Is This Legal
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Tuli was with his brother and two cousins and seemed nervous.
“Are you ready to party?” I asked him, thinking he would appreciate the reference to his comment at the fighters meeting of the night before. He could only offer up a weak smile in reply.
Pat Smith was bouncing off the walls, repeatedly shouting to himself that he was going to “fuck motherfuckers up tonight.” I thought that if we were giving out a self-doubt award, he would have finished second, just behind Frazier.
I then stopped by Jimmerson’s dressing room and asked him to show me his gloves, as they couldn’t be bigger than eight ounces.
“I didn’t bring no gloves. I need a pair. And I need some shoes too.”
It took me a moment to comprehend what I was hearing. Jimmerson was a top 10 cruiserweight in the world, and the guy we had paid a $17,000 appearance fee. He was here to represent boxing, and he hadn’t bothered to bring his gloves, or even his shoes. And he was just now telling me about this? What the fuck?
I wanted to curse him out, but I caught myself, realizing that it was pointless. He wasn’t offering an explanation for his lack of proper packing, and even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered at this point.
I immediately got Kathy on her walkie-talkie and told her about our latest emergency.
“Kathy, huge crisis. You’ve got to get on the phone now and find me a pair of regulation boxing gloves for Jimmerson. And shoes. Get the Yellow Pages out and start calling sporting goods stores. If you can’t find boxing shoes, get Jimmerson some good running shoes. The asshole didn’t bring anything!”
Kathy quickly located a sporting goods store in the nearby suburb of Arvada, but everybody on her staff was totally committed to dealing with other pressing issues. Undaunted, I called my kid brother, Matthew, who was still getting dressed at the hotel. He was looking forward to an enjoyable evening of kicking back and watching the fights.
I yelled at him to grab a cab and get down to the arena as fast as humanly possible. When he arrived 20 minutes later, I opened my wallet and took out three one hundred dollar bills.
“Here’s the address. It’s a sporting goods store. They’re open and waiting. Take this cash, grab a cab outside the arena and get over there. All you got to do is pay the man and then get back here yesterday.”
As I now waited for Matthew to return, I went to check on my two alternates, but could only find DeLucia. He seemed fairly relaxed, and thanked me again for the opportunity. I had sympathy for him, being stuck in such a weird limbo state. Jenkins had not arrived yet, and that had me worried. Karyn Turner said he was dependable—which was supposed to be Jenkins’ best attribute as a fighter. No one had any idea where he was, and I asked Kathy to find out what the hell was going on.
Soon, Matthew returned with 10-ounce boxing gloves and a pair of black Nike high tops, fresh off of the shelf. In his rush to get to the sporting goods store, Matthew had forgotten to take his credential with him. When he returned to McNichols Arena, the security guards wouldn’t let him in. They thought that he was some nut who showed up at the fights with boxing gloves and shoes, as though he was looking to join the fray.
Kathy had to be called on her walkie-talkie to restore order.
I went back to Jimmerson’s dressing room, and I again resisted the temptation to ask him what he was thinking by not bringing his gear with him to Denver. The boxing gloves that Matthew had bought for him were bigger than what I’d stipulated could be worn in the rules. But at this point, I didn’t care.
I doubted that Royce, Rickson, Rorion, Hélio or any of the Gracies would complain, as they all viewed Jimmerson as a clueless idiot.
As he had all week in Denver, Jimmerson looked completely befuddled. I actually almost felt bad for him, as he seemed so utterly lost. When I gave him the gloves and shoes he looked at me quizzically and said, “Running shoes?”
“Yeah, beggars can’t be choosers,” I mumbled to myself as I headed for the door.
I then ran into Kathy, who told me that our official T-shirts and sweats still hadn’t arrived. I was assured that everything would be there on fight day—that the entire order would be personally delivered to McNichols Arena by 3 p.m.
At this point all I could do was laugh, and say to Kathy, “This never fucking ends.”
From there, I headed down to the service entrance to double check on the gear, and finding no vendor unloading my official merchandise, I headed back towards the arena floor. In the subterranean bowels of McNichols, I then ran into Sam Solomon, our elderly cut man from Philadelphia. Sam was apparently lost, and seemed a bit disoriented in his unsuccessful search for the dressing rooms. I thanked him again for being with us, gave him a hug, and then steered him in the right direction. It was an honor to have him working our fights, but I couldn’t help but notice that Sam was obviously at the end of a long and distinguished career.
Making my way up the inner stairs, I bumped into Rorion. I hadn’t spent much time with him all week, as he had been consumed with getting Royce ready. Rorion was wearing his tuxedo, with a white silk scarf draped around his shoulders. Tall and lean at 6-foot-2 and 165 lb., he looked like a million dollars. I now told him that the deal with SEG was finally signed. I had been so preoccupied with my own thoughts on the ride over from the hotel that I hadn’t brought it up. Rorion didn’t seem overly elated, and said he always knew that I’d get it all worked out. We then looked at each other in our tuxedos, which we’d bought together at the Del Amo Fashion Center in Torrance, and were silent for a long moment.
Then Rorion spoke.
“Arturo, we did it. Can you believe it?”
“We did make it, Rorion. It’s been a bumpy ride, but we’re here. And we’re going to have a great show tonight.”
With that, we hugged and then slapped each other on the shoulders. I knew that we were never more like brothers than we were on that staircase deep inside McNichols Arena, just a few minutes before the start of the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Walking in step with my friend and partner, we headed for our front row seats as the fights were about to begin.
CHAPTER 11
THE FIRST UFC
VICTORY BELONGS TO THE MOST PERSEVERING.
— NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
Quarterfinal #1—Gerard Gordeau vs. Teila Tuli
EXACTLY four years to the month when I first started working on my pitch to Wisdom Imports for the World’s Best Fighter, the Ultimate Fighting Championship took flight with the twenty-six second destruction of an enormously fat Hawaiian by an icy cold Dutchman.
It was quick, brutal, a freak show, and undeniably real. I thought to myself that anyone who believed that this was going to be just another WWF-type pro wrestling rip-off, or some Japanese strong-style work, was given a harsh dose of reality. Any and all doubt evaporated into the Denver night when Gordeau’s full force leg kick landed flush into Tuli’s face, made all the worse because Tuli chose not to wear a mouthpiece.
When Joao Alberto Barreto stopped the fight, even though the rules clearly stipulated that the referee could not stop any fight except for a disqualification, it looked sloppy as hell, but it was also painfully real. In the midst of this chaos, I thought that you couldn’t fake this level of disorganization and dissent if you’d wanted to, and you certainly couldn’t fake those two crushing strikes to the face.
Once Gordeau was officially declared the winner and everything had settled down, I was overcome with a sense of embarrassment that I had actually thought that he’d given a Nazi salute prior to the fight. I now realized that he had acknowledged the four corners of McNichols Arena in a classic martial arts gesture. Gordeau was through to the semifinals, and just like that, we were on our way.
Quarterfinal #2—Zane Frazier vs. Kevin Rosier
As Rosier made his entrance walk towards the arena floor, he became blinded by the lights and smoke that Pillot had arranged, and hit his head on the lighting grid. The impact of the blow almost knocked Rosier out. But undeterred, he kept right
on walking.
At the opening Bell, Rosier came out charging, and forced Frazier, who was almost 100 lb. lighter, to immediately start backpedaling. These two kickboxing “world champions” then started throwing down like we were holding this fight in the McNichols Arena parking lot.
Rosier quickly landed a huge, sloppy, and entirely effective overhand right, which put Frazier in real trouble. More right hands and a knee followed, and Frazier dropped to the mat. I thought that had Rosier known even the first thing about submissions, he would have taken Frazier’s back, and looked to sink in a choke. But all that Rosier really knew was brawling, and he followed Frazier to the ground with a barrage of punches.
Frazier surprisingly countered by exploding back to his feet, with Rosier right back up with him.
From there, both fighters started punching and kneeing each other with reckless abandon and little technique. Frazier then turned things in his favor by landing a crushing knee into Rosier’s cup. Every man at McNichols Arena—first and foremost Rosier himself—let out a loud groan in reaction to this illegal shot, which Hélio Vigio allowed.
Suddenly, Frazier was looking really good, as he landed powerful knees to the head and body, while also throwing some pretty effective punches.
But seemingly without warning, his gas tank hit empty. Rosier then appeared as though he knew that his moment was at hand.
Just seconds before, Frazier had been dancing and moving, but now he was standing almost dead-still, hands at his waist, mouth wide open, and chest visibly heaving.
Frazier began a slow retreat, as Rosier came forward, closed the distance, and started landing jack-hammer right hands. As his opponent fell into the fetal position, Rosier continued to land crushing punches to the top, side, and back of Frazier’s head.
Two absolutely brutal foot stomps followed, the first of which actually bounced Frazier’s head off of the canvas, and the towel was thrown in.
I laughed to myself that fat ass Kevin Rosier won this fight largely through superior cardio. As he’d guaranteed, his huge right hand was a factor as well.
The day before the fight, Rosier told me, “I’m like Rocky Marciano. I can take a huge punch and keep on coming. So think of me as Rocky Marciano.”
I had said to him in response, “You’re so big, I think of you as two Rocky Marcianos.”
But true to his word, Rosier took a huge punch, as well as a pretty vicious nut-shot, and kept on coming. After four minutes, twenty seconds of utter fucking brutality, Kevin Rosier had advanced in the tournament. The crowd was losing their mind with bloodlust.
Quarterfinal #3—Royce Gracie vs. Art Jimmerson
Just prior to the third fight of the night, I moved from my front row seat to the TV production truck, to get a sense of the live PPV broadcast. As I was watching the fighter entrances on the wall of monitors, I saw that Jimmerson was only wearing one glove.
I turned to Pillot, and started saying, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” without realizing that those words were coming out of my mouth. What I never wanted was for any of our fights to look like a joke. And Jimmerson attempting to fight a Gracie Jiu-Jitsu black belt—or anyone for that matter—with just one boxing glove looked like a huge fucking joke.
Our director Lucas turned to me, and asked what this was all about.
All that I could think of was that Jimmerson had worked out that from his orthodox boxing stance, he would be able to grab Royce’s gi with his ungloved right hand, and then repeatedly hit Royce with his gloved lead left hand, while Royce stood perfect still. I had no idea what was in Jimmerson’s head.
This one-glove decision was absolute clown stuff, but there was nothing that I could do. Even if I had been in my front row seat, I would have been helpless to act. All that I could do now was watch unfold what I knew would be a train wreck, as I also tried hard not to think about Jimmerson’s $17,000 guarantee.
Royce came out with a front kick to Jimmerson’s lead left leg. In the countless hours that I’d spent at the Gracie Academy, I don’t think that I’d ever seen Royce throw more than ten kicks total. I figured that this must have been something that Rickson had thought of in his role as Royce’s chief strategist and trainer: establish the low kick almost as a jab, to back off the boxer. It worked beautifully. After a series of kicks, Royce shot a quick double leg takedown, dropped Jimmerson, and gracefully moved into side control at the completion of the takedown.
From there, he quickly stepped over into full mount, and I figured that it was time to start the countdown clock to Royce’s victory.
Jimmerson literally had no idea what to do once he was put on his back by Royce, and both fighters knew this immediately.
All that Jimmerson could think of was to body lock Royce from the bottom position—a move greatly inhibited by his one boxing glove. Jimmerson then desperately tried to scoot backwards with the full weight of his opponent on top of him.
Out of what I could only assume was frustration, mixed with genuine fear, Jimmerson then tapped out. And then he kept tapping out again and again, as Barreto was completely oblivious to the surrender.
Royce finally had to tell Barreto that Jimmerson had conceded, and that the fight was now over.
The time was two minutes, eighteen seconds. Royce had won by submission without actually applying a submission hold. Jimmerson did not land a single punch, neither with his gloved nor ungloved fist.
The Denver crowd could not make sense of what had just happened, and responded to the finish with a chorus of boos. Only Jimmerson seemed more confused.
Royce didn’t care about the crowd reaction, and neither did Rorion, Rickson and the rest of the family. This was Gracie Jiu-Jitsu at its most basic and effective, and it had worked flawlessly, sending Royce on to the semifinals.
Quarterfinal #4—Ken Shamrock vs. Pat Smith
Even though I had balked at using Smith’s “250-0” record on our fight poster, I told Rich Goins to announce it during the fighter introductions. I knew that it would play really well here in Smith’s hometown, and the live TV audience would certainly take note.
The stare down was intense, and the first really good one that had occurred all night.
Smith looked ready to unload his taekwondo/robotae on the man he dubbed “some goofy wrestler from Japan,” who he was certain would crumble in short order.
With his hands held high, Shamrock moved forward and immediately shot inside. A quick body lock led to a wrestling lateral drop, and Smith was on his ass in about 10 seconds flat. To my surprise, Smith knew how to close guard, a basic position of Gracie Jiu-Jitsu. This, however, looked to be the only thing that Smith knew about ground fighting.
Slowly and methodically from Smith’s guard, Shamrock postured up, threw a few strikes and then sat back for a heel hook.
Lacking submission defense of any kind, Smith countered by grabbing Shamrock’s toes, and elbowing Shamrock’s shin and calf. Completely undeterred, Shamrock fully locked on the heel hook, forcing Smith to tap out at the one-minute, 49-second mark.
Smith then stayed on the canvas for a long time, partly due to the pain of experiencing what was no doubt his first ever leg lock, and partly from the humiliation of failing so spectacularly in front of his Denver fans.
Unsure as to what had just happened to their guy, the crowd responded with a hearty round of boos. They had come to see Pat Smith kick people in the head, not have some guy in red Speedos pull on his ankle.
In response, Smith challenged Shamrock to keep fighting, as though this was a best two out of three falls pro wrestling match from the 1950s. I understood that in reality, Smith was just trying to save face. He knew that he’d lost, and he knew that he’d submitted to the excruciating painful heel hook.
There was nothing to argue, but Smith argued anyway.
Shamrock was the clear winner, and he was the final semi-finalist. The chant of “bull-shit, bull-shit” didn’t seem to bother Shamrock in the least, as he headed back to his dressing room.
As I watched him await the fighter introductions, I noticed that Rosier had a huge glob of Vaseline over his badly swollen right eye. In defeating Frazier, he had taken a great deal of punishment. For his part, Gerard Gordeau came into this semifinal with both his right hand and right foot wrapped in medical tape. I asked Dr. Cooperman about this, and he told me that Gordeau had fractured his hand from punching Tuli in the eye, and had fragments of Tuli’s tooth embedded in his foot from that horrific kick to the mouth.
Looking at Rosier, I got the impression that beating Frazier was enough for him, and now he just wanted to go sit in the crowd, and drink beers the rest of the night.
But here he was, honoring his commitment, instead of dropping out.
This fight was going to be a stylistic match-up of American kickboxer vs. European kickboxer, and I didn’t think that Rosier had a chance.
The contrast of styles as well as experience was immediately evident, as Gordeau’s first combination of the fight was a left hand-right low kick. Rosier tried to answer with an attempted low kick of his own: toes down, and aimed at Gordeau’s ankle, which brought the word feeble to my mind.
Gordeau circled out, reset, and then stepped in to deliver a full force kick to Rosier’s left thigh.
Despite being a kickboxing “World Champion,” Rosier had the look of a man who had never been kicked in the quadriceps before, at least not with that type of power and technique.
Gordeau then loaded up another kick, and as Rosier made an attempt to check it, Gordeau went under the raised left leg, and crushed Rosier’s back right plant leg without mercy.