by Nick Gullo
What advice would you give a fighter just starting up the mountain?
“Stay sober and in the gym. I wish I had focused a little harder. Everything was so available to me, fun was so available to me, and early on I picked fun over training, and I regret that. So my advice: work hard, and don’t ever take your eyes off the prize.”
Wanderlei Silva.
Family portrait: Ian McCall and daughter London. (Painting by Matt Gordon.)
Antonio “Big Foot” Silva.
Lance Benoist defeats Matt Riddle.
Darren Elkins post-win.
Jiu-jitsu, the soul of MMA: Myles Jury and Rafael Mendes.
Top: Ariel Helwani interviews Cung Le backstage; bottom: Alistair Overeem.
Top: “Rampage” Jackson; bottom: Jake Ellenberg.
Joe Lauzon mulls his loss to Jim Miller.
8: HEAVY IS THE CROWN
Georges St-Pierre in the tunnel.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HENRY IV
A FIGHTER STEPS INTO THE CAGE, the crowd chanting, his walkout song thundering through the arena, and ten minutes later he’s disoriented, gripping the fence, struggling to right the world. A fighter steps from a limo, waves to fans and cameras, and ninety minutes later he ducks a right hook, throws a wild left that allows a knee to the chin—this fighter, after years of sacrifice and hardship, finally earns his shot, so for two grueling months he trains six days a week, six hours a day—jiu-jitsu, boxing, muay Thai—and on the appointed day he checks into his hotel, and next thing a pen light is flashing in his eyes while he begs the referee, “No, don’t, don’t stop it, I’m okay, I’m okay!”
But it’s over, this fight, his dream of a title, one hundred eighty-three seconds and now trainers, league officials, camera crews pour into the cage. A bloody glove cradles his neck. The champion hugs this man, this challenger, and kisses his forehead, then the champ steps to the microphone, and Joe Rogan’s questions go unheard amid the cheers. Staring over the camera, forget about what our champion is supposed to say, because what he’s thinking is, These pay-per-view numbers better kill it, ’cause I’m getting that pad in Miami [and] oh damn, those girls in the third row, let’s get this over with before the arena clears, ’cause I got this suite till Monday…
“I’d just like to thank my coaches and team,” the champ carefully says because he’s learned that even the slightest misstep spawns a headline, and with every title defense the spotlight brightens—
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
On November 12, 2011, MMA was thrust from the shadows and into the blinding sun. Since UFC 30 in February 2001, the first ragtag event after the Zuffa acquisition, Dana dreamed that one day, who cares if he didn’t have a PPV deal and who cares if his current productions sucked, one day a major network would broadcast the UFC like the NFL, and millions would watch … Of course he never uttered such a thing beyond closed doors because, hey, not even Nevada would sanction an MMA event, but they’ll see, one day—
Twelve years later, the day came, and when it did (via UFC on Fox 1), we were packed in an SUV, driving to the arena in Anaheim, California, for the event’s heavyweight title fight between Cain Velasquez and Junior dos Santos, broadcast live on Fox Network—yes, home of the Super Bowl and The Simpsons. Dana stared out the tinted window at the looming Honda Center. “Bro, I can’t believe it. We’ve been working toward this for so long, it feels like a dream.”
A month earlier, to announce the historic partnership, a cadre of UFC and Fox brass filed into the broadcast studios: Dana White, Lorenzo Fertitta, David Hill, Eric Shanks, Joe Rogan, Rashad Evans, Chuck Liddell, Frankie Edgar, Georges St-Pierre.
“This [sport] is going to get bigger, and bigger, and bigger,” David Hill, Fox Sports guru and industry titan, told the cameras. “This is just the beginning. I can’t overemphasize the way this sport has gone from niche to mainstream in just ten years …”
But there is no yin without yang, and the increased publicity ratcheted up the pressure.
Night of the fight: Dana paces the dressing room, texting with one hand, while speaking to a reporter on the couch. A news crew sets up lights. Caterers arrange food trays on the table. He leans close and shows me his assistant’s iPhone screen: “Look at this, over fourteen million fans tweeted about the fight. The ratings should fucking kill.”
Three hours later: the arena is packed. Bruce Buffer announces champion Cain and challenger JDS. The ref signals. The fighters shuffle to the center, and slowly circle, feeling the distance. Cain throws a lazy kick. Junior answers with a jab. First dance jitters, and more than any other weight class this pitter-patter is warranted because when a heavyweight cracks you in the skull, good night.
Hands raised, Cain presses forward, trying to engage the elusive JDS, and as the tension builds—something’s gotta happen, right? I mean, come on, these are two of the baddest motherfuckers on the planet—JDS lunges an overhand right—and understand, I’ve stood next to the guy, his hands are mallets hanging from thick branches, and at six-foot-four and 240, forget the metaphors, he swings and connects, it’s over—JDS lunges that overhand right. Cain collapses. Junior leaps atop him and drops more shots. The ref pushes him off. And at just 1:04 of the first round, the fight’s over.
That’s it?!
All the hype, all the billboards lining the 405, all the press releases and media events. Done in sixty-four seconds.
Kneeling cageside with the other photographers I glance around. Half the arena cheers, the rest cover their mouths, gasping. A Fox producer, seated next to Rogan, rolls his eyes.
Thirty minutes later: Dana again paces the dressing room, only now, “That was the worst fucking possible outcome. Fuck. The guy’s a world-class wrestler, why the hell’s he trying to box!”
A week later, not so bad: six million homes in the United States watched the broadcast, along with another twenty-two million in Brazil.
Welcome to the Brave New World. A world with more media, more scrutiny, more wagging fingers, more reasons to think long and hard before you speak or tweet or act. In this new world, by the time a fighter scales the mountain and seizes the belt from that pinnacle, he or she has given countless interviews and seen his or her answers twisted, cherry-picked, and reassembled, so now he or she is a black belt in regurgitating soundbites for hours all while revealing nothing…
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
The Stare-down: Nate Diaz vs. Benson Henderson.
Benson Henderson vs. Nate Diaz.
Chris Weidman, outside his hotel room half an hour after his historic defeat of Anderson Silva.
GSP, “The Gladiator.”
Renan Barão, enjoying the view.
Junior Dos Santos.
Jon Jones shoulders the weight.
Georges St-Pierre: “I don’t like doing [media interviews] … no seriously, I despise it … I like you guys, but I don’t like doing this … it’s not you I don’t like, it’s that—basically, people who know me, I’ve been repeating the same thing fifty times every week, it’s like a computer in my head: bap bap bap … I don’t like it, but it’s part of my job, I have to do it. Every job is not perfect.”
Frankie Edgar: “I try not to think about it—I just want to win the next fight because that takes care of everything. It sounds simple, but it is simple. If you try to put too much pressure on winning, you get overwhelmed … of course I fight to be number one, and when you get that belt it’s like, we did it, but it’s not about the recognition. I’m a private kind of guy. It’s really about the feeling: after you train so hard, and it all comes together, you knock a guy out or earn a hard-fought win, it’s that satisfaction.”
Vitor Belfort: “Of course my goal is to get another shot at the championship and train [a full camp] for it. When I fought Anderson I trained, but with Jon Jones I was a replacement—it wasn’t my championship. I prepared as much as I could, and what’s crazy, I had the
fight in my hands, I was winning, I had the chance to take it, but I made mistakes. After a long career I still make mistakes, so my focus now is just to have fun and finish stronger than I started.”
Ronda Rousey: “I don’t feel any different fighting for the title because losing at anything, even sparring, inside feels like dying, like the end of the world. When I was twelve and lost the finals of the Junior [Judo] Nationals, I locked myself in my bedroom for a week and barely ate. Whether it’s a high school gym or millions watching pay-per-view, I hate to lose.”
B.J. Penn: “When I won that first belt, it happened so fast and so easy, I could not believe it. Before then I fought ten full rounds for the lightweight title and lost both fights, and here I win the fucking welterweight title in just two minutes. It didn’t feel real. I remember Dana putting the belt around me, I was like, I’m never taking this off, I’ll sleep with it every night … but a couple days later I didn’t look at it again. That’s the way things are. After winning the belt I thought, That’s it, my whole life’s done, I will never have to accomplish another thing. So funny. I actually looked at the belts more this last month than I have in my whole life, because with the kids I’ve been hanging around my mom’s house more, and that’s where I keep them.”
Rory MacDonald: “I’m ready to be champion. My skill set is there; now it’s just a matter of experience. I’ll fight anyone.”
Benson Henderson: “I don’t think about the pressure. I’ve always treated every fight like it was for the title. And that helps. First time on the main card, first time as the main event, first time on Fox—there’s always another first with even more pressure, so you have to just train and fight. I want to be the best, so I have to fight the best and beat the best. It’s that simple.”
Cain Velasquez backstage, warming up.
9: WOMEN’S MMA
Ronda on set.
“How important it is for us to recognize and celebrate our heroes and she-roes!”
—MAYA ANGELOU
NO WAY. NEVER. NOT A CHANCE IN F——HELL. For years, this was Dana White’s position on promoting a female fight in the UFC. Yet, on December 6, 2012, during a press conference in Seattle for the Fox 5 card, Dana signaled Ronda up to the podium and handed her a shimmering UFC championship belt—crowning her champion of the newly formed and vacant UFC women’s division.
So just what erased Dana’s line in the sand?
Some fans point to the ESPN magazine cover “The Body Issue” and its nude photo of Ronda swiveling toward the camera, fists encased in pink boxing wraps. Others say, No, watch her fights, she’s a beast, most guys couldn’t hang. But for me the answer came three months prior, the night I hurried into Mr. Chow, a Los Angeles bistro, and rushing through the tables I saw Dana White and, holy shit, Ronda Rousey.
Of course I knew her from interviews, websites, mingling at events, even watched her playful banter with Conan O’Brien—but I didn’t know know her. So I’m thinking, Dana, bro, dinner with Ronda Rousey for my birthday, how cool is that?
I pulled up a chair, clueless this was the dinner at which Dana would break the good news, and with all the charm I could summon, I flashed my gap-toothed grin her way.
“Yeah, I know he looks homeless,” Dana said, chopping my game at the knees. “But he’s my homie, and he lost his tooth—”
Great, the story. Most people either ignore the gap or some, the fearless few, flinch and finger their own grill before asking. As Dana rehashed the tale, Ronda sat with hands in lap, slack-jawed and glancing my way every few seconds. A good sign I should signal the waiter for drink.
“Fucking nuts, huh?” Dana grinned.
Ronda nodded.
“Uh, so how about that weird interview,” I blurted, trying to deflect—and what I meant was, that week a video had hit the Internet in which the reporter completely crossed the line with Ronda. “Your presence is, uh, amazing …” the guy said, “the attention you, uh, pay to the moment, makes my life, like, so much more fun right now …”
Ronda gazed at the ground, Is this dude really hitting on me? she seemed to think.
“That guy was weird as hell, right?” I said.
“Hold on.” Dana raised his palm. “Now I know that was strange, but I’m gonna defend the guy. It’s that thing—she’s got that thing that just sucks you in, and you can’t turn away.”
Dana is a promoter, and though he’d sworn up and down that no way, never, would women fight in the UFC, once he met her, once he saw how fans reacted to her interviews and fights, who was he to deny?
That was the answer—she had that thing.
After Dana broke the news during dinner at Mr. Chow, we head to the Sons of Anarchy (SOA) season 5 premiere in Westwood, California, where Ronda would first meet the media as part of the UFC family.
These nights are always a big deal. Hollywood studios need to hype their marquee shows and rope viewers into the new season, so the marketing engines redline to promote the premieres. And for SOA, FX network’s ratings darling, they roll out the red carpet.
We pull up to the theater. Spotlights roam the sky. Fans lean over barricades, calling to Ron Perlman, Kim Coates. The driver stops and we spill out.
“Yo, homie!” Theo Rossi rushes up and hugs Dana. They pose for pictures, and I drift to the side and wonder how the random attention must feel—personally reaffirming, or like living in a glass bottle, where every compliment echoes like the last. Oh man, Dana, I love what you’ve done for MMA … Theo, I’ve never missed an episode … Ronda, I can’t believe it’s really you, is there any way, I know you get this all the time, but is there any way I can get a picture?
Flashbulbs pop. The paparazzi scream, Ronda! Ronda!, for the moment ignoring Ryan Hurst, Charlie Hunnam, even Dana. To gauge a star’s wattage, on the red carpet just compare how often the paparazzi yell for their attention. Here! Ronda! No, here, over here!
Inside the cavernous theater I cram next to UFC fighter Brendan Schaub, who’s crammed next to fighter Shane Carwin. Shit flows downhill, so when Shane muscles Brendan for room, he muscles me. Hardly the birthday snuggle I was hoping for.
Kurt Sutter takes the stage. The bespectacled ponytailed creator of SOA thanks his cast and crew, wife Katy Seagal, and so on. The crowd cheers. The lights dim, and if you’re a fan of the show, you know the premiere is intense—so intense that during the final scene I nearly vomit prawns and walnuts onto Schaub’s blazer.
I watch through laced fingers. Dana’s shaking his head, and Ronda, she’s holding her mouth in shock. Which is ironic, the queen of arm-snapping grossed out by this bit of fiction.
Just two years prior Ronda entered her first amateur MMA bout. It was quick work. The ref signaled go and after a quick tussle she gripped Hayden Munoz’s arm between her thighs, and torquing the limb straight, then a few degrees into the pain zone, she forced the tap. No cageside onlookers would realize it at the time, but this submission would define her career. Over the next two years Ronda faced an impressive array of challengers, and she made swift work of them all.
11/12/2010 Autumn Richardson Round 1 0:57 seconds Armbar
01/07/2011 Taylor Stratford Round 1 0:24 seconds Armbar
03/27/2011 Ediene Gomes Round 1 0:25 seconds Armbar
06/17/2011 Charmaine Tweet Round 1 0:49 seconds Armbar
08/12/2011 Sarah D’Aleio Round 1 0:25 seconds Armbar
11/18/2011 Julia Budd Round 1 0:39 seconds Armbar
03/03/2012 Meisha Tate Round 1 4:27 seconds Armbar
08/18/2012 Sarah Kaufman Round 1 0:54 seconds Armbar
02/23/2013 Liz Carmouche Round 1 4:49 seconds Armbar
If you want real-world intense, watch the video of Ronda dismembering Meisha Tate’s arm—back arched, tweaking the elbow until the skin whitens, ready to pop! Now that will turn your stomach; it was so intense that fans nominated it the “2012 Submission of the Year.”
If all this sweaty grappling and bone-breaking seems rather “un-girlish,” realize that Ronda w
as raised in a dojo, climbing gym bars, sitting matside while mom (Ann Maria Rousey DeMars) swept the ’84 World Judo Championships, becoming the first American to earn gold.
Those are big shoes to fill, especially when Mom also earned several post-judoka academic degrees. With the trophies, medals, M.B.A., M.A., and Ph.D. diplomas on the walls, there was scant room for dolls in this house. But it was Dad, Ron Rousey, not Mom, who dreamt of seeing Ronda on the Olympic podium, and it was Dad who shuttled her to practices and swimming meets—that’s right, our future hero started in the swimming pool, not the dojo.
Then her world imploded. At just eight years old. Standing atop a snow-packed hill, she watched her father’s sled race down the path, careen, and plow into a snowbank. The soft snow shrouded a log, and though he walked away from the crash, the damage to his back prompted doctors to insert a steel rod to stabilize the injury. Nevertheless, his spine began deteriorating, and doctors next gave him a terminal sentence: in just a year he would lose the use of his legs, then his entire body, and within two years the deterioration would kill him. Always active, so involved with his daughters, he didn’t want them to forever carry the image of him wasting away in a hospital bed. So he took his life, and Ronda’s rock, her mentor, her daddy, was gone.
Top: Ronda warms up under the watch of Manny Gamburyan.
Bottom: Ronda Rousey versus Liz Carmouche.
