Part Reptile: UFC, MMA and Me

by Dan Hardy

  I started on Marcus ‘The Irish Hand Grenade’ Davis early, the post-fight press conference after knocking out Markham in fact. When asked who I fancied taking on next, I called the Irish-American out. I said he’d been coming over to the UK and Ireland recently, winning a few fights, building a little fan base for himself and calling this place home. ‘But he’s not English and he’s not Irish,’ I continued, ‘and he doesn’t belong here. This is my home.’ It was all very calculated. First of all, Davis was a veteran with a winning record and had no reason whatsoever to get involved with someone as young and dangerous as me. I needed to provoke him into a fight, in other words. Secondly, I knew how passionate about his Irish heritage he was and so the Plastic Paddy attack was the most obvious and easiest approach to take. He took the bait almost immediately and so I kept reeling him in. A friend unearthed a bare-chested photo of him looking sultry in a kilt for some modelling shoot and it was just too good to ignore. I posted it onto the Cage Warriors forum and simply said I was sure some people on here can have some fun with this. Within hours, Davis had been photoshopped into all sorts of compromising situations, many involving leprechauns and homoerotic situations. It was a double whammy for Marcus for, as a traditional man’s man, he was never going to handle very realistic-looking mock-ups of his image adorning the cover of Gay Times magazine particularly well. When I described his website as looking like a bomb had exploded in a St Patrick’s Day gift shop, I think I pushed him over the edge.

  Davis was a boxer before he switched to MMA and was very proud of his 17–1–2 professional boxing record. So to keep messing with his head, I decided to combine my training at Eddie Bravo’s 10th Planet jiu-jitsu school with daily sessions in Freddie Roach’s Wild Card gym, in the middle of West Hollywood. Hungry to have the most renowned pro boxing trainer in the world critique my style, I immersed myself in the sweet science for a full month. The gym was always absolutely rammed with fighters, except of course when Manny Pacquiao turned up and everyone had to clear out so the Filipino legend could have the place to himself. I sparred on Tuesdays and Thursdays with whoever was available and I remember picking up invaluable pointers from Michael Moorer, the ex-heavyweight champion of the world, in particular. Freddie didn’t know what I was all about in the beginning as I just blended in with the crowd, but when the cameras started showing up to film me, he realised I was a UFC fighter and took me aside for one-on-one sessions. It was fantastic to be in the ring on the pads with him, or to have a quiet moment just to pick his brain about something. I remember one day he spent a bit of time showing me tricks for hitting with the elbow, a dark art in boxing but totally permissible in my world. He helped me with distance control, throwing a punch, leaving the arm out there a split second longer than usual, and then stepping through with the elbow. It was all good because it was a totally different technique to the Thai boxing elbows I was accustomed to throwing.

  I loved every minute I spent in the Wild Card, and I certainly added to my game while there, but there is a limit to how much a pure boxing coach can help an MMA fighter. Many armchair fans, especially among the boxing fraternity it always seems to me, are apparently desperate to compare and contrast boxing with MMA at every opportunity, but they are two totally distinct disciplines under the overall combat sports umbrella. The differences are both too numerous and too glaringly obvious to spend time discussing here, but body position before and after throwing a punch is one quick example of where I always have to tell boxing trainers that I just can’t do what they suggest in the Octagon. Boxers stand more side-on in order to dart in and out of range easier and to allow their backhand punches to benefit from a full rotation of the shoulders when it lands. But I can’t do that in an MMA fight for it will leave my front leg horribly exposed to kicks and will also make it easier for my opponent to shoot and take me down. What I always have to do is put advice or new skills through an MMA filter to see what, if anything, can be utilised in the Octagon. Much like the reality filter through which I began putting all traditional martial arts when I reached my sceptical teens. It was a useful perspective to have cultivated from a young age, particularly in the early days when coaches in Europe simply didn’t know what an MMA fight entailed as they had zero experience in the sport. I wasn’t even certain what I was preparing for at times, so how could a boxing, judo or wrestling expert be expected to know? I remember at a seminar working with an old Bulgarian wrestling coach who was affiliated with the British Olympic team and he chastised me for warming up by shadow boxing in front of a mirror. In Muay Thai sessions I had to explain that I couldn’t really afford to stay on my back leg with high hands and a light front leg poised to kick out. Even traditional jiu-jitsu, with the likes of its collar chokes or throws, was not always relevant in an MMA context. I employed a constant filtration process to my learning, and plenty of hours and days of work were immediately discarded, but I always enjoyed the journey. The constant questioning and testing was necessary and I continue doing it today, for it allows me to see everything from a very analytical standpoint. Even within skill-sets that are undoubtedly applicable to an MMA fight, it is important to establish whether they are right for you. Body shape and size, for example, must come into the equation. After all, what works for Jon Jones and his 84.5-inch reach may not be ideal for a fighter with a normal-sized wingspan.

  Like Bruce Lee said, ‘absorb what is useful, reject what is useless’. He did the same thing learning ancient techniques, and, by adopting his thought process and shedding low-percentage and non-realistic techniques, I like to think I am continuing that approach in the modern day.

  • • •

  Ten weeks out from the fight, I flew back to the UK. As we were fighting in Germany, the UFC wanted me to spend a week touring military bases in the country to meet the US troops, help publicise the event and strengthen our relationship with the armed forces. It is something that the UFC has always focused on, making events available for free to as much of the military as possible, and I have had some of my most inspiring experiences meeting people in various military roles. I may not agree with 99 per cent of the wars being fought in the world today, but I have no issue with the brave individuals forced to become involved in them. We were always very warmly welcomed, but it seemed inconceivable to me that someone who risks their life as a job could be inspired by a professional fighter. I felt like we were playing at combat in comparison to the unpredictability of real warfare, and the people that put themselves in those situations. I always remember the attitudes of some of the wounded soldiers, wanting nothing more than to be back in combat, watching their brothers’ backs. That resonated with me as I can imagine how I would feel if I was stuck in a military hospital, and Jimmy, Paul and Andre were out in the field engaging the enemy.

  I had been smoking marijuana regularly in California and, although I wouldn’t be partaking back home in the build-up to the fight, I knew that after the fight I’d take few days off, and would probably want to then. So I packed a tiny amount of weed into a glass pipe, wrapped it and taped it tight, and stuffed it inside one of my wrestling boots. The whole day, while packing my gear before the flight across the Atlantic, I took the weed in and out of my bag repeatedly as my mind chopped and changed about whether it was worth the minimal risk involved. To be totally honest, by the time I caught a cab to LAX I had lost track of my constant switching, possibly because I was smoking and packing at the same time! Once in Germany, I joined up with a handful of other UFC fighters and travelled together on a coach around the country, visiting the various military bases and doing our bit. Understandably security is pretty tight at these places and at the gates of every base we were all ordered off the bus so sniffer dogs could clamber aboard and go through our belongings in search of contraband, explosive or otherwise. My heart was in my mouth the first couple of times, although I can’t imagine anyone would have got too excited about a tiny quantity of marijuana, but in six separate searches the weed was never discovered
. I was a little relieved that no issue arose, and that first smoke after the fight was all the more sweet because of the process endured to get it home. Not that I recommend such silliness to anyone else!

  Our fight was set for UFC 99 in Cologne and, such was the level of interest the war of words had created, we were scheduled to be the big opening bout on the pay-per-view (PPV) section of the card to get the fans in attendance fired up and boost the atmosphere for the audience at home. The UFC also produced a ten-minute preview documentary that they showed on the big screens inside the sold-out Lanxess Arena. I couldn’t believe it when I first saw it. There was a deadly serious Marcus Davis talking about being told as a kid that he was wrong to say he hated something because that was such a strong emotion and it meant you spent some of your day thinking negatively about the person or thing you disliked. He then pauses before continuing solemnly with, ‘I hate Dan Hardy. I spend a lot of every day thinking about how much I don’t like Dan Hardy . . . I’m going to smash his face to pieces.’ It was all music to my ears. I could see how much energy he must have been wasting thinking about all the shit I was spouting on social media about him not being a true Irishman. I had a load of T-shirts printed with I Hate Dan Hardy on them and wore one to the weigh-in to keep his blood boiling. I didn’t even need to say anything now, just eye contact and a smug grin was enough to set him off.

  Davis gave his game-plan away at the weigh-in. You could always tell how Marcus Davis was going to fight by the way his physique developed during training camp for each bout. He was always in great shape, but if he stepped on the scales with his muscles looking a little leaner, you knew he was going to come out and box. But when he took off his T-shirt and revealed a heavily muscled torso, you knew he was going to focus on wrestling. As soon as I saw him on the stage, I knew he was planning to grapple. I felt that everything was playing into my hands and I was incredibly confident at the first bell. I was always sure I would beat Davis, but now I had him angry and looking like a bodybuilder there was no way I could lose. The only pressure I felt was totally self-manufactured. Three or four hours before we headed to the arena, it suddenly dawned on me that my provocative behaviour this time around would guarantee the loss of many fans if I now went out and was beaten up. In that scenario, I’d become just another mouthy Brit who talks a good game but is incapable of backing up his words and gets found out the instant he is forced to step up a level. And as the loser, it is much more difficult to spin out the lines that it was all just part of the game, that I have huge respect for all my opponents and it was nothing personal, because Davis, the winner, will already be running the show and can shout from the rooftops how he shut up a cheeky, ignorant, arrogant loser. Looking back, I see it was a pretty big gamble on my part, but at the time I saw it as another investment in myself in terms of my future UFC career. I was going to win this one and build my profile exponentially at the same time.

  When the physical confrontation begins, all the talk stops from me. I’m not one for continuing the trash-talk in the Octagon and the vast majority of my fights are fought with limited verbals. The only guy I remember encountering who never shut up was Paul Jenkins back in that smoky pub on Portsmouth pier. It was all nonsense that came from his mouth though and had zero impact on the fight. But I could see Davis still had that genuine hate in his eye when we first engaged. He took me down and controlled a lot of the first round. There is no doubt he was very strong, just a wall of muscle weighing down on me. He was already thirty-five years old and had that man strength, that solid brute force people get from lifting weights every day for over twenty years. But I was relaxed the whole time I was on the ground. I had been expecting this after I saw his shredded physique and I also knew such a heavy build would cause him to tire as the bout progressed. I never felt in any way hurried or panicked. Compared to the Dan Hardy who fought Lee Doski for the first time exactly five years earlier, I was a totally different animal. I was a much more refined fighter, I knew what I was capable of, was sure of what I wanted to do and how to do it. I had a much deeper understanding of mixed martial arts and what it took to win a fight at the elite level. I had also lost that misplaced arrogance of my youthful self and replaced it with a justified confidence. So while he had me down for a lot of the opening three or four minutes, he did no damage whatsoever. Then, with around ninety seconds left in the round, I heard a single voice cutting through the white noise of the 12,000 in attendance. It was as distinctive to me that night in Cologne as it is on the video recording available today. That “come on, Dan!” from my little sister gave me the extra 5 per cent I needed to turn things around. I scrambled and drove him into the fence and with a minute to go we were back on our feet exchanging strikes and I made sure everything I threw was heavy. I demanded his respect and from the look on his face as I landed I knew I had it. One vicious elbow on a break buzzed him, and I opened a cut on his forehead and caused a swelling at the corner of his left eye with further punches. Despite all the effort he had put into the round, I hurt him much more than he hurt me and I believe I earned the round.

  We spent the first ninety seconds of the next trading blows on our feet until, sensing he was coming off second best, Davis moved in to grapple. He had already lost some of his power, however, and I easily forced enough space between us to pull his head down and into my rising knee. It landed sweet and Davis dropped. I was on him fast, raining down hammer fists and elbows, but he recovered his senses in time to survive. As I sat on my stool waiting for the third, I could hear Mark DellaGrotte, the famed Muay Thai trainer, in the opposite corner, shouting his instructions in a thick Boston accent. ‘Don’t make mistakes, Marcus,’ he said. ‘This kid’s dangerous and it only takes one punch.’ That gave me great confidence. Then, just in case I was wondering whether Team Davis had calmed down enough to realise this was business and nothing personal, DellaGrotte screamed, ‘You’re just one round away from shutting this kid up!’

  In my mind I was two rounds up, but I wanted to dominate the third to make sure. It was an inauspicious start, however, as I fell to my back after Davis caught a lazy low kick at the same time as he threw a reaching left hand. His punch never landed, and certainly didn’t precipitate my fall, but the judge sitting behind my back believed that is exactly what happened and it ended up costing me the round on his scorecard. After a bit of grappling on the deck, in which Davis threatened but never came close to a submission or even landing a damaging strike, he attacked a foot, allowing me a moment to break free and scramble back to my feet. Then it was my turn to take him down and secure top position. From inside his closed guard, I controlled his wrists to remove his defence and plunged the most brutal elbow of my career into his face. His head literally bounced off the canvas floor and seconds later the blood was flowing from the bridge of his nose. ‘Stay out of danger,’ I heard DellaGrotte shout to his man. A bit late for that, I thought. His face was a mess and the referee separated us to allow the doctor in to clean him up and take a look. Davis rose slowly on unsteady legs just as his coach shouted, ‘You’re good, Marcus, you’re good.’ More extremely wishful thinking from the always positive DellaGrotte. His man wasn’t good and it was only going to get worse in the final minute as I punished Davis with left hands as he struggled to see through the blood and swelling.

  To his credit, Davis kept coming forward and swinging to the end, and when the final bell sounded he instinctively reached out for a brief handshake. It was a shame then when he refused a proper embrace when the split decision victory in my favour was announced. Only one judge voted against me, the one whose angle of vision made it look like I’d been dropped by a left hand rather than my own misplaced feet at the start of the final round. Most people agreed that I deserved the victory, but the feud with Davis lasted for a long time. I hadn’t thought it would be necessary, but I used my post-fight interview with Joe Rogan to reiterate that I had no personal problem with Marcus Davis whatsoever and it was all just a ploy to seek any marg
inal edge over an extremely tough opponent. I found it strange that people would honestly think I had an issue with a man self-identifying as Irish and it still amazes me that my comments riled Davis so badly. It was something that would have been laughed off as gym banter with the Rough House boys, but the cultural difference was evident and I had used it to my advantage. As soon as I was back in Nottingham I smoked that weed the military-police dogs had missed, watched a DVD a neighbour had put together of all the build-up and fight, and just laughed at how silly and hilarious it all was. There was also a huge sense of relief that the loud-mouth braggart routine hadn’t backfired with a chastening defeat. But I now know Davis to be an extremely proud man, the type of guy who fights for respect. He’s the fighter who hopes that years down the line people will come up to shake his hand and say, ‘I saw you do such and such and you were one tough bastard.’ Fame or titles or money or rankings are a distant second to those kinds of warriors. And then here was me, a kid with a big mouth, only two fights into my UFC career, swaggering about and disrespecting him in public. The Irish thing got to his heart, but I think whatever I used to disrespect him would have worked. I’m glad we got a chance to sit down briefly together the following year at UFC 113 in Montreal. Marcus had beaten Jonathan Goulet in the second round and then invited me to his dressing room. He apologised for some of his own behaviour, explaining that he was a proud and emotional man and he’d just let the whole situation get to him. I naturally apologised for my part in it all and we shook hands properly and left it at that.