Part Reptile: UFC, MMA and Me

by Dan Hardy

  Herb Dean, now a top referee in the UFC, was officiating inside the cage and he told me he believed I had done enough. I was confident of victory, but as the seconds ticked away without a decision being announced, I started to get an empty feeling in my stomach. The promoter who had brought me over was now standing behind Petz with both the Cage Warriors and Fightfest belts in his hand and a massive grin on his face. It turned out that in addition to putting on the show, he was also Forrest’s manager. After what seemed like an age, they declared a new champion by unanimous decision. I stood rooted to the spot, in shock at the verdict. I looked at Petz’s battered face, the cutman still holding a compress to his wounds to stop the bleeding, and thought there must have been some sort of mistake. Back in the dressing room I flew into a violent rage. As Owen stood outside the door so nobody would walk in, be startled and raise an alarm, I trashed the place, destroying anything I could get my hands on. I’d been robbed in a title unification bout and the belt I had worked so hard for and was so proud to wear was gone too. Unable to accept the nightmare I found myself living, I stormed out to confront the three scoring judges. There they were at a table beside the cage, all grey hair and glasses, officiously shuffling some papers. Inside the cage, Petz was posing for photos with my belt, his blood still flowing and dripping onto the canvas while his mangled face contorted painfully into a victory smile.

  ‘Look at him,’ I shouted to the three old boys. ‘How could you score that fight to him?’

  I could see they were intimidated by this confrontation, but one attempted a mumbled response. ‘Effective striking,’ was all he could muster.

  ‘Effective striking!?’ I roared back. ‘He’s going straight to the hospital to get his face fixed and I don’t have a mark on me!’

  The crowd had thinned out fast, but plenty stopped to watch this bonus feature as I remonstrated with the three blind mice. At one point I actually jumped up on their table and asked the remaining fans who they thought won the fight. There were only Americans in the bleachers, but plenty shouted back that I had.

  As our flight wasn’t until Monday morning, I had all of Sunday to sulk about the hotel and simmer over the injustice of it all. Then on Monday, our car to the airport mysteriously never arrived and we missed our flight. I thought the thirteen-hour wait in the airport for the next plane out must have been the bitter cherry on top of this toxic sundae, but unfortunately that was still to arrive. I paid for fifteen minutes of internet on one of the computers near the departure gate and logged straight on to the Cage Warriors forum to see what was being said about my title loss. It was there that I read for the first time that, not only had I lost my belt, but I had also been suspended for six months for apparently refusing a drugs test. This seemed even more persecutory when I learnt another fighter on the card actually tested positive and only received a three-month suspension. My nightmare was complete.

  It turned out that while I was rearranging the furniture and light fittings in my dressing room after the fight, the testers had arrived and Owen told them they’d need to come back in fifteen minutes when I’d calmed down. Instead, they simply packed their sample kits away and drove home. Naturally, we appealed and explained the course of events. We also questioned why, when they knew I was sat in a Canton hotel all day Sunday, they made no effort to track me down there either. Our appeal was successful and, apart from a token fourteen-day slap on the wrist, my name was cleared. Not that I really gave a shit. As Petz was awarded a UFC contract off the back of robbing me, I was feeling sorry for myself in Nottingham, eating junk food and hardly training. I can take an honest defeat on the chin, but this felt like being cheated.

  I was still mired in my two-week sulk when the promoter Paul Hennessey called one Friday evening to say he needed a fighter for a Thai boxing match the following night. ‘It will be more like a demonstration-type affair against a local lad who has sold a few tickets,’ he promised me. ‘Call it a warm-up for your next MMA outing,’ he said, and then offered me £300 if I’d get him out of a hole. Fuck it, I thought, why not.

  When I arrived at the venue the next day, I found out that yet another promoter had been slightly economical with the truth. Rather than being an exhibition fight, I was the main event in a world title bout. I didn’t get to see my opponent weigh in, but he was there to watch me step onto the scales and he was clearly a much bigger guy. I was out of shape at nearly 82kg as I’d just spent a fortnight eating whatever I wanted, lazing about the house, and generally not looking after myself. The fight, five three-minute rounds of full Thai boxing rules, was an all-out war. He had held the world title for a long time and was a very good fighter. I managed to knock him down twice, but he had me on the canvas three times and broke my nose. Given time to prepare I’m sure I could have won, but he earned the decision and kept his belt that night. Now, backstage having my deviated septum reset, I’m even angrier at life. But after icing my nose for a couple of days until the swelling went down, I headed back to the gym and began training. I was disappointed that my efforts were genuine and considerable, yet these promoters were not allowing for a fair playing field. Still, I enjoyed the rawness of the Thai boxing ring and, even though I was drastically unprepared and fighting on emotion alone, it reminded me why I loved competing. The blood, sweat and adrenalin were an addictive trio. A week later, my next match-up was confirmed.

  It was yet another redemption mission. Having previously gained revenge over Doski and Gonzalez, I now had a chance to put things right with my old French foe David Baron in a four-man tournament in Holland. But even more important than personal vengeance, the winner of the tournament was guaranteed a place in the promised land of the PRIDE Fighting Championships in Japan. Although I loved the UFC, at this point in my career I probably felt more drawn to PRIDE. It just seemed to have better match-ups, more exciting fighters, and mercifully fewer wrestlers reducing proceedings to twenty minutes of attritional writhing on the canvas. The red- and yellow-card system, in which the referee could penalise fighters a portion of their purse for perceived lack of action, helped greatly in this respect. I also liked the structure of the bouts, with a long ten-minute opening round followed by two five-minute sessions, allowing twenty minutes in total. Later on, PRIDE Bushido arrived and simply pitched the best against the best without looking to protect an individual or build him up. I loved watching those events and knew my style would be perfect for it.

  There was also the natural lure of Japan, and Asia in general, due to their historical appreciation of martial arts. The UFC was always more of a monster-truck ambience, a beer and nachos night with thousands of excitable fans chanting knees! and punch him in the face! But the traditional air of respect that is still prominent in Japanese life was present in PRIDE, with fans sitting and watching studiously, applauding appreciatively for good exchanges on the ground and recognising astute game-plans when they paid off. It always seemed to me like the Asian audience, more keenly aware of the beauty and intricacies of martial arts, held fighters in a higher regard.

  The shows were all presented in a much more upmarket way as well. They had an opening ceremony with the beating of Japanese drums against the backdrop of sounds of swords being unsheathed and clashing, and blood splattering on a wall. Immense white curtains of cloth hung from the ceiling to divide the four quarters of the arena from one another with traditional images or Japanese calligraphy projected onto it. As many as 90,000 turned out to watch the limited number of events that took place each year and the fighters were presented like gladiators or demi-gods. It was a real martial arts fighting atmosphere. You felt like you could have been waiting for a contest at the Colosseum in ancient Rome. The UFC, with its American razzmatazz, was a place for sportsmen and entertainers, while PRIDE felt like the home of true warriors.

  And over the years it boasted some of the best mixed martial artists on the planet. Guys like Wanderlei Silva, Rampage Jackson, Mirko Cro Cop and Fedor Emelianenko all grac
ed PRIDE during their long and dominant reigns. Fedor in particular was special, for a long time the undisputed best heavyweight on the planet. Politics got in the way to ensure he never fought the elite of the UFC in his prime, but few doubted that the Russian would have beaten any man put in front of him. He was like a cyborg, his nondescript face never changing even as he unloaded full-power shots to finish a faltering opponent. The grainy training videos enhanced his myth, running bare-chested through forests in combat trousers and army boots. I remember watching Kevin ‘The Monster’ Randleman slam Fedor into the canvas head-first with a suplex that looked like it could have broken his neck. Seconds later, Randleman was tapping out. Emelianenko was that rarest combination, a naturally instinctive fighter and a supremely prepared mixed martial artist.

  PRIDE had its home-grown superstars as well, with Kazushi Sakuraba perhaps the most famous of all. Sakuraba was an unassuming and not particularly athletic submission wrestler, but he was shrewd, confident and unpredictable and enjoyed great success as he racked up wins over MMA legends such as Vitor Belfort, Rampage Jackson, Kevin Randleman and Ken Shamrock. But it was his assault on the great Brazilian MMA dynasty, when Royler, Royce, Renzo and Ryan Gracie were all defeated in little over a year around the turn of the millennium, that Sakuraba cemented his status and earned the moniker The Gracie Hunter. The vast majority of the other Japanese fighters in PRIDE were nowhere near as successful as Sakuraba or the top foreign imports, but so long as they embodied the to-the-death spirit of a samurai warrior, they were guaranteed unlimited respect and admiration from the fans. It is something that resonates deeply within Japanese culture and I loved how even outmatched fighters received a lot of love if they fought with heart and determination until the end. It led to some brutal, but strangely beautiful, displays of combat.

  In addition to the elite fights and fighters, PRIDE also had a freak-show element to it. Unlike the UFC, there was no upper limit in the heavyweight division and that opened the door to a host of weird and wonderful, freakishly large human beings. Emmanuel Yarbrough, a six-foot-eight, six hundred-pound, African-American sumo wrestler from New Jersey competed for a while. As did Giant Silva, the seven-foot-two ex-Brazilian basketball player. The ex-NFL player Bob Sapp was another fan favourite. When such monsters stepped into the ring it was more a comic-book battle than a genuine sporting contest. Japanese professional wrestlers arrived, a kind of extreme reincarnation of their WWE counterparts due to the notorious brutality and bullying of the Japanese wrestling schools they learnt their trade in. In one famous bout, Don Frye, a manlier version of Tom Selleck and a UFC hall-of-famer, and Yoshihiro Takayama beat each other’s faces to tender pulp ice-hockey-fight-style in a show of almost comical, gung-ho brutality. PRIDE signed madmen as well, the type of fighter the UFC wasn’t prepared to take a chance on. Charles ‘Krazy Horse’ Bennett was a good example. He could fight, but he couldn’t be controlled or trusted. You might find him scaling the cage and sitting on top of the side midway through a contest. But the Japanese really got into characters like Krazy Horse. They could become obsessive in their following of a particular fighter and that ensured they created an unreal atmosphere to perform in. It was where I wanted to be.

  In Holland I had to cut down to 160lbs to face Baron in a light-welterweight contest. The other two in the field were Cengiz ‘The Mosquito’ Dana and a local fighter named Joey van Wanrooij. Dana, still going strong today, was a 7–7 German lightweight and, although tough, he didn’t really concern me. Van Wanrooij was a decent kickboxer but, having watched Paul Daley handle him well in a Cage Rage fight, I did not see him as a threat either. My thinking was, beat Baron and I’m going to Tokyo and, despite my still delicate septum, I was confident of doing just that.

  The first sign that I was up against it came on weigh-in day when I was given faulty, or tampered-with, scales in the hotel to check my weight. I was bang on target in my room, and yet a taxi-ride later I was magically 2kg over. Cue running around for an hour in too many clothes to frantically sweat off the excess. As the away fighter, I got to the point where I would expect tricks like this. And I can deal with it. When I’m in fight mode it is no longer a sporting environment as far as I am concerned. We’re in a fight, and a real fight is never truly fair. I give no quarter and sure as hell don’t ask for one either. But it soon became clear that the local promoters had just one goal from this tournament and that was to send Joey van Wanrooij to PRIDE. As soon as I arrived at the venue I was told I was on in ten minutes. So much for chilling out in the dressing room and then getting a decent warm-up under my belt. I then started my ringwalk and ‘Crazy’ by Gnarls Barkley blasted out. I’m always precious about my entrance music and, coming from a hardcore, punk and metal background, the cheerful soul pop was never going to suit my mood in that moment. On top of that, there was absolutely zero atmosphere in the place, despite the best efforts of the cheesiest MC ever to grab hold of a mic. It was as if they’d dragged in a bunch of bewildered Dutch families off the street and told them they’d get a free dinner if they sat down and didn’t leave until the action was over. Maybe as a result of all of the above, the fight never really got going. Baron probably won the first round, and I probably won the second. With it only being a two-round affair, they flipped a metaphorical coin and gave it to the Frenchman. It was all very anti-climactic and deeply unsatisfying. I watched then as Van Wanrooij had his nose broken by Dana but was gifted a decision. Baron then won the final so clearly that even the local scorers couldn’t manufacture another Dutch win. The Frenchman went to PRIDE, where he fought once and was outclassed by Takanori Gomi.

  It was frustrating for PRIDE to have sailed so close and then disappeared over the horizon. And there was always a fear that it might be a long time before they once again paid attention to what is going on in Europe. I worried that my one chance had passed me by. The fact that I was convinced I was superior to David Baron made it all even harder to accept. I knew I would have been a better fighter in PRIDE than he was and that a decision had been made based on the debatable credentials Baron had from winning a joke of a tournament in Holland, rather than on watching us all perform over the previous twelve months. But at the same time, this knowledge that I was a better mixed martial artist than a man who had just been given a spot in the second biggest MMA promotion on the planet reassured me. My frustration was a precursor to determination. I was very close. And when I got there, I’d be even more ready. I still spent a restless summer lost in thoughts of what might have been, but come September I was back in the cage.

  This time it was a revenge mission of sorts for the other guy as I was matched with Matt Thorpe’s coach, Danny Rushton. He was supposed to be a real veteran of no-rules combat, with stories of him bare-knuckle boxing in Russia always doing the rounds online. Enjoying a four-fight unbeaten streak, including impressive victories over Paul Jenkins and Lee Doski, Rushton was very confident. His team also did their best to spice things up and make it about vengeance for his student’s loss in the Cage Warriors title fight. Rushton was regarded as being a massive welterweight and so my plan was to get as big as possible and then cut hard. I ate and ate and a few days out from the fight I was 18lbs over. On the day of the weigh-in alone, I cut 12lbs but I felt fine. I knew all high-level fighters were cutting, and as a member of the Northern Cartel Rushton certainly would have been, so I was comfortable doing the same.

  In the end, Rushton only lasted a round of what was a pretty spiteful fight. Right from the off I caught him with hard strikes and solid inside and outside low kicks. One left hand cut him deep and forced referee Goddard to call the doctor in to take a look inside the first thirty seconds. Allowed to continue, Rushton shot in and I grabbed a guillotine. He managed to pick me up and slam me onto the floor where we scrambled about until the ref again intervened when Rushton landed an illegal knee to my head on the ground. Back on our feet, I continued the punishment, targeting his blood-covered face. In the dying embers of the round
I stalked him into a corner, dropped him with a jab, and landed a few more hard blows as I stood over him. I saw in his eyes he was struggling and wasn’t surprised when he didn’t come out for the second.

  My next outing was a five-rounder, back down at 160lbs again. I knew PRIDE were keeping an eye on Europe for fresh talent and so I wanted to keep fighting known and respected guys. The Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt Alexandre Izidro, whom I beat previously over ten minutes, fitted that bill. He was mistakenly convinced that he had done enough with his submission attempts to deserve the nod in our first tilt, so I was happy to defeat him again and end any lingering arguments. At this point he was the Cage Warriors lightweight champion, so meeting me at a weight class five pounds heavier was no problem. Representing Brazilian Top Team, I’m sure Izidro also had eyes on fighting in PRIDE alongside many of his teammates. I cut the weight professionally and relatively comfortably, despite the best efforts of my good friend Judo Jimmy Wallhead. After sitting and suffering in a sauna together, he left to weigh in and told me he’d soon be back for moral support until I hit the 160lb limit. That’s nice of him, I thought, knowing that all a fighter wants to do after such a period of abstinence is get food and fluids into his system as quickly as possible. True to his word, Jim was soon back and sat down outside the glass door, right beside me as I lay wilting in the humid heat of a 90-degree sauna. I looked over to nod my thanks and there the bastard was with a huge bag of cookies and a cold drink in his hand. It was typical Jimmy and typical Rough House banter. There was never a bad time to mess with each other, and often during the week of a fight the psychological attacks would keep us sharp and offer some comic relief at the expense of a teammate. But the sight of someone enjoying those luxuries made the torture of losing the final few ounces a hundred times worse!