by Mark Hunt
You probably know me well enough by now to know that I don’t respond to threats particularly well. After telling Dixon to relay the message that the entire K-1 organisation could go fuck itself, I was in my car and away. I was barely out of Dixon’s driveway when he called and asked if I’d do it for a hundred grand.
‘First class and two hundred and fifty. That’s all there is,’ I said, before hanging up.
I was barely out of Dixon’s street when he called back again and said we had a deal. As I drove off it occurred to me that I’d just earned $190,000 specifically because I didn’t listen to my bloody manager. I started thinking about the first contract I’d signed with the K-1, and wondered whether retaining Dixon as my manager really had been the best thing to do.
When I boarded my flight for Paris, who would I find next to me in first class but Dixon, who had somehow managed to negotiate himself a first-class seat too.
It turned out the flights were the best part of that trip. We were in Paris in the height of summer and the place was hot, smelly and the people didn’t give a shit about me. In Japan I’d been loved by some and respected by all, but when I walked past Parisians, they just saw another thug.
The fight wasn’t much fun, either. My hand didn’t give me any issues but after receiving a light jab from Le Banner in the first round, my vision got all blurry. I went through that fight next to blind and even though I managed to drop Le Banner in the second round, he was picking me apart with long kicks and jabs that I was seeing only a microsecond before they thudded into me.
When I went into my corner after the second round, the fight doctor asked whether I could continue. I said I absolutely could. Even though I was almost blind, I had already dropped that big croissant once. I could do it again.
Dixon disagreed and threw in the towel. Now you might be wondering where a manager gets off making such decisions during a fight, and if you are, you’d probably understand a little bit of the volcanic rage that emanated from Hape as soon as the linen hit the canvas. Not to mention from me.
Soon Hape and Dixon turned their anger outward, at Le Banner’s corner, accusing them of putting some sort of substance on their fighter’s gloves that had blinded me. There was a short search for the Frenchman’s gloves, which his corner said they’d thrown into the crowd. There was no finding them.
All I wanted was to get out of France. I was done with that fight, I was done with my team, and I was done with Le Banner.
I actually had no problem with Le Banner. If something had been put on his gloves, it was done to win a fight. I understood that. What I didn’t understand was where I stood with Dixon and the K-1 organisation and even Hape – all the people who pushed for this fight I said I didn’t want.
The flight home was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and my faith in Dixon. We had dinner on the plane and at the end of the meal we were served some miniature fine cheeses, one of which looked like a red, oversized pill. It didn’t look like the other cheeses so I left it for last, unsure of what to do with it.
When I saw Dixon pop that cheese into his mouth I followed suit, but I found it wasn’t yielding as deliciously as the other cheeses had. It was tough, chewy and unpleasant.
As I watched Dixon pull the wax out of his teeth I realised my relationship with this guy was coming to an end. I was supposed to be the one who did the fighting and my manager was supposed to be the one who did everything else, which should have included knowing that you take the wax off before you eat the first-class cheese.
Chapter 10
AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND
2002
Mark was a huge favourite for the Japanese people. He never asked for the bright lights, and never talked himself up. He’s the nicest man you can meet on the street, but if you hit him in the chin, you wake a demon. The Japanese loved that. They still do.
KONISHIKI YASOKICHI, FRIEND AND FIRST NON-JAPANESE SUMO TO REACH THE RANK OF OZEKI
I didn’t go into my second K-1 Grand Prix with any intention of defending my title. I didn’t intend not to, either; it was just that the four months after the Paris flight flew by and I wasn’t counting the days leading up to the GP by training sessions, but by calls to Dixon asking for my money back.
Jules and I had decided it was time to move out of the apartment that Hape had arranged for us, and buy our own place. Back then I had no understanding of mortgages or brokers: I thought the only way to buy a place was the way I did it with my parents’ house – hand over the cash amount whole, as you might buy a sandwich or a beer.
Dixon had stopped returning my calls after we got back from Paris and I was growing more and more annoyed, especially when news stories started emerging about how David Tua had been ripped off by his manager, and there was nothing Tua could do to get his money back.
One day I called Dixon’s place and Ray answered. I told Ray to tell Dixon that he’d better get my fucking money together, and soon.
‘You gave money to Dixon?’ Ray laughed down the line. ‘Was it money to pay back what Dixon owes me?’
I didn’t know what the money had been for, but I was now convinced it wasn’t for a slam-dunk business opportunity as he’d originally said. Maybe Dixon was paying back debts to Ray; maybe he was paying off gambling debts – which I’d heard he had a problem with – or maybe it was to pay for his new house. Whatever the reason, he owed me.
I didn’t want to go around there – because if I did there was a serious possibility Dixon might end up with a fork in his eye, but I did want the debt settled right now. My anger over the situation simmered until one day, when I was having drinks with some mates who had previously been very useful in settling such situations, it bubbled over. I told these blokes about my predicament.
‘We can put that motherfucker in a car boot for you if you like? If he has any money, he’ll give it to you then, I promise that,’ one of the guys said.
I seriously considered the offer. While it was seductive, it was an old-me solution. I didn’t want to be involved with any more criminal shit; I wanted to be a civilian and deal with things the way civilians did. Besides, if Dixon was getting stuffed into the boot of a car, I hated to think someone else would get the pleasure of doing it.
A few days after that drink I walked into a legal practice in Campbelltown and told a lawyer about what had happened. A few weeks later Dixon’s lawyers and mine were sitting across from one another, discussing terms.
I found out that mine was a long way from being the only debt Dixon had accrued and after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing with his lawyers, my people recommended taking a lesser sum, as the full $300,000 may not ever be recoverable. I asked for two hundred grand. Dixon baulked, but what sealed it was when I held up a newspaper with the story about David Tua and his manager on the cover.
‘That could be you, Dixon,’ I said to him. ‘Do you want to be in the paper?’
We got an offer for a little more than $170,000 and, after a strong recommendation from my lawyers, I took the cash. When the time came to sign the agreement I looked at this slimy bastard who’d tried to take off with my cash and saw two things: a lack of remorse on his mug and an expensive-looking watch on his wrist.
‘I’ll take that too,’ I said of the watch.
Dixon was shocked, but he handed it over. He knew I wasn’t fucking around.
When Ben, the guy who’s helping me put this book together, approached Dixon about the debt, Dixon said he had no recollection of this event. His version of events was that he borrowed the three hundred grand, and then paid it back – simple as that.
I messaged Dixon when I heard this, saying I was sorry he’d had the opportunity to tell his part of the story, but chose to keep lying. I really was sorry, too. I wasn’t angry, but sad. I felt for the guy. He obviously got caught up in some shit he couldn’t handle, and I’m not just talking about his debt to me.
I hope Ray Sefo will get to that point one day too, where he can simply pity Dixon. It might take a while,
though. Those two were like family, until Ray found out a trust account he thought had between $200,000 and $400,000 in it was actually $7000 in arrears. Dixon was accessing the funds without Ray’s knowledge. Ray told Kiwi paper Sunday News that he – ‘pray[s] for Dixon’s soul every day, because he’s going to end up in hell’.
By the time I headed to Japan to qualify for the defence of my K-1 Grand Prix title, I was without a manager and considerably less prepared than I’d been the year before. To be honest, though, I didn’t really care that much about what happened. I’d already won the Grand Prix, I was already contracted and I was already a big name in Japan.
The previous year there had been a number of different ways a fighter could pick up a berth for the Grand Prix, but now there was just one – succeed in a single elimination tournament at the newly opened Saitama Super Arena. The sixteen best fighters would be invited, with half going into the main event a couple of months later.
I was drawn against Mike Bernardo, and even though my training had been almost non-existent I was pretty confident of getting over him. He fought pretty well in what ended up being a lethargic fight. I was the aggressor, but I didn’t fight a particularly nuanced fight, basically just trying to butter him up with jabs and put some right-hand finishing bombs on him. I never managed to get one on him in the three regular rounds, and he got some good counter shots in.
While the judges made their deliberations I thought my campaign might be over before it had even begun, but they called a draw. In the extra round I did find that big swing, dropping him and taking the decision win. I almost felt like apologising to Mike when the announcer said my name.
Oh well, on we go.
In the press conference preceding the big event, the Japanese media wanted to know what kind of training I was doing for my defence.
‘I’m mostly concentrating on sleep training,’ I said.
There were follow-ups of course.
‘Hunto-san, can you please tell me how you do this sleep training?’
‘Yeah, basically what you do is you think about training really, really hard, and when you think you can’t think about it anymore, then you go to sleep.’
The newspaper stories the next day talked about hyper-baric chambers and visualisation and the power of extreme concentration. I do love the Japanese.
I guess it was true that visualisation had helped me win the last Grand Prix, but when I walked into the Tokyo Dome for my second GP I wasn’t thinking about Jérôme Le Banner’s head and how it could be removed, I was thinking about what kind of meal I was going to have when the night was over. I’d found a good steak place close to where we were staying, and when I walked into the ring to fight my first opponent, Stefan Leko, the German–Croatian I’d beaten the year before, I was thinking about whether I was going to have mushroom or pepper sauce.
Stefan kicked the shit out of my legs in that fight. I was heavier than the year before and less mobile than I should have been when the fight began, but after battering my thighs, knees and calves with heavy kicks in the first round, I was moving around like a mummy. I still had my little power-dash, though. I know I don’t look like I do, but I’ve always had a couple of those in me in a round. I’m plodding towards you and then all of a sudden I’m up on you like cholesterol.
I’m not sure what the scoring would have been in the first two rounds of that fight, but it became academic when, in the third round, I threw a little left hook that caught the German flush on the nose, sending him to the ground. He stumbled to neutral corner and tried to take the mandatory eight count, but mid-count found himself once again on the floor, with his scone lolling around like a bobble-head.
That was that. On we go.
Almost as soon as the fight finished the bruises came – blue, black and purple patches spreading up and down from my knee. As they grew the news came that my next opponent would be Jérôme Le Banner.
This frickin’ guy!
A long, strong fighter with some of the most vicious leg kicks in the world, Jérôme could do some serious damage to my legs if he wanted to.
‘Reckon he’ll have a go at these?’ I asked Hape, pointing to my bruises.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ he asked.
Me? Nah, I’d probably still try for his chin.
My question was answered in the first second of the fight. When we got to the middle, I put my hand out so he could meet it with a glove touch, but not only did he leave me hanging, he threw a heavy right kick, straight to my knee.
Okay then you big French prick, let’s do this.
I leapt and put a nice big opening flurry on him but he weathered it pretty well. We traded fairly evenly, until, late in the first round, he swung a right leg kick that I checked, but instead of feeling the slap of his shin against mine, I heard and felt a snap, as though an elastic band had broken in my knee.
When I put my foot back down my leg wobbled and I almost went to the canvas. From then I couldn’t push off the leg. I knew something serious was up. So did Jérôme, who proceeded to batter that leg at every opportunity. Each time I checked one of his kicks, a pulse of heat spread through my body. Something was really jacked up.
When I got back to my corner I told Hape what was going on, and he said I would probably have to get the KO if I was going to win. That was always Hape’s strategy, but in this instance it seemed like prudent advice.
When I got back out there for the second round, I was street fighting. Every punch was thrown with a view to separating Le Banner’s head from his neck, with wild intent. Some whooshing punches flew just past his nose, which brought gasps from the crowd, but not the decapitating effect I was looking for.
For the rest of the fight Le Banner did his thing, banging the shit out of my leg and tagging me with fast punches while I lumbered past him, then scooting away before I could retaliate. I grew more and more frustrated, until I ended up hip-throwing him on the ground in the clinch. He responded by getting up and throwing a heavy step-kick that landed flush on my injured knee. I crumpled to the ground.
I was fresh out of ideas. I was up against the ropes for much of the second round and, at one point, I walked into the corner and put my hands on the ropes to support myself. When Le Banner came at me, I braced myself on the ropes and threw a vaulting front kick.
Needless to say that didn’t work.
Near the end of the fight I was about as mobile as a Romero zombie, and my only chance was to wait for the Frenchman to walk into my danger zone. Just after the strikes marking that there were ten seconds left in the fight, he did. I threw the combo I’d been looking for all fight – a left uppercut that landed in his armpit and a right hook that smashed right across his jaw. He fell to the floor, but he did manage to get himself up again as the final bell was tolling. With blood streaming from his nose and mouth, he raised his hands high. The Frenchman had taken the match, properly avenged his GP loss and had pretty much ended my K-1 career.
When Le Banner went into the final, his only loss over his last 22 fights had been against me the year before. Once again, however, it wouldn’t be his year, losing in the final to Ernesto Hoost.
It had been an old-guard final, but there were two new fighters on the scene, who were knocked out in the early rounds, who would represent what K-1 would soon become. Those men were Bob Sapp – a 180-kilogram former NFL player who looks like a huge condom crammed full of walnuts, and Semmy Schilt – a seven-foot giant with destructively long and heavy limbs.
By 2002, K-1 was losing traction to Pride so its organisers had started appealing to the Japanese appreciation of pageantry to stay relevant.
The relationship between Pride and K-1 was delicate and complicated. They were fiercely competitive organisations, but also often shared the same TV partner and were required to come together in huge co-productions, with the first such event being known as K-1 Dynamite! or Pride Shockwave, depending on whom you speak to.
Held a few months before the 2002 K-1 Grand Prix, K-1 Dynamite
! was mounted on a scale that is still yet to be surpassed for a mixed martial arts event. Ninety-one thousand people crammed into the open-air Tokyo National Stadium for a night of spectacle (they even had an opening ceremony, with a torch relay that ended when Hélio Gracie, the great progenitor, re-lit the Olympic cauldron) and fights, some of which were held under K-1 rules, and others under Pride rules, which are very similar to the rules the UFC uses now.
When I saw those Pride fights I was intrigued. It was a whole new style of fighting: smaller gloves, fewer rules, no stopping because the fighters had ended up in a grapple or had fallen to the floor. It seemed much closer in style to the kind of fighting I’d experienced in South Auckland.
The other factor governing the relationship between Pride and K-1 was their dealings with the Japanese underworld, known as the yakuza. None of us gaijin knew exactly what was going on behind closed doors, but every so often we’d see a glimpse of the underlying structure of the two fighting organisations and, sometimes, as was the case when my K-1 contract came to an end, we even saw the full force of what the yakuza were willing to do to achieve their desired outcomes.
Before any of that, though, I had a snapped posterior cruciate ligament to deal with. When I limped backstage after the Le Banner fight, my knee began swelling up quite badly. The fight doctor sorted me out with some painkillers for the night, but that was pretty much it for treatment for a good few months.
I’ve never been one for complaining about injuries, and this was no different. My knee got more and more swollen as the days passed, but I assumed this was like any other little niggle you might pick up after fighting twice in a day. Turns out it wasn’t, though.
Before the 2002 GP, Julie and I had made plans to go out and see a bit of the world after the tournament. When I won the GP in 2001, I also won a first-class trip to Japan for two, which we managed to exchange for multiple business-class flights. This enabled us to bring some friends to Japan for the GP, but it also meant the two of us could fly on to the US and Europe when the tournament was done.
