Quitters Never Win

by Michael Bisping

  Lawsuits were filed and court dates attended, but I never worked with those people again. The only negative was that my friendship with Rampage was over. They poured poison in his ear about me, and my mate – who’d been a great mentor and supporter to me since my second fight in the UFC – began to repeat their bullshit in interviews.

  Years later, Rampage came to the same realisation I had about those people. We had a long text exchange one night where he acknowledged they’d bullshitted him about me. We didn’t rekindle our friendship but the final texts between us were:

  Me: So, we cool?

  Rampage: You and me are cool.

  You’re supposed to walk to your corner upon entering the Octagon. I refused. I stood near the centre of the canvas, hands on hips, staring at Mayhem Miller until his eyes met mine.

  ‘Two minutes,’ I mouthed at him. Two minutes and I’d put my fists on him.

  He tried to morph into his cartoon-character persona, but it was too intimidated to make an appearance. Miller had a good ground game but his punches were so weak, Italian soccer players would have hesitated before taking a dive from them. He took me down and held onto my legs for a while but once I got up I battered him from one side of the Octagon to the other. I finished him in the third round with an avalanche of 69 strikes.

  Dana called the fight the most one-sided in UFC history. It might have been but on the night I was overly harsh on myself and told the media that, on that performance, I wasn’t ready to challenge Anderson Silva quite yet.

  Dana came to see me in my dressing room after the fight. He was wearing a silver suit and white shirt. He always wore suits at live events but it was always a little strange seeing the multi-millionaire promoter out of his jeans and T-shirt.

  ‘Could you be ready to go again by January 28?’ the UFC president asked.

  ‘I could be ready to go again in twenty-eight minutes,’ I said.

  Dana laughed. ‘We want you to fight Demian Maia on Big Fox.’

  ‘Big Fox’ was what Dana called the Fox television network. It was the US equivalent of fighting on BBC1 and meant I’d be fighting in front of one of the biggest audiences in the history of the sport.

  ‘Sounds great,’ I said. ‘Email the contract directly to me.’

  Eleven days before the fight, two days before I was scheduled to fly to Chicago where the event was taking place, I got a call from White.

  He explained that Mark Muñoz, who was scheduled to collide with No.1 contender Chael Sonnen in the co-main event of UFC on Fox 2, was out of the Chicago event injured.

  ‘What we want to do is pull you from the Maia fight,’ the UFC boss explained. ‘How would you feel about fighting Chael Sonnen in Chicago?’

  Sonnen had given Anderson Silva the fight of his life the previous summer. The self-styled American Gangster had swept the first four rounds from the defending champion before making a massive mistake just minutes away from a historic victory. When Sonnen returned to defeat the dangerous puncher Brian Stann, a rematch seemed all but inevitable. The Muñoz fight had been seen by many fans and critics as unnecessary; Chael was clearly the No.1 contender.

  ‘So,’ I asked Dana, ‘Chael Sonnen is the number one contender. If I beat Chael next week – what does that make me?’

  Dana’s answer was unambiguous. ‘The winner of this fight goes on to fight Anderson Silva for the UFC middleweight title.’

  That was all I needed to hear, but there was more. Dana and the UFC execs had mapped out two version of 2012 – one where Chael went on to fight Anderson again, and one where I earned the title shot.

  The UFC brass told me that if I beat Chael and went on to fight Anderson, I’d challenge for the title in the UK. ‘We’re looking at maybe a soccer stadium in the summer,’ White dangled.

  Travelling doesn’t feel glamourous when your alarm goes off at 3am and you know you’ll find yourself in three airports before you sleep again but, no doubt about it, the chance to travel around the world is one of the best side-benefits to my career.

  The fight, the co-main event, was to take place at the sold-out arena where the Chicago Bulls basketball team played. Chicago, Illinois, is one of the most amazing cities I’ve ever visited. There’s a reason it’s used as a backdrop for so many major movies and television shows. The sheer scale of the place, the heights of the buildings, how wide the streets are and, yes, how windy and cold it is in that city in January cannot be exaggerated.

  The suite that I was put up in for the UFC on Fox 2 event was beautiful. It was a 2,000-square-foot suite on the 34th floor of the Hard Rock Hotel, located in the famous Carbide and Carbon building. The whole place was incredible. I had my own bowling alley, my own pool table, several coffee tables with built-in video games and there was a guitar mounted over my bed that had been played by Joe Perry during a 1989 Aerosmith concert.

  But it was the floor-to-ceiling window on one side of the suite that was the real jaw-dropper. I couldn’t get enough of the view from 450ft above North Michigan Avenue. During the day, the only architecture visible above the cold fog was the last 15 or so storeys of the other skyscrapers sticking out of the swirling white below. At night the view was literally right out of the Christian Bale Batman movies. I was so blown away by it I ate my breakfasts that week sat in a chair by the window. I also called Rebecca back home in California and told her to take advantage of her parents’ visit and join me for a few days.

  Chael Sonnen was one of the biggest, if not the biggest, stars in the sport. In 2010 he had beaten Anderson Silva up – landing 320 strikes and taking the champion down at will – in a fight so one-sided it defied belief. Then, with only 100 seconds to go, Anderson caught Sonnen in a triangle choke and saved his title.

  As if that performance wasn’t enough, Chael had a wit and charisma all of his own. He maintained a persona of ‘The American Gangster’ all times. The joke – made all the funnier because everyone was in on it – was that Chael hailed from an affluent part of Oregon.

  ‘Yeah, we had a maid,’ he shrugged, completely in character, when asked how hard his upbringing could possibly have been, ‘but she only came three times a week. What do you think happened on the other four days? I grew up witnessing things you couldn’t even believe, jaywalking, littering, bad manners – you name it. You’ve never walked in my shoes. You’ve never seen what my eyes have seen.’

  The ribbing stopped when he fought. And as a fighter, Chael could be as tenacious as a harbour shark. He threw in volume, not unlike me, and was similarly relentless in his attacks. While I had an advantage over him in striking, he was one of the best wrestlers in the sport.

  ‘If I’m gonna be champion, I need to be able to beat these guys,’ I said during a radio interview, conducted over the phone from my rock’n’roll penthouse three days before the fight. ‘I’m not going to sit on the sidelines, twiddling my thumbs, hoping everyone beats each other and somehow I get a title shot almost by fluke. If I beat him, great, I go on and fight Anderson for the belt. If I don’t beat Chael then I don’t deserve the title shot. Simple as that.’

  As was expected of us, Chael and me exchanged a few insults in the pre-fight press conference but there really wasn’t any time for me to develop a dislike of the guy. Chael works hard to entertain whenever he has a microphone in front of him and in Chicago he carried a replica UFC belt around all week and deadpan insisted he was the legitimate champion.

  For my part, I didn’t need to work myself up into a feud to be motivated for this fight. The chance to finally earn No.1 contender status was all the incentive I needed.

  As I expected, Sonnen shot across the canvas at me in the opening seconds of the fight. I landed a right cross, then he managed to take me down but I got up. All of that happened in the first 13 seconds of the fight and the pace barely slowed down from there.

  Chael continued to skip forward, his gloves and elbows held in a very high guard. I landed a one-two combination which backed him off (he later informed me the combo badl
y rocked him – but his poker face was perfect). We grappled on the feet, our backs rolling against the fence. We were cheek to cheek, battling for control of each other’s wrists and spiking each other with knees to the stomach.

  The second round was the best of my night. I landed a lot of significant strikes at range and when we fell into clinch work against the fence, I continued to boss the fight. Rogan told the six million Americans watching live on Fox, ‘Michael Bisping is imposing his game far more than Chael’s been able to impose his. Chael’s not been able to take Bisping down or hold him down.’

  Chael took the third, taking me down and keeping me on the canvas for much of the round, working with punches and submission attempts.

  ‘Chael Sonnen has to submit Bisping here to get that title shot and rematch against Anderson Silva,’ was Rogan’s opinion. ‘He’s winning this round but he didn’t win the first two.’

  I did what I could from the bottom – landing strikes of my own – but by the time I got up there was only seconds remaining. Still, I managed to take the All-American wrestler down and land three big elbows before the fight ended.

  Before Bruce Buffer made the announcement, Chael and I shook hands.

  ‘So,’ he asked, ‘what do you think?’

  For the first time all week, I found myself speaking to Chael the bloke and not ‘Chael P. Sonnen, American Gangster’ the character.

  ‘I think I got the first two,’ I said.

  With unanticipated honesty, Sonnen answered, ‘Yeah, I think you did, too.’

  But I hadn’t. Not according to the only three people whose opinion counted. Two of the judges saw it 29–28 for Sonnen while the third, some cornflakes for brains named James Goodman, gave Chael every round.

  There’s always disappointment in losing a big fight, but here I’d lost a final eliminator for the UFC middleweight title that no one, including my opponent, felt I actually did lose. I focused on the positives; there was nothing else to do.

  You are waiting for me to talk about Chael’s history with performance-enhancing substances, aren’t you? Or rather his history and future with them, because he’d been suspended for artificial testosterone usage before we fought and he’d be suspended for human growth hormone (HGH) and recombinant human erythropoietin (EPO) after he fought me.

  Honestly? I wasn’t bitter then – I’d accepted the fight because I thought I could beat him and become the No.1 contender. And I’m not bitter now. Yeah, I could muster the emotions if I really wanted to, but I actually really like Chael. He cheated, got caught and ’fessed up.

  Chael went on to challenge Anderson Silva at UFC 148 on 7 July. Round one of fight two saw the American dominate from start to finish but a single mistake sank Sonnen in the second.

  Meanwhile, I was recovering from orthoscopic knee surgery. My left knee – which I first hurt back in 2006 – had begun to seize due to a torn meniscus and loose bodies in the joint. I was forced to sit out the summer but it meant I got extra time with the family as we settled in Orange County. Ellie and Callum soon became minor celebrities at their new school, learning what I’d already come to terms with – to an American ear even the most northern of accents sounds sophisticated. The kids – including young Lucas – loved their new house. That was no accident. Rebecca and I knew it would be an easier transition for them if their new house had a big pool.

  Because of my experiences with the Liverpool lot, I was very reluctant to join one of the big MMA teams in the US. Especially as most of the gyms within driving distance of where I now lived had UFC middleweight – potential future opponents – already established there.

  By this stage in my career – 27 pro fights and counting – I was a difficult guy to coach. I’d gone through years of trial and error to know exactly how to prepare for a fight and could recognise charlatan trainers a mile off. I needed a coach that I respected, someone who wasn’t afraid to give me hard truths even though I was paying him.

  That someone was Jason Parillo, who I called up for a session after he was recommended to me.

  ‘You are left-handed,’ he said after I’d pop-pop-popped maybe six combinations into his hands at the RVCA gym at Costa Mesa.

  ‘Yeah,’ I answered, and boomed the jab-jab-hook combo Jason had silently called for with the positioning of the target pads.

  ‘Bring your feet with you a little more when you step in to throw the right hand,’ he told me, and immediately I felt the difference.

  ‘You have a lot of power on the left hook,’ Jason added a minute later. ‘I can help you put more on it.’

  Jason Parillo is a former pro fighter himself and the son of a motivational speaker – he not only knew what he was talking about but also exactly how to say it.

  Bringing Jason onboard as my coach was the best move I ever made. Even more important than the technical refinements Jason made to my game was what he did for me mentally.

  A few months after we began working together we sat down on the ring apron sipping from our plastic Blender Bottles. Other than the creaks the tight new BJJ mat made under the feet of a solitary shadow boxer, the gym was pretty quiet.

  ‘You’re a natural fighter, Mike,’ Jason said. ‘By that I mean you’ve been fighting on natural talent, heart, your speed and all those years of experience. I’d say you are one of the top natural talents I’ve worked with.’

  I thanked him and waited for the rest.

  ‘You let your emotions control you and anger you,’ he added. ‘That’s part of who you are as a fighter – and it has taken you all this way – but it won’t take you much further.’

  I nodded slowly. I’d thought this myself in my last few fights, but now one of the best coaches in the world was saying it out loud.

  ‘If we can reprogramme you to control the fight with this [Jason tapped his head three times] you can become champion.’

  My next fight – my seventeenth on the UFC – didn’t come until 22 September 2012, at UFC 152 in Toronto, Canada. I was matched against former US Marine Brian Stann, a powerfully built hard-hitter who’d won the Silver Star medal on active service in Iraq. The UFC was yet to introduce official rankings but most credible ratings had me at No.3 or 4 and Stann at No.6. A win over the WEC veteran, I believed, could well be enough to secure the title shot.

  I actually suffered a neck injury while going for a takedown in the gym during the Stann camp but it would take several years before I realised just how much damage I’d done. I flew to Canada feeling very confident.

  The PR build-up was great. Brian is another old opponent who I became friendly with after we fought, but it was obvious which buttons to press to rattle him during the final weeks before the fight. Brian had discovered his talent for MMA while serving in the US Marines and – rightly so – was very proud of his service. I knew that was a pressure point.

  When Brian vowed to put me asleep, I fired back, ‘Are you going to tell me some more boring war stories? Listen Captain Cliché, I was fighting in the UFC while you were peeling potatoes and getting called a maggot by your drill sergeant. There’s no tanks, no bombs, no guns, no unit backing you up,’ I continued, addressing the audience now. ‘This is a sport, not war. It’s an individual sport and on Saturday night I will individually kick his arse.’

  Here’s what I said just two days before the fight: ‘Stann is one of the best fighters in the division, and I know he’s going to look to knock my head off with every shot just like he did with Chris Leben and the others. He’s also got some nice leg kicks which I expect he will try to use to slow me down, because I am clearly the faster fighter.’

  Those words were prophetic. Brian had his moments in the opening round and his leg kicks were nasty, but my speed, variety and overall skillset saw me out-strike and out-grapple the ‘All-American’ hero over three rounds. I won 29–28 on all three scorecards.

  At the post-fight press conference at the Canada Air Arena, Dana uttered these words: ‘Bisping and Brian Stann was a great fight, me and Joe Silv
a were talking earlier tonight and I said that Bisping versus Silva is an interesting fight. Bisping always brings it, he always fights hard. We think Bisping and Anderson will be a great fight.’

  When I was asked to respond to Dana’s comments in a one-on-one interview afterwards, I said, ‘In the three years since UFC 100, I’d won six fights, half of them via stoppage. My only losses in that time had been to Wanderlei Silva, who I thought I’d beaten, and Chael Sonnen, who everyone including Chael Sonnen thought I’d beaten. I feel I’ve more than earned a title shot by this point.’

  Unfortunately, the title shot against Anderson never materialised.

  Getting title fights, I was now sharply aware, depended on many factors I couldn’t control. One of the most crucial – and obvious – is the availability of the champion. It didn’t really matter that I was ready to fight for the title if Anderson wasn’t ready to defend it; and the Brazilian didn’t put his belt on the line until the following July against Chris Weidman.

  The UFC was putting on more and more shows, sometimes running events in two different countries during the same weekend. Between me beating Stann and Anderson’s next title fight, there were 24 UFC events.

  Before long, Dana called me to offer a fight to headline one of them.

  ‘Vitor Belfort,’ the UFC president said, ‘January 19 in Brazil.’

  Even with the promise of a title shot if I won, this was the only time in my 29 UFC fights where I paused before accepting a fight.

  With Dana on the phone, I weighed it up.

  Like everyone else in the sport, I considered Belfort to be the most despicable performance-enhancing drugs (PEDs) cheat in the history of mixed martial arts. His physique was ridiculous; tubular veins stretched from slab after slab of square muscle and held in place by stretched skin. And it wasn’t the lumbering bulk of a weight-lifter; Belfort’s inhuman physical structure was packed with fast-twitching fibres which gave him menacing speed as well as strength.