Is This Legal

by Art Davie

  “Are you crazy?” I asked him. “Leave it to me, I already rented a storage place. We’re not throwing it away.”

  I loved the job that Harrison and Cusson had done in creating it. It was perfect, and I thought it would be insane to go through the ordeal and the expense of building a new one.

  Pillot, Lucas and Campbell all agreed that the commentators had a pretty rough night, especially our play-by-play man Bill Wallace. I knew that there were some awkward moments and gaffes from my constant trips back to the production truck, but I had no idea as to what extent, until they played back some clips for me.

  Wallace opened the PPV broadcast in a very matter-of-fact tone with the words “Hello ladies and gentleman. You are about to see something that you have never seen before—The Ultimate Fighting Challenge. Hello, I’m Bill Wallace and welcome to McNichols Arena.”

  At this point he belched into the microphone, which made “McNichols Arena” sound like “Mcniquoolz Oreeda.”

  Wallace then continued with, “excuse me, McNichols Arena in fabulous Denver, Colorado. Along with me is Jim Brown, and I’d like to introduce you to what is called the Ultimate Fighting Challenge.”

  In his opening lines, Wallace had said the name of our event wrong—twice—and sounded like he almost threw up in his mouth, live on air.

  And that set the precedent for Wallace’s night.

  He gave a wide array of pronunciations—all wrong—for Teila Tuli and Gerard Gordeau. He consistently mispronounced Jimmerson as “Jimm-AH-son”, and Rosier (correctly Roe-zher) as “Roe-ZEER.” Ignoring the Portuguese pronunciation of Royce, in which the R is said like the English H, as in “Hoyce,” he called him Royce with a hard R—like Rolls Royce. He also referred to as him “Roy.”

  Wallace didn’t fare much better with the names of his on-air colleagues, calling Rod Machado “Machacho,” Brian Kilmeade “Kilmore,” and Rich Goins “Ron” and “Rod.” Not once in the entire broadcast did he correctly refer to him as Rich.

  Our tournament bracket was “the chart,” the instant replay was “the rematch,” our fighting area was “the octagonal octagon,” and our location in Denver was mentioned numerous times as being “a mile high up in the air,” as though we were floating around in that cloud city from The Empire Strikes Back.

  And over the course of the broadcast, Wallace had these gems as well:

  “Sumo is very formal, because it’s a very national sport of Japan.”

  “You have a Kenpo stylist against basically a kickboxer that uses the boxing techniques along with the kicking techniques of taekwondo of kicking.”

  “Pain hurts.”

  “It kind of discomboberates you.”

  “We’re having boxing who is basically at a disposition.”

  “I’m an old person, if you want to wrestle we can wrestle.”

  “Most fights do (end up on the ground) because you’re in a bar room and that bar’s kind of slippery with all that, with all that beer on the ground, and all that glass down there and everything.”

  “The mouth is the dirtiest part of the human body. You wouldn’t think so but it is.”

  “Now you’re going to think how maybe those kicking techniques can set up some grappling techniques, or maybe create the opening that you need for the, what you might call the kaboomer.”

  “Most boxers when they enter the ring, they’re nice and wet already.”

  And, “It’s kind of ironic that Royce Gracie’s going to wear his judo top.”

  Of course it was not a “judo top” and there was nothing ironic about Royce wearing it.

  I knew that we had thrown Wallace in the deep end of the pool by asking him to switch with Jim Brown, and move from color analyst to play-by-play. But he had been so incredibly arrogant from the moment he arrived in Denver: dismissing Gracie Jiu-Jitsu at their seminar, not doing his broadcast prep work, acting like a know-it-all, and generally taking a condescending attitude with everyone in sight. It was hard for me to have any sympathy.

  I’d hoped that Kathy Long would give it back to Wallace all night on air, as an adversary or contrarian, but she was just kind of bland.

  Kilmeade was absolutely clueless in his fighter interviews, asking questions that would have seemed inane coming from an 8-year-old.

  Machado and Goins were decent, but both seemed nervous, and a bit overmatched.

  For his part, our superstar Jim Brown had very little to say, especially anything of real substance.

  But towards the very end of the show, Brown did utter something extremely profound, “What we’ve learned tonight is that fighting is not what we thought it was.”

  CHAPTER 12

  MONSTERS BALL

  AN HONOR IS NOT DIMINISHED BY BEING SHARED.

  — LOIS McMASTER BUJOLD

  AFTER departing the TV production truck, I headed to the dressing rooms, where everything was still pretty chaotic. Absolutely everyone was exhausted at this point, myself included. After the first two bouts, with four fighters injured and only two ambulances, Kathy had ordered up a third ambulance. Later, she was so convinced that every fighter was going to need an ambulance, she called 911 to beg for additional medical help. Kathy actually had to send one of the fighters to the hospital in a taxi, as things began to spin out of control.

  As I wandered around in the backstage area, I ran into Kathy, who had a drink in her hand.

  “What are you doing? It’s still showtime! Why are you drinking?”

  But then I stared at her face, and I immediately shut up. Kathy looked like she had been in a war zone. We all did.

  The next evening was our Grand Masked Ball and Supper, with all of the fighters, their camps, friends and family invited, as well as the staffs of W.O.W. Promotions and SEG and our VIP guests—basically everyone who had been involved in the Ultimate Fighting Championship who was with us in Denver.

  Kathy had long since suggested the masked ball theme, as she wanted the party to feel like something truly special and elegant for all in attendance. She booked the main ballroom at the Executive Tower Inn, and distributed masks to everyone at the door. In an odd moment of serendipity, Sally Star had discovered that there was a hair dressers’ convention taking place at the hotel, and they had a huge carnival mask as their central display. Sally asked if we could have it for our masked ball, and the hair dresser conventioneers were happy to oblige.

  The party began at 8 p.m., and was listed on the invitations as “black tie.” I didn’t expect everyone to wear tuxedos and ball gowns—but I hoped that our guests would be encouraged to dress up, at least a little bit, to give the evening a touch of class.

  This is the ticket to the Masked Ball & Dinner on Saturday, November 13, 1993. This was an opportunity for the fighters to relax and party. For the staff of W.O.W. Promotions and Semaphore Entertainment Group, who were almost as exhausted as the fighters, it was just as welcome.

  Campbell walked in and looked completely wiped out, as well as fairly drunk.

  “After a show, it’s like I’ve given birth,” he told me. “I need a day or two to come down. I’m OK but I’ve got to process this thing.”

  I looked at him and felt a tremendous kinship. He had become my friend and confidant throughout this entire process, despite all of our disagreements, and all of my frustrations.

  “I can’t believe you carry a gun. You’re a fucking crazy cowboy, aren’t you?” he said to me slurring his words.

  Campbell then looked around the room, and in a very loud whisper said, “Art, there’s a lot of people I don’t know wearing masks here. This is like a fucking Fellini movie!”

  I laughed, and then asked him, “So, are we a hit Campbell?”

  “I think so, but we’ll all know when the numbers come in on Monday. All we can do now is wait.”

  Back in late August when Campbell told me that SEG would price the PPV broadcast at $14.95, he also mentioned that the target was 50,000 buys.

  “But I’ll be pretty happy with 25,000, and
so will Bob,” he had said at the time.

  I had no idea how many people had actually ordered the Ultimate Fighting Championship, and 24 hours after the fights, I still didn’t have a sense of how we’d done. The live audience at McNichols Arena was decent with 3,013 tickets sold, and including the comps, 3,997 total people in attendance. But if we hadn’t shrunk the seating area with piping and drapes, it would have looked empty on TV.

  All I could do now was be optimistic. It was better than the alternative.

  Rosier was the first fighter to arrive at the party, and he was wearing a circa 1975-looking tux, complete with a huge flower cummerbund. He looked as joyous as if he’d won the tournament, and greeted me with a huge hug. He then proclaimed that he was my long-lost son, and that he was now going to call me “Dad.” Rosier then excused himself, and said that he wanted to go look for John McCarthy, so that he could challenge him to a pizza-eating contest.

  Gordeau soon followed, and seemed as cool and expressionless as he had throughout the week. He thanked me for the opportunity, and seemed to feel really good about his performance as the runner-up, and the $15,000 check that came with it. Gordeau wore a T-shirt and tuxedo tie, as well as thick tape on his horribly swollen right hand. He was limping noticeably, and I was certain that his right foot was bandaged as well.

  “Are you sure that you’re okay, Gerard?” I asked him.

  “No problem, Art Davie.”

  The Gracies then came into the ballroom, with Rorion leading the way. We both were wearing our tuxedos from the night before, and we laughed at the sight, as we gave each other a warm embrace.

  Hélio looked happier than I had ever seen him, and Royce seemed incredibly relieved.

  Shamrock wasn’t far behind, arriving with his adoptive dad, Bob, and his wife, Tina. He appeared emotionally devastated, and really embarrassed. He told me that he was going to devote himself to getting a rematch with Royce, and then making sure that things went his way the second time around.

  Frasier then appeared, and started in at me about the thin Denver air, and his breathing problems, and not being able to tape his knuckles, and the event being rigged for Royce to win. I was in no mood for a debate, so I thanked him for his involvement, and told Frazier that like the other nine fighters, he should be incredibly proud to have been a part of this.

  “Benny Urquidez and Dennis Alexio could have been here. But they turned me down, and so did a lot of other guys. You had the balls to step up and take part in this Zane. That’s a really big deal.”

  When Jimmerson showed up, he approached me, and began alternating between saying that he had done his best, and that he should have done things differently. I could tell that he was pretty humiliated. We both knew that he didn’t earn that $17,000. The guy was a top ten cruiserweight in the world, and he never even landed a punch. I still couldn’t figure him out. After almost an entire week together, Jimmerson remained a complete mystery to me.

  Pat Smith looked angry and utterly distraught when he walked into the party. If anyone seemed relieved at the opportunity to hide their face behind a mask, it was him. Smith really believed that he was going to knock out everyone on his way to an easy $50,000. During the week at the hotel, he’d told me that he was “impervious to pain.” This apparently excluded the wrenching pain from a well-applied heel hook, but I didn’t bring that up. As flaky and volatile as Smith was, I couldn’t help but like him. He told me that whenever I was ready for our second event, he would be back, and he’d win it. “I just have to work on this jiu-jitsu thing,” he said.

  I spotted Jason DeLucia and thanked him for being so flexible all week, and for stepping in to fight at the last second. DeLucia asked me if I would find a place for him in our next tournament, and I told him that I’d give it strong consideration.

  The party was now rolling, with dinner, lots of drinks, a DJ and dancing. But I realized that we were missing Trent Jenkins and Teila Tuli.

  Since Jenkins was a Denver local, I figured he had decided not to come back down to the hotel. This disappointed me, as I wanted to thank him for living up to his billing as a really reliable person. As was the case with his opponent DeLucia, Jenkins was in an awkward position as an alternate, not knowing if and when he’d fight. And just like DeLucia, when I needed him, he was ready—without complaint.

  I asked Rorion if he knew where Tuli was, and he said that he’d find out.

  Rorion quickly dispatched one of his brothers to Tuli’s room. Apparently, Tuli was really embarrassed—embarrassed that he had been defeated, embarrassed that he was missing a tooth, and embarrassed that he didn’t have any formal clothes to wear to the masked ball. After some prodding, Tuli finally put on a T-shirt and another Polynesian skirt thing and headed down. When he arrived with his brother and two cousins, Tuli asked me if he was welcome at the party.

  “Of course you’re welcome, Teila. This party is for you guys—the fighters.”

  Rorion and I are addressing the crowd right before dinner. Masks were handed out at the door and almost everyone came in fancy dress or evening clothes.

  “I’m really sorry about last night, Mr. Davie.”

  “Teila, you have nothing to apologize about. I’m so happy that you fought for us, and I know you did your best.”

  Just as had occurred at the Denver Airport at the beginning of the week when I gave him his $6,000 in cash, Tuli lit up with a huge smile.

  The mood in the ballroom was celebratory, as all of the tension and anxiety that had built up throughout the week now disappeared. As I made the rounds with a single-malt scotch and a Cuban cigar, I noticed that there was no macho posturing going on, no tough guy antics of any sort. Instead, there was a sense of camaraderie, brotherhood even.

  When everyone had arrived and the festivities were in full swing, I asked the DJ to kill the music, so that Rorion and I could say a few words.

  Just as he had always been after a back-room Gracie Challenge at the academy, Rorion was extremely gracious to the defeated fighters. There was no gloating on his part, no “I told you so” type comments of any kind. His attitude of respect was shared by Hélio, Royce and all of the family members in attendance.

  After Rorion thanked everyone, I then took my turn to address the ballroom.

  “You fighters are like the X-15 test pilots of the 1960s, going into the stratosphere where no one has gone before.”

  I’m not sure that everyone got my analogy, but I thought it was fitting. We’d all just been a part of something that was pioneering, revolutionary even, and these were the men who put their bodies and reputations on the line, without fear or hesitation.

  Royce Gracie and his beautiful girlfriend, Marianne. Both are wearing masks but Royce emerged almost without a scratch from the previous night’s battles and doesn’t need to cover up. That couldn’t be said for many of the other fighters.

  By 11 p.m., the liquor was flowing freely, and Tuli had become the life of the party, leading the way on the dance floor.

  I was fascinated by the conversations that were going on: Royce and Gordeau, Jim Brown and Hélio, Tuli and Rosier.

  From what I could see, everyone now looked to be having a great time, apart from Smith and Shamrock.

  Smith seemingly couldn’t take it anymore, and found me on his way to the exit.

  “You’d better bring me back for the next one,” he told me before pointing to Shamrock and saying “I’m gonna get that fucker,” as his parting words.

  Shamrock appeared as though he was trying to enjoy himself, but just couldn’t. He still didn’t seem to be able to process how that skinny kid in a gi had beaten him in less than one minute. Shamrock didn’t look pissed off to me, as much as he looked disgusted.

  Behind Rorion and the rest of the Gracies, I noticed Rickson seated at a back table. He was with his wife Kim, and looked even angrier than Smith and more miserable than Shamrock. I wasn’t sure if I should visit. Rickson’s son Rockson, also dressed in a tuxedo, was there at the table, as wa
s Frederico Lapenda. A guest of Rickson’s at the event, Lapenda was a suave looking Brazilian, who had flown in from LA to support his countrymen. I finally decided to stop by the table and introduce myself to Lapenda. I quietly asked him how Rickson was doing. Lapenda smiled, and let me know with a clear gesture that the Gracie family pot was about to boil over. I understood immediately.

  I had already surmised from the looks, the hand-waving, and the raised voices that Kim was probably badgering her husband. It seemed to me that it was most likely about how Rickson should have been the Gracie in the Ultimate Fighting Championship, how that $50,000 should have been theirs, and how his big brother Rorion had fucked him out of his rightful place. I glanced over at Rickson, who seemed to be growing visibly more upset by the minute. He kept alternating between glowering at Rorion who was one table away, and trying to ignore his wife.

  The legendary Rickson Gracie and boxer Art Jimmerson. Rickson, the family champion, didn’t get to fight in the UFC, but coached/trained his younger brother Royce to the win. Jimmerson lost to Royce in the first round by submission.

  Once again, I realized that I would never completely understand the Gracie family dynamic. I thought that the Rorion-Rickson relationship was strained, until I saw them together all week in Denver, where everything seemed to be fine. Rickson was Royce’s main trainer and chief second at the Ultimate Fighting Championship, and worked his ass off so that Royce would be properly prepared to win the tournament.

  But once Royce won, Kim was apparently furious that Rorion had chosen Royce over her husband. The spotlight was now on Royce as the family champion, and not on Rickson, where she felt it rightfully belonged. All I knew was that if things really got heated between the brothers, it was best that we all leave quickly and quietly. I shook hands with Lapenda and told him, “I look forward to meeting you again. Call me when you get back to LA.” Then I excused myself and moved on.