throughout the 1970s and 1980s. Fly to Vegas and two shows a night you could watch Elvis, draped in bedazzled jumpsuits, performing his kata on a casino showroom stage. And how about Van Halen’s “Panama” video, with David Lee Roth swinging that Japanese sword while kicking whirlwinds?
TMA ruled the land. According to Tae Kwon Do: The Ultimate Reference Guide to the World’s Most Popular Martial Art (1989), by the late 1980s, tae kwon do boasted more practitioners than any other self-defense system. That is until Gracie Jiu-Jitsu in Action, followed by the inaugural UFC tournament. In very public displays these events ripped the veil from TMA, exposing their weaknesses against other styles. During those early UFCs both Ken Shamrock and Royce Gracie made quick work of Patrick Smith, a black belt in hapkido, kenpo, tae kwon do, and tang soo do. And how about UFC 11.5 and Tank Abbott’s brutal KO of karate maven Steve Nelmark?
Joe Rogan, ringside commentator for the UFC, trained tae kwon do throughout his teens, and eventually earned a second dan black belt and won the 1987 tae kwon do U.S. Open Championships. “Every young kid thinks his art is perfect,” he told me, “but after a few years you spar against other styles and it’s like, ‘Oh shit, what’s wrong here, there’s so many holes in my game.’ That’s when I started training muay Thai.”
Fast-forward two decades. You’d think TMA would have vanished from the scene, but stroll into any MMA gym and you’ll find fig
hters practicing wheel kicks, roundhouse kicks—channeling that old-school Bruce Lee. As with most other disciplines, MMA fighters seek to incorporate TMA’s most effective elements.
And that’s a good thing because those traditional kicks deliver far and away the most memorable highlights in MMA: Lyoto Machida’s crane kick that dropped Randy Couture at UFC 129 in April 2011; Anderson Silva’s front kick that disposed of Vitor Belfort at UFC 126 in February 2011; Edson Barboza’s spinning wheel kick that nearly flat-lined Terry Etim at UFC 142 in January 2012; Vitor Belfort dropping Luke Rockhold with a spinning heel kick at UFC on Fox 8; Junior Dos Santos catching Mark Hunt with a wheel kick at UFC 160; and how about Anthony Pettis running Matrix-style along the cage, then slamming his foot into Benson Henderson’s jaw at WEC 53 in December 2010.
But how powerful are these TMA strikes versus other styles? National Geographic explored this very question in Fight Science, a mini-documentary evaluating the biomechanical force of blows from various disciplines. In a high-tech warehouse, engineers rigged computers, cameras, sensors, pads, heavy bags—everything needed to measure velocity and power. Four martial arts masters lined the stage, eager to demonstrate their most powerful weapons. A capoeira kick took the early lead, clocking in at 99 mph and 1,800 pounds of force. The muay Thai kick clocked in at 130 mph, but only delivered 1,400 pounds of force. Last came the tae kwon do kick, which stole the crown with a jaw-dropping 136 mph and 2,300 pounds of force.
Lyoto Machida, the Dragon.
“It takes ten years to master those kicks,” Rogan continued, “and by that time, not many [traditional] fighters want to start pursuing other disciplines. But I think once guys realize, you’ll see those kicks incorporated more and more—take the axe kick, that’s one of the best in the game.”
