It’s really not about how much weight you can lift over your head. If your prime movers can generate five hundred pounds of pressure, but your stabilizers can only support one hundred pounds of pressure, you’re in trouble. In a worst-case scenario, you may only move a hundred pounds. This is not good at all, because there are rarely any good-case scenarios in the heat of intense, top-level competition. As soon as your stabilizers are outmatched, the whole house of cards is going to come down, hard. This means total collapse, and often the result is injury, epic failure, or both.
If you can squat a ton and bench-press five hundred pounds and you don’t believe me, go running across an ice rink. Try to reach full speed, and then try to stop. You can’t. You can’t, but your amazing strength is still there. What is it doing for you? Nothing. The ice doesn’t let you generate any force. Balance, on the other hand, equals stability. Stability, in this case, is about getting a grip. So get a grip first.
The same is true in martial arts. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, for example, is the science of using body weight. So one of the things I’ve been doing in training—we call this the Firas Way because he’s the first one to have thought of it—is to kick and punch into the high pads while standing on a balancing board. The key is to maintain balance while generating power.
True power is generating force from all positions, in all situations.
MENTOR: He does everything he wants to do, he’ll have fun all night if he wants to, but then he’ll train. He’s even tricked me into it once.
We were in London at a training camp, and on the Saturday night, after three insane days of training, he told me: “Kristof, let’s go out tonight, let’s get loose and have fun, and tomorrow we’ll skip the workout. We’ve done enough this week, so tonight we party and drink vodka.” I remember thinking, Great. At long last, I get to have a few drinks, and we did.
But at five in the morning, when we’re heading back to our hotel, he grabs my shoulder and pulls me in and says, “Hey, Kristof, I lied to you about something.”
“What about?” I asked.
“Well, just know that I did it for your own good . . . But if I’d told you all those hours ago that on Sunday morning we’d still be training, and that the television cameras are coming to film the sparring session tomorrow, and that you’ll be Royce Gracie’s sparring partner in the ring, you’d have never come out with us to party.”
I couldn’t believe it, I went nuts! “Mon esti de tabarnak,” I said, swearing in the French-Canadian dialect. I was drunk, tired and worried. So I went to the bathroom and stuck my finger down my throat, and he just told me not to worry so much. I threw up, we slept an hour, we got up, I felt like crap, we did our sparring and training, we put on a good show, and then we went to eat and sleep. I learned something from him: that if he only had his regimen and his discipline, he’d not have any life in him. He needs to go out and live those moments because they confirm his humanity. This guy has been able to combine a great personal life with the requirements of life as champion, even drunk at 5 a.m. I’ve tried to keep up with him and his going-out habits, but I can’t do it. Not like him. Nobody I’ve known can.
And now that he’s champion and the best in the world, he’s even worse. It’s like a boss who gets to the office before all of the staff and stays late at night to be sure he sees the door close at the end of the day—he’s obsessed.
Georges’s secret is no secret at all. He just has to get up every morning and go to work. Like any other businessman. I have never seen him miss a day of training. Not once has he said, “Hey, I’m tired,” or “I’m hurt,” or “I’m not sure,” or “This part of my body is in pain, let’s take today off.” We’ve never postponed a workout. We’ve acted like we’ve had nothing else to do, since forever. He hasn’t moved from this position by a centimeter—he’s had the same dedication, and now it’s even better because he’s grown. He’s more precise. Before, we didn’t really know what to do; we just did whatever came up. Now he knows. Georges knows he’s alone in this.
I just wouldn’t be where I am without Kristof. He’s my first sensei. A true ronin. His life is extraordinary. He was an inspiration for me. He had so many obstacles against him, he never got the chance to be a champion. I believe he would have been a great champion; he could have made it. But he paid for his mistakes, and he paved the way for me.
MENTOR: In the time it takes a good athlete to have one good workout in the gym, he’s put himself through three different training sessions. And he’s showered, and he’s out before you. I’ve observed him do it—here’s how it goes: while people were warming up and chatting, nobody saw Georges do exercises with two other guys for fifteen, twenty minutes. Then he did the big training with the group and, when everybody else goes to the shower, he does another individual training session for about twenty minutes. And then he somehow grabs his bag and showers and is ready to go before everyone else. And if you don’t watch him intently, you don’t notice it. I’ve been watching him for years. He takes everything you throw at him, and then he does more. He pushes himself harder than even you can in your own mind. Think about that.
Kristof was a true legend where I came from. MMA wasn’t a big deal in those days, and there weren’t a lot of international guys like Kristof, guys with knowledge and experience and wisdom. I knew I wanted to train with the very best available, and he was the only one at his level, so when I saw him walking down the street that day, on St-Laurent in downtown Montreal, I had to chase him. To be honest, I’ve always kind of wondered why he took me in. I think it’s because he’s just naturally a nice, generous person.
Photo Section
Even on my bike I was a martial artist.
Eight years old and dreaming of ninjas.
My best friend when I was growing up.
My sister blocking me much too easily.
“Submitting” dad.
As a kid, my idol was Wayne Gretzky, “The Great One.”
Proudly showing my first black belt, with my sensei Jean Couture.
Becoming a mixed martial artist with Kristof Midoux.
Celebrating my first championship belt (UCC) with my mom.
With Kristof—even the toughest warriors have a gentle side!
JOHANN VAYRIOT/KARATÉ BUSHIDO
My first weigh-in as a UFC fighter with my opponent, Karo Parisyan (left), and UFC President Dana White (center). JOHANN VAYRIOT/KARATÉ BUSHIDO
Ready to fight Matt Serra again at UFC 83. ERIC WILLIAMS
Relieved and happy after regaining my championship belt at UFC 83—I’m back!
JOSH HEDGES/ZUFFA LLC/UFC/GETTY IMAGES
A gift from the UFC that made my father, Roland, very happy.
From St-Isidore to hanging out at the Grammy Awards.
JON KOPALOFF/FILMMAGIC/GETTY IMAGES
Another day at work at the Tristar GYM! ELIDA ARRIZZA/SID LEE
BOOK 3
MASTER
The Transition Book
WITH
JOHN DANAHER, BRAZILIAN JOIU-JITSU TEACHERS
After hearing I needed that surgery, I felt the fear as it took over my body, my brain, my being.
I felt it in my gut, an ugly, shitty feeling, and I sensed it creeping up and tightening my chest and squeezing my throat. I don’t know how I remained standing. I don’t know if I leaned on the wall or sat in a chair or started walking toward a door so I could breathe, I was so overwhelmed.
I went down the list of horrible thoughts. I started wondering if I was ever going to fight again. If I would ever defend my title again. If I would ever stand in front of my fans and feel the rush I get from their screams. If I would ever fight the way I know I can, the way I always have, the only way I know how. I saw myself slowing down, getting hit. I sensed a loss in impact, in rhythm, in timing. I wouldn’t explode into an opponent ever again. No more Superman punch. No more takedowns. No more submissions. No more grappling or wrestling or lunging or evading. No more fighting. Or winning. No more champion.
No more me.
All these things flashed through my mind at that fearful moment.
Fear, once you get used to it, can be mastered. You can tame fear, and I knew that. It can take some time and you can go through some pretty bad moments, but at some point fear is going to get tired or overconfident, and you can take it down. But this wasn’t that time.
MASTER: A good way to understand my first meeting with Georges St-Pierre is to understand its mundane nature. I was teaching a beginner’s class at Gracie’s Gym in New York City. Georges came in and was immediately conspicuous by his lack of English. He was only a blue belt in those days, relatively inexperienced. He joined in, clumsily, but with enthusiasm. He had what I would describe as above-average athletic potential, but by no means was he spectacular. I’ve had numerous athletes with far greater ability than him.
I was seventeen years old, I had just arrived in New York City, I didn’t have any money and I was intimidated. I was going into a crack neighborhood, before the cleaner years. It wasn’t a full-on ghetto, but I’d never seen that kind of place. But I walked in there, into the Gracie gym, seeking knowledge. They let me in.
MASTER: At the end of the drilling session, we commenced live training. Students would face off against each other. At that point in his career, Georges applied himself well against the beginners, but his overall skill was unexceptional. When he rolled with more advanced athletes, he was overwhelmed. But he was not intimidated. Rather, he seemed delighted by it. Most people, when they encounter defeat, experience a diminishing in their enthusiasm. Yet, as Georges encountered defeat, his enthusiasm only grew.
I couldn’t speak a lick of English, and every fighter in the place wanted a go at me, the new guy. That’s the way it is in a gym—a real fighting gym. A new guy walks in and everybody wants a shot at him. I got my ass kicked many times. The kind of practice we participated in is called randori. Essentially, it means freestyle practice of one-on-one sparring. The goal is to resist and counter the opponent’s techniques. The Japanese translation of the word randori is “chaos-taking,” or “grasping freedom.” Well, they almost fought over me. I suffered my share of whoopings. I ate a lot of randori, let’s say. I was really discouraged at first, but I went there to learn Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, to learn the art of fighting on the ground from the experts. Those guys really are the best in the world.
MASTER: Many of us, when we picture the meeting of great people at some pivotal point in their lives, we picture great events taking place. But this was noteworthy only in that it wasn’t noteworthy at all. A random beginner’s class, on a random day, during an unexceptional month. If anyone had walked into that class and seen the people rolling, there was not even a single thing that suggested that they were witnessing the early career of one of the greatest martial artists of all time. Nothing he did that first day was memorable. Nothing.
I found out a lot of things about myself that first day: mostly that I could get my ass kicked really good. I’ve had my butt handed to me many times in that place. I’m definitely not the king of that gym. But that’s why it’s so good.
If anything, I don’t ever want to start by being the king. It doesn’t work that way. A person can’t be good from the beginning. You have to go through the stages of learning, the tests, and learn from them. You need to grow. These guys had been doing this a long time, and on the day I got there, I didn’t want to beat them. I wanted to work hard and learn from them so that I could improve.
At John’s dojo, there was a guy named Sean Williams. After I’d been there a few times, he called me over and told me I was very raw material, very athletic, and that he felt he could do something with me. So I chose to believe and trust him. He said all I was missing was technique. This was tough to hear for me because I was used to “taking care” of guys much bigger than me in Montreal—it really put a dent in the ego. My pride suffered hugely.
But it wasn’t just talk. In those days, despite the fact that he was smaller than me, when he and I fought, Sean would easily finalize me six or seven times in five minutes. That’s more than once a minute, which is clearly inferior and pathetic. And to top off the humiliation, my girlfriend at the time—who had come to New York a couple of times and watched us spar—told me Sean was very good-looking. Let’s just say I started going to New York alone after that trip.
But Sean was the only guy who didn’t target me; his students did that. Despite finalizing me so easily so many times, Sean was the one telling me not to be discouraged because he could see in my eyes that I was losing hope. I was ready to quit, but he caught me just in time. We’re still friends and we train together when I’m in Los Angeles. I affectionately call him my worst nightmare. He still can’t believe I almost quit back in the day, and he still reminds me of that all the time!
Humility is the first rule of martial arts. Either you learn humility quickly, or you leave because your ego can’t handle losing repeatedly. I don’t like losing—nobody does, especially in front of your girlfriend or your buddies (or millions of people watching on pay-per-view television). But it’s good to realize you’re not always as strong as you thought. It’s good in the long run.
MASTER: Everyone begins at the bottom, even someone as talented as Georges. No one who witnessed that meeting would have guessed that they were looking at a future superstar. Our initial meeting shows just how far a human being can progress through the combination of will and time. Georges St-Pierre is possessed of a tremendously strong will.
John Danaher eats only once a day. He trains seven days a week in eight-hour stretches. I don’t know why. He’s just that way. He’s the cleverest person I know. A true intellectual, a singularly interesting man, and just a special person.
MASTER: He was coming by bus, nine, ten hours from Montreal, to study Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. He was staying in dilapidated and physically uncomfortable living conditions, in flophouses across various New York ghettos. He shared rooms with people who smoked drugs. He was coming to a country where he spoke almost nothing of the language. On a garbageman’s salary and at considerable personal expense, he was seeking to better himself. That points immediately to the strength of his will and the strength of his vision. I didn’t learn that on the first day, but I learned it soon enough, in the coming weeks and months.
The very first time I was in New York City, I lasted two days. So that’s how I timed every other visit. I’d drive down from Montreal whenever I had three consecutive days off. Usually, I’d stay in this horrible hostel, and I’ll never forget it because I once shared a room with six kids visiting from Holland, and they’d smoke pot in the room all the time. It drove me nuts, and my gi smelled like weed, so I got angry one day and kicked them out of the room. I mean, I’d go to train and I smelled like a pot plant—all the guys in the gym teased me, it was terrible.
But I went to New York for a reason. Throughout my life, I’ve tried to continue on my knowledge path. I was lucky to understand early on that there were always more coaches in the world that I could learn from. Training with John Danaher and the Gracie family was of paramount importance. Renzo Gracie is a legend in our sport; the family’s legacy is without equal.
In those days, every dollar I made went to my training. I knew it would pay off; I just felt it. My expenses were gas, hotels, food and classes. I think it was $20 a day—nothing, really, when you think of it, when you think of what Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu gave me in return. Nothing, even though in those days I calculated my life in $5 increments.
I made it into a game. Someone had told me that following trucks was a good way to save on gas, so I’d follow trucks from Montreal to New York to save a few bucks on fuel. Eventually, I started timing my New York trips with Rodolphe, who would go in for work meetings. He’d fly and I’d drive. I’d sleep on the floor of his hotel room and train while he went to his meetings. I made it my goal to go there as much as possible and saturate my brain with all the best Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu knowledge anywhere in the world.
MASTER
: When most people are asked to explain what makes Georges different, most talk about his athletic ability. They say he’s a freak of nature, built out of muscle, and it’s his athleticism that makes him the best. I’ll tell you straight: Georges is above average in athleticism, but he’s nothing special. If Georges went to an NFL combine, he’d just be another guy. In fact, he’d be below the average at that level. Good jumping ability and explosiveness, but nothing crazy. I’ve seen many people with a better vertical jump than him. He has average endurance. Decent but not great flexibility. Average balance. He’s overall a good—but not great—athlete. No, it’s not his athleticism.
I’m fortunate to have a memory geared to my chosen profession. I can remember every single important detail of a fight and I can replay each moment in my head. My mind has always been like that. And then there are things my body does that are inexplicable but to me are second nature.
The brain has to be accustomed to being coordinated. This is how it learns to execute the movement. The brain must assimilate the movement before it can properly think of using it. The Superman punch? It starts with a fake kick, a hop, and is followed by a lunging punch. But it’s more than pure athleticism, as athleticism is traditionally defined.
Phil Nurse taught me the Superman punch. I’d had it in the arsenal for a number of years—every true fighter does—but I’d never got it right. Between my fights against Penn and Hughes, I was at Phil’s gym in New York—called The Wat, which means “temple” in Thai—and Phil saw straight away that there was nothing super in my technique. So he showed me, step by step, and we both soon discovered that it would become an important weapon in my repertoire.
The Way of the Fight Page 8
