Part Reptile: UFC, MMA and Me

by Dan Hardy

  ‘Fuck that!’ Dana shouted in reply. ‘I want you exactly how you are!’

  I flew to London for a couple of screen tests with prospective partners. I was to be the colour commentator, so we needed a play-by-play guy who I could dovetail with. The first, a well-known radio personality, didn’t really understand exactly what his role would entail. He had little knowledge of mixed martial arts or the UFC, other than being a casual fan, and his questions were rather elementary. The second candidate, John Gooden, called me the night before to introduce himself before turning up on the day suited and booted and ready to nail a job interview. With many years behind him in a similar role with Cage Warriors, he knew his stuff and we clicked right from the off. He asked good questions which allowed me to do my thing and, since he's a naturally funny and charismatic guy, we quickly developed a nice chemistry on and off the screen. John would be working the position usually held by Mike Goldberg, but with his deep understanding of the sport and his genuine love of martial arts, I was confident that he would raise the bar from where it had been set previously.

  Along with Andy Friedlander, an announcer recruited from Wembley Stadium, the three of us flew to Las Vegas in February 2014 to sit beside Rogan and Goldie for Rousey versus McMann and undertake a bit of a trial run. Joe and I are good friends, but I never really asked him for advice. My role overlaps with what he does for the North American audience, but there are many differences too. It is also a case of horses for courses. I couldn’t be the type of personality that Joe is, and my audience doesn’t want that anyway. The UFC recognised that the average European MMA fan is more discerning than their American counterparts. Europeans seem to prefer a calmer, more informative approach to sports commentating, but with Joe being so synonymous with the original UFC brand, his voice and hype have become a part of the UFC experience. Much like the distinctive tones of the ‘Veteran Voice of the Octagon’, Bruce Buffer. A more considered and cerebral approach is what I was aiming to achieve, akin to what Jon Anik is now bringing with his commentary, and I think that’s why the organisation hired John and me in the first place. Our first gig then took place at the O2 Arena in London in March 2014, and it went pretty well. The constant voices in my ear-piece from the production truck providing feedback and guidance throughout the show were distracting at first, but three years on I’m beginning to get used to it. I wasn’t really nervous because in my mind I’m just a fighter watching a fight and talking to other fighters. This is my domain and I feel entirely qualified and prepared to do the job. What also helped quell any anxiety was my perspective that, having once been knocked out cold live on air in front of millions, nothing can be more embarrassing than that.

  I was excited to have a new challenge and a direction to walk in again and, although I’d never considered it before, I soon recognised what a great opportunity I had with this new role. My obsessive nature ensured I immediately dedicated myself to becoming the best MMA analyst I could possibly be. I threw myself into it, watching hundreds upon hundreds of fights to appreciate and critique and know intimately each UFC fighter’s style. Our Inside the Octagon series soon became a fan favourite, but I imagine few viewers have any idea of the amount of preparation I do before I allow those segments to be recorded. In advance of breaking down a fight or particular fighter, I spend hours putting myself in the shoes of the protagonists. I’ll stand in front of the gym mirror, mimicking their styles and envisioning what their opponent will be thinking and doing. I then flip it round to become the opponent and repeat until I have the best vision of how I believe the fight will go in my mind. I may not get it wholly correct every time, but I don’t think there is anyone out there putting in as much effort as I do to be as accurate as possible with their analysis and predictions. And even if there is someone that dedicated, it’s unlikely that they have enjoyed the rollercoaster ride of a UFC career that I have had. I do feel that in a short ten-fight stint in the UFC I experienced most of what a fighter could experience in and out of the Octagon. A quick rise and a four-fight win streak, a title shot against one of the best ever, then a losing streak that would have ended most UFC careers. I’ve knocked out guys and been knocked out, I’ve had quick fights and bonuses, and long, frustrating bouts which I found quite boring. I’ve fought smart, and I’ve fought recklessly, and I did every bit of media work that the UFC put my way. With all that under my belt, I believe I can speak authoritatively on MMA.

  The more I do the media stuff, the more I see it as a real service to the sport of mixed martial arts. In fact, I believe I am providing a more important service to MMA as an analyst than I ever did as a fighter. It may not have been the same had I left the sport on my own terms, but I got the opportunity while still very much immersed in the UFC and I simply redirected my passion and drive and obsession towards this new chapter in my life. All thoughts of fighting again were soon pushed to the back of my mind so I could concentrate all my energy on the new role, but I can’t pretend that there wasn’t always a part of me wishing I was driving to the arena to fight rather than talk. In fact, every time I commentate I still have my gumshield in my pocket just in case. I know I am commentating because someone has told me I can’t fight and it is impossible to escape that fact, but I truly enjoy this role and it’s a close second to stepping into the Octagon to compete. One thing that has changed, however, is the realisation that if I do return to the Octagon it will be a very selfish act. I now acknowledge that no one can benefit from me fighting again except me. Dana doesn’t understand why I would want to fight again and it is interesting to note a creeping change among fans as well. When I first attended fan days or open question & answer sessions after my diagnosis, I was always being asked when I was coming back and almost everyone I encountered told me they couldn’t wait to see me back inside the Octagon. But suddenly, a year or two on, I began to get messages asking me to stay retired. ‘Save your brain for commentating,’ I am told. ‘We love your analysis too much to want to see you back fighting!’ It is a strange scenario to find myself in, and I have no idea where my media work will take me, but I am content with my lot for the time being and know I will have fun finding out.

  • • •

  By 2015 my working visa to stay in the US had expired and I was back living in England full-time. One day I sat and watched the documentary 180 Degrees South, which tells the story of a guy named Jeff Johnson retracing the steps of a Chilean expedition that Doug Tompkins and Yvon Chouinard, the founders of US outerwear companies North Face and Patagonia respectively, made in the late 1960s. At one point, Johnson is on a boat on the way from Mexico to Chile when the mast snaps, leaving the three-man crew stranded in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean. I couldn’t help wondering how I would react in such a helpless situation, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to get myself back to safety on my efforts alone. The thought of it was terrifying and I imagined I would panic, but the vulnerability and isolation of being adrift on a tiny vessel, thousands of miles from dry land, somehow appealed to me. I decided then that it was a necessary addition to my bucket list, and a fear that I would have to face at some point in my future. So it seemed like it was meant to be then when a few months later the UFC called to say that the organisers of the famous Clipper Round the World Yacht Race were keen to add me to the crew of Team GREAT, that year’s British entrant in the competition. The sponsors, GREAT Britain, the UK government’s international marketing campaign, were keen to have a British athlete for each of the eight legs of the race and, in addition to me, the rugby player Ollie Phillips, the badminton player Nathan Robertson, the rower Bill Lucas and the Paralympian Charlotte Evans were among those who would take part.

  I underwent four weeks of pretty intense training to learn the necessary skills and prove myself capable of surviving a month on the open seas in a seventy-foot yacht with twenty-four strangers. The vast majority of that training took place on the boat, either docked in Gosport or out on the Solent, the strait separating the Isl
e of Wight from mainland Britain. I learnt the necessary terminology as well as an array of technical skills like how to choose a sail set according to the prevailing wind. There were also plenty of safety, recovery and survival drills. Week two was spent totally at sea, either at anchor or sailing through the night, and was particularly challenging. We were effectively put through the wringer in order to weed out those who wouldn’t cope with the exhausting routine during the length of a race leg. We worked in watches on a rough schedule of four hours on and four off, but trying to get some rest in the cramped and uncomfortable living quarters was more of a challenge than learning all of the skills I would need on the Atlantic crossing. We were out in the English Channel and the waters were rough and choppy the whole time. Prolonged seasickness was everyone’s big fear, but as I was accustomed to working through pain and injury I thought I would conquer it with mental strength alone. When it came, it hit me much harder than I expected, however. It really is incredibly debilitating and, having never experienced any kind of motion sickness before, I had underestimated how much of a test of mental fortitude that would be. It struck a few of my crewmates pretty hard too and some pulled out less than halfway through training. I think the worst point for me, and the closest I came to withdrawing, was at about 2am a couple of days into our second week of training. One of our propellers got caught in a lobster pot ten miles off the coast and left us bobbing helplessly around in a circle in a shipping lane on a wet and windy night. The solution to seasickness is to focus on a point of reference, normally the horizon, in order to give your brain a location from which it can set its bearings, find equilibrium and basically calm everything down. Unfortunately this was the middle of a pitch-black night and distinguishing between sea and sky was an impossible task. I don’t mind admitting it was tough to function, so much worse than just a headache and a bad case of nausea on dry land.

  Stepping onto the boat with the rest of the people who would make up my entire world for the month of September 2015 was a pretty surreal moment. I have never been one for team sports, so the sudden reliance on a group of strangers for any success we might have in the race was going to be one of the many new challenges I had ahead. The idea of competing twenty-four hours a day for thirty consecutive days, even while I was asleep, was yet another new, weird and wonderful concept for me to get my head around. Sailing down the River Thames for the ceremonial journey to the starting point at Southend-on-Sea was an absolutely beautiful experience. It was a big part of the reason why I really wanted to do that opening leg of the race. We had the privilege of Tower Bridge being raised to let us pass underneath and there were people lining the Thames, cheering and waving Union Jacks, practically the whole way to the sea. I stood on deck and imagined what it must have felt like being on one of Sir Francis Drake’s ships as it sailed the same stretch of water in the sixteenth century. I felt well prepared and confident but there was also a tangible fear of sailing out into the unknown. The other reason I wanted the first leg was the route and destination. Crossing the Atlantic, catching the trade winds to South America, and sailing into Rio de Janeiro with all its links to mixed martial arts; what could be better than that?

  As each vessel in the race is absolutely identical and gets passed to a new sponsor every two years, the official names of the boats are functional rather than romantic. Ours was technically called CV27, but the superstitions of the true sailors on board dictated that she was rechristened ‘Grace’ with the aid of a small bottle of whisky, the only drop of alcohol on board. Then, as we stood on deck, waiting for the noon start in the hammering rain at the very end of the pier at Southend-on-Sea, a rush of adrenalin surged through my body. We were all in our foul-weather gear and I was shouting and banging on the mast to get everyone fired up. It was competition time, fight time. The first few miles are all about jockeying for position but can go some way to dictating your position in the entire 45,000 nautical-mile race. It might be the only time each boat is in sight of one other, and the only chance to see how other skippers react to circumstances as everyone chases or tries to maintain their advantage. I saw the French boat blow their spinnaker and the kite sail fell into the sea. We passed them as they were all scrambling to recover it and pull it back aboard. We were flying as we swept by the White Cliffs of Dover and I was loving it. When the sun set we were still held an early lead, but suddenly we were competing against opponents we couldn’t see. Out of nowhere, the French boat, which was supernaturally quick at times, steamed past us in the murky night like a ghost ship and disappeared. ‘Grace’ chased her for the guts of a year, but never managed to catch her.

  Life on a racing clipper is not easy. Everyone is on a rota for shift work and the timeslots are: 6am–noon, noon–6pm, 6pm–10pm, 10pm–2am and 2am–6am. One day you would be on a six-hour shift and then two four-hour shifts, and the next day one six-hour and one four-hour. The only change was when it was your turn to be on full-day mother watch. That meant preparing all the food for everyone for twenty-four hours and was, in my opinion, by far the worst job on the yacht. I did it three times, rising at 5am to begin cooking porridge for twenty-five people in a dark galley. It was so cramped and hot in the galley, with a nearby toilet concealed by a curtain forever leaking and stinking the place out. The boat is invariably sitting at a 45-degree angle in the water for long periods of time, and that makes even the simplest task an ordeal. Try chopping vegetables, or boiling water, or going to the toilet at an unsteady 45-degree angle! After preparing the final meal of the day in time for the 6pm changeover, there was technically a small window to rest, but you needed a lot of luck to find a spot on which to lay your head. There were sixteen bunks on the boat, and twenty-five tired bodies hoping to use them. Our skipper, Peter Thornton, and the two camera crew had their own, so that left thirteen in circulation for the rest of us to bunk-hop. Hygiene was hardly a priority on board, so the sleeping quarters soon became pretty gross. You either went to bed cold and wet or hot and sweaty, so either way the bed space was going to suffer. I shared with a big six foot four Scotsman called Ken. He was a great guy and, as he was doing the full circumnavigation, he always got priority when it came to using our shared bunk. It was cramped for me, so how he dealt with it for the full eleven months still amazes me. At times I had to make do with the emergency bunk in the sail locker where people were always coming and going and waking you up. It had the additional drawback of lying just inches below the ceiling when it was winched into place which resulted in a sore face every time the boat bounced off a wave. Never before have I had to sleep with my guard up to protect my face, but bruised elbows and forearms are always better than a bloody nose!

  It wasn’t long before the boat and the elements combined to teach me a few lessons about how unpredictable and potentially dangerous life on a clipper in the ocean can be. During training, people were frequently losing bits and pieces and personal possessions overboard. It became a bit of a running joke that everyone must sacrifice something to Neptune. I had kept a watch in a case at home for years, waiting for a specific expedition to wear it on. I only put it on in Southend-on-Sea, but just twelve hours later it was somehow wiped from my wrist as I pulled on a sheet and I watched it sink into the murky depths of the Channel to join the wrecks of hundreds of boats and galleons that had found their final resting place there. Not long after the demise of my only time-telling device, and as we watched the French vessel speed past us in the 3am darkness, our skipper ordered the two head sails down and the spinnaker to be readied for launch. Half the crew were in bed, one was on deck at the helm, and most of the others were down in the sail locker getting the spinnaker ready, so I ran onto the foredeck to open the hatch and start pulling the sail up. Luckily I clipped the strap of my life jacket onto the jackstay with a carabiner before running towards the front of the boat. Out of nowhere, a huge gust of wind hit a sail which whipped a heavy rope up and struck me under the chin. The force of the impact was so strong that it knocked me up and off my feet
and only my connection to the jackstay prevented me from flying over the side. At the speed we were travelling, and in the darkness of the dead of night, I would have been miles behind before anyone even realised I was missing.

  On another occasion, I actually managed to sleep through one of the big storms we hit just north of the Equator. Depending on what side of the boat you were on, gravity was either trying to drag you off your bunk or squeeze you into the wall. I had adapted to life at 45 degrees by this point, but on this night we were keeled over at an even more extreme angle than normal. I woke suddenly, lying on the wall, looking at my bunk almost perpendicular beside me. The only window I could see through was a small porthole with a view into the snake pit where the crew hustled about in a nest of ropes. In my fatigued state I looked out with squinted eyes but had no way of telling what was happening or how fast we were going. There was a lot of banging and shouting going on, but as one of the winches was right above my head I presumed it was just a regular sail change in testing weather. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep and it was only later I learnt that we had been knocked over by a massive gust and the mast was flat in the water. I had been sleeping on the wall of the boat, effectively under the sea, but the poor folks on the starboard side of the vessel had been launched out of their slumber and caused a pile-up of bodies and luggage in the gangway between their bunks. I also found the cameraman looking a little worse for wear as one of the winches had come loose on impact, struck him, and taken a sizeable chunk out of his leg. There was no doubt that this was a dangerous environment we were operating in and we needed to be fully switched on all of the time.