Quitters Never Win

by Michael Bisping

  Leaving Rebecca alone again, I was taken backstage and ushered into a dressing room which the UFC owners had turned into a command centre of sorts for the night. There were monitors and headsets set up on tables in front of leather sofas, and a choice of several suits still hung in plush dry-cleaning bags next to the vanity dressers. The room was empty and I couldn’t resist helping myself to some of the food that was laid out on a black table at the back.

  I had a gob full of cheese and crackers when the UFC owners – Dana and Lorenzo – came through the door. They both slapped hands and hugged me.

  ‘Awesome performance,’ Lorenzo smiled.

  ‘Great fight,’ Dana added. ‘Fucking great.’

  I was handed an envelope. It was the same size and shape as the one that had been delivered to my door in Clitheroe.

  ‘Open it,’ Dana said.

  It was another cheque, fifty thousand dollars with the tax already paid – a gift for a job well done. The mental calculation I’d done at the fighter rules meeting was still fresh in my brain. I knew exactly how much money that was in British pounds.

  A quiet pride swelled up as I sprinted back to Rebecca. I hugged her and told her and showed her all about the cheque all at the same time, but she understood what I was saying, like always.

  I woke up in my room on the 17th floor of the MGM Grand on New Year’s Eve, 2006. My face was a little sore from the four minutes I’d spent with Eric Shafer the previous evening. My head was very sore from the four-plus hours I’d spent enjoying the Las Vegas nightlife.

  Before I’d crashed asleep five or six hours beforehand, I’d apparently had the foresight to leave a bottle of water on the elaborate side table next to the bed. I sat up and guzzled it down a dry throat. Rebecca was next to me, sound asleep.

  The beds in the best Las Vegas hotels are much wider and longer than the beds I was used to. The mattresses are so deep you sink like a stone and almost have to climb out the next morning. I looked across the spacious room I’d stayed in for the last week. The dresser with the TV. The couch. The leather-topped writing table. And beyond the clothes and shoes I’d wrestled myself out of a few hours earlier there was a massive floor-to-ceiling window. I got out of bed and looked out of it.

  Across the road, and 250ft below, the police were beginning to cordon off Las Vegas Boulevard. Every 31 December at about 2pm the streets around the Strip become pedestrianised so thousands of tourists can see in the New Year looking up at fireworks shooting off the roofs of these massive hotels.

  A new year would arrive shortly with limitless possibilities. I was so ready for it. No one was going to work harder than me, I swore. I’d be the first in the gym, the last to leave, I’d fight my heart out each and every time. I’d say ‘yes’ to every opportunity that came my way outside the Octagon.

  I couldn’t wait for 2007 to start!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HOMECOMING

  By Wednesday, 17 January 2007, I was already back in Las Vegas. Manchester’s boxing world champ Ricky Hatton was having his first Vegas fight that weekend. To capitalise on the British sports press all being in town, the UFC had a big announcement at the Ultimate Fighter gym at 6pm. I was part of it.

  The TUF gym was always overhauled between seasons. The red and green liveries of Team Punishment and Team Shamrock had long since been stripped away – a whole other series had been shot and aired between then and my UFC debut – and now yellow and blue, representing season-five coaches Jens Pulver and B.J. Penn, had been installed. The UFC had hired a gourmet hot dog and beer stand for the evening. The secret to a well-attended PR event, I was assured, is serving quality food.

  About a dozen British boxing writers were bussed in from whatever hotel they were staying in to cover Hatton’s fight. Dana White welcomed them, then stood on the apron of the Octagon and informed the room that the UFC was making a massive push in the UK. There would be a full-time office in London, a major TV deal had been signed, and there would be huge UFC events – stacked with the biggest names in the world – held in the British Isles each year.

  It’s probably difficult for newer fans to grasp just how world-changing this was for British MMA. From that point on, the biggest events in MMA wouldn’t always take place on the other side of the world in the middle of the night when British fans were asleep. The summit of the sport wasn’t remote and unreachable – it was an afternoon’s drive away.

  Then Dana introduced me to the British newspaper guys.

  ‘You guys love fighting,’ Dana said. ‘We were always coming back to the UK. But it makes things easier that Bisping came along at exactly the right time. This guy is our Ricky Hatton.’

  I spent an hour talking to the media, spending most of it trying to live down the Hatton comparison. Several of these guys were crusty old boxing types whose interest in the evening began at one end of a hotdog and finished at the other. But a handful – Gareth Davies from the Telegraph, Steve Bunce from the BBC and a few more – seemed genuinely interested in MMA, its rules, how I trained, and how far I thought I could go in the UFC.

  I also met someone who’d become a major part of my career for the next few years and a good friend to this day. Marshall Zelaznik, a silver-haired 40-something from California, was the new president of the UFC’s UK division and one of the smartest, most charismatic and funniest guys I know. We hit it off immediately.

  ‘Did you hear what Dana said to the press guys?’ I asked Marshall after the media left. ‘The UFC are doing a big show at the Manchester Arena. That’s thirty minutes from my front door. Do you know if I’ll be on that card?’

  A smile danced across Marshall’s face. He said, ‘Yeah, um, Mike … you’re the reason we are taking this first event back in the UK to Manchester.’

  Oh, right.

  UFC 70: Nations Collide was announced for 21 April 2007, at the mountainous Manchester Arena. The UFC weren’t tiptoeing over the Atlantic this time. The company spent millions of pounds promoting the UFC 70 event and its re-entry into the British sporting landscape. There were posters featuring UFC 70 headliners Mirko Cro Cop and Gabriel Gonzaga, plus Andrei Arlovski and me, all over the country. My shaven head and face were plastered on bus stops in Manchester, train stations in the Midlands and taxis in London.

  The event was constantly promoted with television and sports-radio adverts. You could feel a real sense of excitement build in British MMA as the days counted down. Over 15,000 tickets – £1.3million worth – had been sold. It was like the UFC had taken over Manchester.

  My UFC 70 opponent was Elvis Sinosic, a former UFC title challenger from Australia. The King of Rock ’n’ Rumble, as he invited people to call him, was a legit BJJ black belt.

  The UFC set up headquarters in the Lowry hotel in Manchester. In terms of the requirements of a UFC hotel, the five-star member of The Leading Hotels in the World™ with its health-spa lighting and original artwork galleries was a slight overkill.

  On the day before the weigh-in, after my final sit-down interviews with the media (the UFC production crew’s need for combative soundbites was sated when I said, ‘Jiu-jitsu is great; doing jiu-jitsu when getting punched in the face isn’t so great’) I returned to my room to face the nightmare of sorting out tickets for my family and friends.

  The moment UFC 70 was announced I’d been inundated with requests for tickets. Most of the immediate asks came from the same people who’d travelled up and down the country to see my early fights, and I loved paying back that support by getting them seats to a massive show just a couple years later.

  But the requests kept on coming and, not wanting to big-time anyone, I kept saying I’d take care of it. With 48 hours to go before the event, I had over 150 tickets sprawled all over my hotel-room floor needing to be sorted into specific envelopes with specific names written on the front. It took forever but I finally got it done.

  Afterwards, I decided to drive home and spend the night in my own bed. I’d barely eaten all day, what with my media commi
tments and the stress of the tickets, so when a Burger King sign approached on the left, I turned in and joined the drive-thru line.

  Sluurp!

  Oh, fuck!

  The medium Sprite in my hand had been drained down to the ice cubes. The Triple Whopper (with cheese and bacon) box was empty, too. The weigh-in to UFC 70 was less than 23 hours away. I’d picked a great time to become a fast-food fan.

  I needn’t have worried. I hit the light heavyweight limit no problem.

  The energy at the Manchester Arena on fight night made the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. It had been almost five years since welterweight legend Matt Hughes, a farmer from Middle America, had headlined in London, but those seeds had taken root. UFC 38 had sold out the Royal Albert Hall’s 3,800 seats – I would be fighting in front of a crowd of Brits four times that size.

  The pressure to win for my family and for myself was as strong as ever but, as I warmed up backstage, I felt something else as well.

  I wanted to win for the British fans.

  This was UK MMA’s coming-out party. Those thousands upon thousands of fans in the stands and those watching at home were counting on me to win. In a way, I was glad they were counting on me. If I had anything at all to do with it, I would not let them down. I felt the kind of pride I imagined my father and brothers felt when they put on their uniforms. I was going to represent my country and fight.

  I stiffened my jaw and continued to hit Tony Quigley’s mitted hands. The shots flowed. As the fight got closer, Tony had me running shuttles up and down the broad corridors underneath the arena. If the idea was for the sprints to burn off excess energy – that didn’t happen. My brain had opened my adrenal glands and adrenaline was gushing through my body.

  Finally, the call came: ‘Bisping – let’s roll!’

  I’d picked my own walk-out music this time. I’d walked from the Lowry to the HMV store in Manchester town centre earlier in the week. I wanted something British, a song which would get the fans going. I picked Blur’s ‘Song 2’. It reminded me of the late 1990s, the days where I competed as a teenager with no pressure and purely for the love of the fight.

  The space where the backstage area meets the walkway to the arena floor – usually a tunnel – is emptied of people in the minutes before a fighter is due to walk out towards the Octagon. Standing there, looking down the tunnel that cuts through two tiered sections of the crowd, is a nerve-racking moment.

  You just want to get on with it. You’ve left your dressing room; you are on your way to fight … and then you are told to stop by the UFC production floor manager. You are held in place for several minutes with a camera crew capturing every micro-emotion that crosses your face.

  The lights had been dimmed out in the arena. Everyone’s attention was on the 50ft screens that hung from the rafters. A video package was playing, hyping my fight. I heard my own voice echoing around the building: ‘Jiu-jitsu is great; doing jiu-jitsu when getting punched in the face isn’t so great.’

  I focused on my breathing and waited for the lights and sound to come up.

  The first few bars of ‘Song 2’ blasted out – and the Manchester Arena erupted. The place became unglued! The fans went mental! A BBC boxing report said it sounded like a pair of jet engines had been fired up. Nothing had prepared me for this reception. My adrenaline spiked sharply. I couldn’t wait a second longer. I swerved passed the cameraman and sprinted towards the cage.

  There were mobs of fans everywhere I looked. Everyone was going mental. The crowd noise shook the floor. It shook the roof. I had to be physically stopped from leaping up the stairs leading to the Octagon door with my trainers and hoodie on. I kicked my shoes halfway across the arena. I tore the hoodie off. I was almost sparking with energy as the cutman tried to apply Vaseline to my brow and face. When he was done, I stamped up the steps and burst into the Octagon.

  It was like the world was in fast-forward. The introductions were over in another thunderous, rolling yell from the crowd and – at last – it was time to fight.

  Sinosic was an inch taller than me but he fought taller than that. At the start of the fight he walked towards me with a straight-up stance and began firing leg kicks. He’d said in interviews that he would attack – he hadn’t lied.

  But I was a man possessed. I surged forward and caught his leg. I dumped him on the canvas. There was a rumble from the stands as I began to ground and pound from inside his guard. As good as my word, I brushed aside an armbar attempt and continued to punch, hammerfist and elbow away. The reverberations in the place grew louder and louder. I could feel – physically feel – the soundwaves the fans were making. I speared my fists into Sinosic’s ribs and head. I postured up to drop maximum weight into my elbow strikes.

  Sinosic was trapped on his back. At the three-minute mark, my opponent’s face was submerging into a pool of red. Elvis had several moments of influencing my posture or holding on to my wrists, but each time I’d rip away from his grip and resume my attacks.

  ‘Overwhelming – an onslaught like we have rarely seen!’ said commentator Mike Goldberg.

  The referee appeared to be thinking about stopping it when the horn sounded to end the first round. The former UFC title challenger remained on the canvas for much of the rest period, attended to by his cornerman and checked out by the doctor, but – to his credit – Elvis came out for the second.

  The round began with me landing hard punches and kicks. The crowd was screaming with all of their lungs. The finish! I wanted to give them that finish! Sinosic was desperate for a handhold in the fight. Momentarily, he grabbed a Thai clinch. High on adrenaline and with my brain racing ahead, I did the one thing you don’t do to escape a Thai clinch. I ducked.

  There was a flash.

  Sinosic was on top of me. I was flat on my back. Holy shit – how did I get here? He had my left arm locked in a Kimura …

  Pop! Pop! Pop!

  I heard the sound of my elbow joint popping three times. Sinosic was cranking the double wristlock with every ounce of his strength. There was no way I was tapping. Not here. Not now. I broke out of the hold. I twisted into his guard and – from there – I unleashed a ferocious attack. Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen punches landed until the referee stopped the fight.

  The whole arena went deranged. I lifted my arms as the house lights came up, revealing for the first time row after row of roaring fans stretching back and upwards almost as far as I could see. The British fans were going nuts as they celebrated our victory! They’d thrown and taken every shot – but the job was done! It was an intimate moment with 15,114 strangers.

  I barely had chance to catch my breath as Bruce Buffer announced me the winner in 1 minute 40 seconds of the second round. Then Callum ran across the Octagon and into my arms. I picked him up and he took the first question from Joe Rogan.

  ‘How great was it watching your daddy win?’

  ‘Very good,’ Callum answered.

  That night spilled beyond my wildest dreams. I’d be awarded more Fight of the Night bonuses, I’d go on to fight on and headline huge UFC events around the world; I’d get the chance to do some amazing things outside the Octagon. But UFC 70, 21 April 2007, the Manchester Arena … that night will bring mist to my eyes for as long as I’m alive.

  The UFC had proved popular enough to sell out the biggest arenas in the country, and it was becoming commonplace to see MMA magazines on the shelves of WHSmith and for a UFC fighter to guest star in a TV show here and there. But there was still a lot of work to do in terms of educating the British public and media about what the sport actually entailed.

  Over the next few years the UFC PR team put Marshall Zelaznik and me in front of dozens of writers, reporters, TV and radio hosts, and editors to put the sport’s best foot forward. It was an additional responsibility the UFC expected of me and one I took very seriously. Today, when I hear young fighters moan about having to do promotional work, I can’t help but think they should be more grateful that there was a gener
ation before them who did all the heavy lifting for them.

  One well-known radio personality, a lady in her mid-fifties who’d squeezed herself into, I’m guessing, her daughter’s leather miniskirt, began a live, in-studio interview by describing MMA as ‘a sport for barbarians’.

  I said, ‘Well, I’m not a barbarian—’

  ‘You look like a barbarian,’ she insisted.

  In those situations, when you find yourself live on air with someone only interested in manufacturing a Jeremy Kyle moment for their own purposes, I find fighting fire with fire a good strategy.

  ‘I’ll keep most of my thoughts on your appearance to myself,’ I answered. ‘Mutton dressed as lamb comes to mind, though.’

  Despite a handful of interviews like that, the tide began to turn and the UFC became accepted, at worst, as an alternative combat sport to boxing. I’m proud to have helped lay the foundations for the sport in the UK and other places.

  Don’t get me wrong, I liked the media stuff most of the time. Some of the appearances were a lot of fun. Once me and Marshall were in a studio on Ian Wright’s radio show in London. The former England footballer spoke to me as a fellow athlete, which was appreciated, and he mentioned the sport was rapidly growing.

  Marshall agreed: ‘A black-cab driver who brought us here was asking Mike about his next fight …’ Unfortuately Marshall’s resoundingly American accent placed the emphasis on black – and I saw a great chance to troll the UFC exec live on air.

  ‘A black cab driver?!’ I exclaimed. ‘Can you say things like that these days, Marshall?’

  In his 15-year career as a striker, Wrighty had never been passed the ball so close to an open goal. As I knew he would, he whacked it into the back of the net.

  ‘Did it surprise you that the driver was black?’ the host asked a mortified Marshall with mock-seriousness. ‘I guess I’m a black talk-radio host, am I?’