The Way of the Fight

by Georges St. Pierre

  My mistakes torment me. I torture myself going over and over and over again about what I did wrong so that I never do it wrong ever again, and the result of my efforts to date has been a real reversal of fortune. I may have lost that first battle against Hughes, but I was fortunate enough to fight and beat him two more times afterward, so you could say I won the war.

  It’s all part of my process, what Firas calls my “premise.”

  There is an overarching premise for the “machine” my team and I are trying to build. We’ve been working on it for years now, and we spend a lot time discussing the big idea behind all my training and the things we need to do to bring us closer to the ultimate level. What I mean by “the ultimate level” is a system, like a machine, that performs to the best of its capacities in any situation. The purpose, of course, is to triumph inside the octagon.

  Before getting to the system itself, we need to understand that there are three ways to fight inside the octagon: standing, crouching, grappling. Regardless of the “way”—the preferred method for any individual—there is an even simpler truth: there are really only two kinds of fighters: the specialist and the generalist.

  The best example of the specialist may be Jon Jones. Jones has the longest reach of any fighter in MMA history. That makes him a striker—a freak of nature in many ways, one who can outstrike anybody. Anyone who stands against Jon and tries to exchange punches is in very deep trouble. Another good example of a specialist is Matt Hughes, who is lethal when he gets you on the ground to grapple or wrestle. That’s why I always tried to fight Matt Hughes standing up—on the ground, the advantage would always be his, as it was in our first fight.

  A specialist can be as dangerous as an all-around guy, and more so on some occasions because specialists are gifted. It’s in the name—they’re special. So a specialist is someone with an extreme gift—speed, power, reach, impulse, explosiveness—who turns it into a unique weapon.

  And then there is the generalist, which is what my whole system is based on. Firas often says, “The king of all styles is the antagonist.” By antagonist, he means generalist, someone who causes trouble from any of the fighting stances. The reason is simple: when you’re a generalist, you try to provoke your opponent so he gets out of his comfort zone, away from his specialty. I always aim to antagonize my opponent and dictate the rhythm of the fight, and where it will take place inside the octagon.

  So for a generalist, if you fight a wrestler, you have to box him. If you face a boxer, you have to wrestle him. This is the main premise to my system: whatever my opponent does best, I will try to take him to the other realm. I will try to take him out of his comfort zone and into mine, which can be any of the three ways of fighting. That’s what I did against Hughes in the two follow-up fights. I kept him away from his strength.

  Yet it takes more than just being a good all-around generalist to defeat a specialist. After all, he’s trying to get you into his space so that he can focus on his specialty, and at this stage in his career, he’s probably pretty good at it. Luckily, although the wrestlers are the kings of mixed martial arts, there is one advantage for the generalist: all fights start standing up. The wrestler needs to get close enough to you to bring you down to his strength, and that’s not always easy.

  We practice a lot of shootboxing to deal with ground specialists, because it’s the only way I know to dictate to a wrestler where the fight will be fought.

  The big lesson here is this one: fight his weaknesses and avoid his strengths.

  MAVEN: If they tried Georges’s training regimen, I think a lot of people would break down psychologically. It’s not for everybody. Not everybody can withstand it. There’s a reason that there’s only one Rome . . . if it was easy, they’d have built more of them!

  I have to make my training harder and more challenging than my next fight. The reason, quite simply, is to create extreme conditions to ensure that I’m ready for anything. So training with winners, with guys who are better than me at specific elements of martial arts, will make me a better all-around fighter. It will make me more rounded. I figured out a long time ago that I would never become the best at a single thing. I couldn’t be the fastest guy, or the strongest, or the most agile. But I discovered and understood how I could probably become the best all-around fighter and athlete, so I focused on that. I focused on my strengths.

  So I spend most of my time training with people who are better than me. Especially when I’m preparing for a fight. If my next opponent is an excellent wrestler, for example, I’ll spend a great deal of time practicing with wrestling experts who are better at it than I am. I’ll go to my Montreal wrestling coach Victor’s gym to face the best there is. Or if I’m up against a left-handed fighter who’s got a great left hook, I’ll spend many hours in the ring facing left-handers who pack a lot of power in their punch.

  One of the ways to get better is to focus on other people’s strengths and learn from them, which is why I like to train with specialists. Specifically, training with winners means that I always, always have to focus 100 percent, lest, quite frankly, someone—probably me—gets hurt. So, even in training, I can’t afford to dog it or take it easy, because not only will I be on my back all the time, I just might wind up with a torn ACL.

  Just the fact that I have to be at 100-percent focus triggers other training necessities. The first one is stress. If I have to go all out in training, it means constant stress and pressure to perform, to focus and to deliver. Even though I try to train with people better than myself at various aspects of the fight game, the last thing I want—when I’m in the gym, on the mat, in the ring or inside the octagon—is to be seen losing all the time. But learning how to handle that kind of stress—the stress to earn and keep people’s respect—makes me ready to handle other kinds of stress. We try to create situations that are out of the ordinary so that, after time and repetition, they become part of my routine. And then I keep elevating the intensity and build higher.

  MAVEN: Georges’s trainability is amazing. It is where he becomes unique, incomparable to any other fighter or athlete. It’s not about any one kind of mentality at this stage. The key is just being completely open-minded and immersed in learning, no matter the learning. With Georges, it’s never about liking or not liking a certain kind of training—it can’t be. And that’s the difference maker. Most people do what they like to do, and they avoid doing what they need to do. Mastering all forms of the fighting sciences is exceptionally difficult. Sometimes, it’s really unpleasant. It requires dedication and confidence, and a person who can absorb all the extra information. That’s Georges. He takes it all in, processes it and keeps the valuable information so he can use it anytime. The reality is that you don’t get to take that many breaks when you’re part of a great goal, and people need breaks from stuff, from life. Georges, though, he does it when he has to do it, not just when he feels like doing it.

  I have a friend who has a great idea about training. He says, “You don’t get better on the days when you feel like going. You get better on the days when you don’t want to go, but you go anyway.” This makes a lot of sense. It’s easy to go and train when you feel like it. Your body and your mind are in sync and they deliver because it feels so natural. But when your body is telling you it doesn’t want to go because it’s in pain or it’s tired, or when your mind is trying to convince you to go out drinking with friends or stay home and watch TV, this means trouble. But—and it’s a big but—if you can overcome the negative energy coming from your tired body or unmotivated mind, you will grow and become better. It won’t be the best workout you have, you won’t accomplish as much as what you usually do when you actually feel good, but that doesn’t matter. Growth is a long-term game, and the crappy days are more important.

  The best part is at the end of your workout on the crappy day. You feel better about yourself, happier and proud. Food tastes better and you feel like you earned the reward of a delicious protein shake or a healthy, reconstructi
ve meal. The best part is mental too, because now you know that you have the power and the resolve to vanquish negative thoughts and challenge yourself to do better. Knowing I’m in control means my foundation is strong, and that right there is an unstoppable force of energy.

  The next logical step of the process is confidence. When you understand how to piece the key elements of your training together, you become all-powerful in your mind. This kind of belief is inestimable and immeasurable. People who believe in themselves can accomplish almost anything. And one thing is for sure, they can become even more powerful—but it all begins with the attitude.

  MAVEN: I’ve seen Georges in his most honest hour. As strong as he is, as powerful and skillful and dominant as he has been, he trains so much because there’s a fear of losing. We train to eliminate all those vulnerabilities. The reality is that eliminating one vulnerability only reveals a new one. It may not be as bold or threatening as the previous one, but it’s there. Once we discover it, we must work to eliminate it. This is perfectly normal behavior, if you ask me, but it’s rare in people. Some guys think they’re so good, they don’t train as much as they should. Life wins against those guys. Georges is the opposite. It’s a painful experience, it’s constant torment, it’s the cycle of fear and how it walks alongside even the most fearsome individual. But it’s also what keeps Georges moving forward.

  A shift enters my world in the weeks and days before a fight, and I always feel a gradual pull toward the octagon. I sense a force, an energy source that moves and changes me. I believe this force turns me into the warrior I need to be to perform, to do my job, to fight in the octagon and to emerge the victor.

  I also know, better than most, that what I do for a living is different. I know it’s odd and distant to many people in the world. And I understand that most people have scarcely any idea of what exactly it is I’m doing in that ring, in tights and cut-off gloves, fighting for my livelihood. I know these things because I feel them. I’m aware of them in my sphere, my existence. I’ve been confronted by them ever since I wanted to fight, when my own parents questioned what I wished to do with my life.

  It’s why, in the days before a fight, I retreat into a space that is all my own. I fall back into a position, a preparation, that allows my mind and my soul to process what is about to happen. As the day of reckoning approaches, the truth is that I avoid most of my friends and family. I shun them. I avoid their calls. I ignore their messages. I can hardly stand to have them near me. I can’t have them and their normal lives impacting what is about to happen. I need to be near other warriors. I need their company, their presence, their aura, their chatter. Sometimes we talk, and other times we sit in total silence. But always, we are in the company of men who have entered the ring the same way I am about to: alone, vulnerable, fierce and determined.

  I need to be in contact with fighters who understand the feeling of facing another man in a physical confrontation. This kind of unique, epic battle against other martial artists demands time. A special kind of worship. So that my mind will allow me to fight, to strike and to vanquish. So that I can calibrate to what needs to be my normal. So I can enter the octagon.

  A lot of the prefight preparation is serious and, as above, almost spiritual. Visualization allows me to come in and out of focus, to turn my brain on and off and maintain a balance. To be prepared without overthinking.

  The rest of it is either boring—or funny. You can’t take yourself too seriously.

  As for the boring part, you’re trying to make weight, you’re sitting around with your coaches and other fighters, and you spend a lot of time in your hotel room, reading or watching movies. I get the funny part from all sorts of movies, our two favorites being select scenes from Full Metal Jacket and Kill Bill 2. Firas and I like the opening scene from Full Metal Jacket, when the drill sergeant greets the new recruits. It’s just crazy that there really are people like that in the world. Granted, the rest of the movie isn’t much of a comedy . . .

  Our favorite movie scene to watch before a fight is “Chapter 8: The Cruel Tutelage of Pai Mei,” from Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill 2. Essentially, it’s a surreal part of the story that addresses three key topics in martial arts, à la Tarantino: science, philosophy and, of course, fighting.

  A young woman whose character is named The Bride (played by Uma Thurman) meets Pai Mei, a grand master of kung fu. She tells him that she’s not completely untrained, that she’s an expert in the art of the samurai sword. The grand master smirks; she feels ridiculous. He scrutinizes her; she is reduced. He challenges her to a duel, promising to call her Master—if she defeats him. Obviously, she loses, and realizes that she’s like a worm fighting an eagle.

  It’s funny as hell, but if you go back and watch the scene, you’ll see it ties to the Socratic method: give me a premise that you believe in, and I will cross-examine you. You’ll say you know something, and I’ll cross-examine your conclusion. In the end, if there’s any contradiction, your premise becomes invalid. It means that if my line of thinking is wrong, my conclusion can’t be true.

  Over the years, Firas and I have discussed this many times. Our own understanding is that Socrates never claimed knowledge; he was pursuing it. He could never really be sure of anything except awareness of his own ignorance. It’s about how much higher an individual needs to go. No matter how good you are, you’re always relatively weak. In the film, The Bride eventually realizes that she knows nothing. Hence, the more I know, the less I know.

  I remember I once told Firas that I felt good and that I was in good shape. I was convinced I couldn’t get much more fit because I felt so strong. But I was mistaken. Instead of telling me that he disagreed and that I could be fitter, Firas did something different: he took me to see gymnasts and work out with them. I quickly discovered that my level of fitness was, in many ways, totally useless. I was strong, yet I couldn’t complete or properly execute any of the tests the gymnasts were performing with great ease and grace. I understood my own feeble self by being put to the test, by feeling my own clumsiness and lack of skill. The situation forced me to adopt a new mindset, thanks to how my own Pai Mei (Firas) transformed me from an eagle into a worm.

  The conclusion is that one thing never changes: my mindset must be open to improvements at all times, from all sources. This kind of cruelty, the worm and the eagle, is actually kindness. It represents short-term pain for long-term benefit.

  And so, in the week preceding a fight, every single day, Firas and I will sit in our hotel room and watch this specific scene from the movie.

  One element of my progression as an athlete has been to understand how our bodies work. After all, arms, legs and spines are generally built the same way (for the most part). The things that makes us different are height, length and width. This is why the punching triangle I talked about earlier in the book is so important: everything is a game of angles. Working with Gavin MacMillan at SSL has helped me learn so much about the body.

  The interesting thing is that some of the things I learned are very, very modern, while others have been known for centuries. Leonardo da Vinci, for example, was the first to show that human bodies are geometrically balanced. His drawing of the Vitruvian Man proves it. Da Vinci is also the person who coined this familiar phrase: “You are what you eat.” We still talk about that today because it’s so true. I believe that an athlete has to eat good, nutritious food to keep the motor going. In many ways, obese people are actually starving: they eat all kinds of junk with so little nutritious value that most of it gets turned into fat. The rest of the body—muscles, for example—remain starved of nutrients.

  And so nutrition, to me, is not necessarily about what you eat. It’s about the decisions you make when you have to eat, which translates to discipline and control. Don’t get me wrong: I still love and eat dessert. There’s this little Portuguese chicken place in St-Michel, in the North End of Montreal, and whenever I go, I finish my meal with a pastel de nata—a Portuguese custard tart th
at is delicious, especially when it’s served warm with a hint of cinnamon. But before I get to dessert, I make sure to eat a great breast of chicken and salad (and sometimes a handful of fries). With the amount of exercise I do in a day, my body can actually afford to eat what it wants, as long as it gets the right nutrients and fuel to keep it going at peak performance.

  The real test is this one: When you’re alone in a room, when you’re in a private place and nobody else can see you, what do you choose to do? Eat well, or eat poorly? Exercise, or watch television? Practice something, or do nothing? The best version of the truth appears to you and you alone, when nobody else can see. This is the test of discipline, and it’s what makes the difference in your life. It’s what regulates your own system and guides it. The individual alone comprehends it.

  One of the new learnings is related to the myelin sheath, which my buddy Rodolphe is obsessed with. Basically, it’s all about muscle memory. As we’ve discussed previously, the myelin sheath is connected to the nervous system and it works like this: the more you perform a specific gesture, the better you become at memorizing and “firing up” the perfect movement without hesitation. It’s the self-invention of the human instinct.