The Housekeeper: Love, Death, and Prizefighting

by Josh Samman

  The story was a fascinating one. During the early 20th century, many Japanese sought refuge in Brazil. With them, they brought the art of Jiu-Jitsu, which the Gracies took and added to, making it their own. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu combined joint locks with chokes, and the family had been using it to beat martial art styles of all kinds in Brazil. MMA there was named “Vale Tudo,” Portuguese for “anything goes,” and they wanted to cash in on the appeal to American fans.

  The UFC held several events before struggling with sanctioning laws and the legality of it. Senator John McCain, in particular, began a campaign against the sport, calling it Human Cockfighting, and trying to get it outlawed nationwide.

  That was years ago. It had become well regulated by this point and deserved more respect than it got. The MMA boom could be traced back and attributed to a handful of men; UFC President Dana White, and owners Lorenzo and Frank Fertitta. With the help of the Nevada State Athletic Commission, they made Las Vegas a home for more than just boxing, and it grew from a fringe sideshow act to a legitimate worldwide sport.

  UFC President Dana White, as he tells it, was a boxing instructor in Boston at the time, and convinced his old friends, Frank and Lorenzo, to purchase the organization from its founders. The Fertittas were already successful in the casino business and agreed to buy the company. They dumped millions into the sport, and were ready to bail, before one last Hail Mary, bankrolling a reality show called The Ultimate Fighter.

  Knowing the details of the storied history of the UFC and TUF made me want to be a part of it even more, and I was excited to finally have a chance to fight inside the iconic octagon. I was anxious to carve out my own piece of history on the largest stage in the world, and I was finally getting my chance.

  While I was waiting for that opportunity, it brought me great joy to know that when I got home, I’d be able to see Isabel. I was still dating Veronica, and couldn’t spend time with Isabel as I wanted, but I still planned to help her in the ways I’d pledged. Most importantly, I’d promised to help get her a job.

  I had a ton of folks in town who owned restaurants and sponsored our events. One was opening a new sports joint, and I told him that I had a close friend who needed help getting work, as a favor to me. I promised that she would be a good addition to his staff. He agreed to bring her in for an interview and hired her on the spot.

  Isabel made it clear how much she appreciated me vouching for her. I was going out on a limb, hoping it wouldn’t come back to bite me in the ass. Just as I’d come back from my trip with a renewed sense of interest in my career, she was feeling the same about life. Isabel was free, no jail, no probation. She was excited about being able to work again, and becoming self-sufficient. She’d moved in with her brother Owen’s girlfriend, Stephanie. Stephanie was the cheerleader type and was one of the only others that knew all of Isabel’s story, and still gave her the benefit of the doubt.

  Proving everyone wrong was the name of the game in her mind now, and that came in the form of her independence. Waiting tables would not be enough to get by, so she began to take up the only other profession she’d known most her life, being a housekeeper.

  18.

  Late Spring, 2000

  I needed an outlet. Skateboarding was cool, but not very many kids skated in Mississippi. Most of them wore cowboy boots to school. My mom suggested I take up an instrument, and I loved the idea.

  For all the detractions I had about my dad, one thing he never did was censor pop culture for me. Music was always important, and he’d take me to the CD store frequently as I was discovering different types of genres.

  My first four CD’s were Green Day, No Doubt, Rage Against the Machine, and Boyz II Men. I’d gotten those years ago, and had since moved on to things my friends liked, or my parents. My mom played Bob Marley frequently, my Dad U2. Jeremy gave me a Pearl Jam album. One of my favorite bands was Nirvana, and it made me want to play the guitar like Kurt Cobain.

  I remember going to the music store on my 12th birthday. I wasn’t allowed to go around the neighborhood and mow lawns like I did at my mom’s, so I didn’t have any money for myself, but my dad said he’d buy me a guitar.

  I had never thought of actually learning to play an instrument. No one I knew at that age played anything besides the xylophones at school. I spent hours at the store, trying out guitars, twisting knobs, pressing buttons on amplifiers.

  He bought me what would be my most prized possession for years to come: an electric, black, six-string Ibanez. The package came with a small amplifier, and within hours I was home, plotting my foray into rock’n’roll superstardom.

  I played that guitar until my fingers bled. I fell in love, with youthful curiosity. I began taking lessons twice a week and learned to play all my favorite songs.

  With my guitar I was able to express myself in a way I never had. I enjoyed drawing and painting when I was younger, but it didn’t make me feel like music did.

  I joined the chorus at school and participated in local plays and musicals. I was the Wizard in Oz, Santa Claus in the Christmas show, and everything in between. It helped give me an identity at a time when I wasn’t sure what mine was. I still missed my mom, and I still wanted to go home, but it felt better with something to throw myself into again.

  19.

  "Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you’ve imagined."

  -Henry D. Thoreau

  I flew out to Vegas on October 28th, for what would be a series of life defining moments. There was a production member there for me at the airport, and I collected my luggage as we waited for the last remaining fighter. When he arrived, it was none other than my Mexican friend, Kelvin Gastelum. I was glad I had made a mental note of his name. We rode together to a UFC corporate office where the production crew from FOX met all the fighters to take pictures and check our weight .

  As soon as we arrived, I sat down at a table in the middle of a large room, filled with film sheets, cameras, food table for staff, and a makeup corner to pretty up fighters for photos. Sitting across from me was a charismatic fellow who introduced himself as Gerard. He was too small to be a fighter in my weight division, and I pegged him as a staff member before he explained himself. A producer of the show, he told me, with a chatty story of how he got interested in this sport that he’d since become consumed with.

  Filmmaking was his passion, and before working for The Ultimate Fighter he’d just completed an MMA documentary that was being released soon, dubbed Once I Was a Champion. It chronicled the story of Evan Tanner, a former UFC middleweight champion who wandered into the desert one day and never came back. Evan was an enigmatic figure, and there was much acclaim in the MMA world about his film.

  He had an incredibly thick Scottish accent, tickling to the ears, as he explained to me a bit about the season. The show had done less than stellar ratings over the last few seasons. The concept had grown stale. Much of the time in between fights that were recorded was the kind of debauchery one might expect from a reality show; lots of drinking and arguing amongst cast members. Sometimes fighters would play pranks, throwing each other’s mattresses in the pool, or sabotaging each other’s food.

  The production wanted to depart from the reality show feel, and focus on a documentarian approach. The cast was picked with a more serious tone in mind, and the narrative, as he explained it, was to concentrate on the level of competition; to capture the raw emotion that such an intense competition could impose on a person. The fights themselves, combined with weight cuts, isolation, and the stressors of living in a house of 14 natural alpha males, motivated and hungry, would provide plenty of drama to not have to rely on conventional reality show antics.

  I shared with him about my failures in the past, how with each repeated attempt the tournament took on more of a unique personal sentiment to me. I told him I wasn’t even planning on coming, but I had a good feeling this time.

  After speaking with Gerard for a few minutes, I was called over to have my wei
ght checked by another UFC employee. My weight class was 185 lbs and I was floating around 195, right on track. Following a quick step on the scale, I was directed towards make-up, where a pretty lady introduced herself. She moved quickly, powdering my face, and spraying my torso with unnecessarily cold water. Last, she strapped a pair of extra large MMA gloves on my hands.

  “Ok babe, you’re all set.”

  I sat there for a moment, staring at the gloves she’d put on me. UFC in big, bold, white letters. I had seen them hundreds of times before, but never worn them, or even better, had a UFC employee put them on me.

  This is the real thing.

  It would be a familiar feeling over the next several months, many gradual, incremental realizations that after all these years, things were all finally falling into place.

  20.

  Fall, 2000

  My dad’s family and I moved from Jackson, Mississippi, to Knoxville, Tennessee, while I was still 12. My dad was a graduate of UT and was thrilled to be back in The Rocky Top. My step mom didn’t seem to appreciate the move, as she headed further from her family.

  I gained trust back, and my dad eased up on the supervision. I was able to hang out with people outside of church and sports. The social dynamic in Knoxville was different. There weren’t as many country bumpkins. I made friends more easily.

  My closest friend was named Carlton. He enjoyed skateboarding like me and was the only other person I knew that could play guitar. He could play piano too. I was jealous of that. It felt good to be competitive about something I cared about again. I played soccer and did homework to appease my dad. Music was something I strived to improve at, for myself.

  I learned to read notes, and sing off a music sheet like Carlton did. I practiced skateboarding more and was allowed to skate around the whole neighborhood now. I did things that were constructive, in the name of competition.

  We sang Incubus’ “Pardon Me” in the school talent show. I had a crush on a girl, and it was her favorite song. I thought impressing her would get me laid for the first time. It did, just not by her.

  I was on the bus home in eighth grade. Our middle and high schools shared transportation, and the high schoolers dominated the buses every day. There was one girl, a senior, who was the bossiest. She had big boobs, and sat in the back seat and told people what to do. They listened.

  She had a younger sister that was in my grade. The older one was better looking, and we were the last ones on the bus every day. My stop was the new neighborhood on the route, with construction and dust that clogged my skateboard bearings. Her’s was the trailer on a field beyond that.

  Every day I felt the tension grow. She’d call me back to the back of the bus and ask questions. She asked me if I’d ever had sex before. She talked a lot. She said she didn't have a car because she lived with a single mother who spent her money on alcohol. She smelled like booze too sometimes, and cigarettes. The aroma triggered things in me.

  “My sister says you play the guitar.”

  I wondered if she’d told her I was good. It didn’t seem to matter. My stop arrived mid‑conversation, and I picked up my book bag. She grabbed it by the strap and pulled me back.

  “Stay.” It was one word only, but I knew what it meant.

  My heart was racing. I was nervous, excited, scared, anxious. I’d touched a few boobs, and fooled around with my crush from school, but I knew what was coming. When we got off the bus stop, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and handed me the first I’d had in years. She might’ve been 18 years old by then. I’d just turned 13.

  She fucked my brains out on the trampoline in front of her trailer. She bounced up and down, switching between facing me, then away. We were in a giant field, with not another person in sight. I remember looking back to make sure one of her sisters wasn’t watching. She got annoyed at my distraction and rode harder. I came, and she didn’t get off me. I didn’t have any experience having sex, but I knew that wasn’t supposed to happen.

  She rode the last bit of me that I had left, and handed me another cigarette; a reward of sorts. She told me her mom was gonna be home soon, gave me a pack of matches, and sent me on my way.

  I didn’t care that I had miles to walk. I didn’t care if my parents asked where I’d been, or if I smelled like cigarette smoke. I didn’t care about any of that. I’d just banged a high schooler, and in the realm of 13 year-olds, I was the fuckin’ man.

  21.

  “Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are.”

  -Niccolò Machiavelli

  The UFC had recently inked a new television deal with FOX, increasing its exposure enormously. This season would broadcast to a much larger number of viewers than previous ones with Spike TV, and the new network was likely the driving force for the show’s structural change. Isabel had always said everything happened for a reason. Maybe this was one of those times.

  Better late than never.

  One of the new features was a segment in the first episode, introducing cast members and families. In all 16 previous seasons, fighters would arrive in Vegas by themselves; no coaches, no friends, no family, just their cups and mouthpieces, ready to fight for a chance to compete in the UFC. This time, we’d be allowed guests, people that were meant to be woven into our story, to introduce us to the world with a context more than just face and body.

  My mom was first on my list. I had a wild connection with her, and how she applied to my fighting career. At the time, I had a combined 12-3 record in my fights. All twelve fights that my mom had been there for, I’d won. The three I didn’t win, she had missed. She’d never once seen me lose, and while I didn’t much believe in superstitions, I told her she was my good luck charm.

  Mitchell was second on my list. He and Matt both were, although Matt was not able to afford the trip. Mitchell and I had been doing our promotional thing for months, and if I ended up winning the first fight I’d be staying in Vegas for seven weeks to film, and he’d be flying solo. My third guest was a grappling instructor I’d been working with, and the fourth was Gary, my friend and manager. All these guests left one vacant spot to be given. My career interested Veronica, but something did not feel right. I decided, hesitantly, that she could be my fifth guest on the show.

  The Ultimate Fighter was a reality show that placed heavy emphasis on confidentiality, to ensure that results were not revealed before airing. Because of this, they’d taken our cell phones, beginning the moment we were picked up at the airport. They were the ones communicating with our guests at this point, although in all of their pre-emptive genius, they did not take the hotel phones out of the rooms. I’d always been good at remembering numbers and didn’t need my cell phone to get in touch with the people that were supposed to be coming.

  As luck would have it, the day everyone was set to arrive, Hurricane Sandy would ravage the East Coast, halting all flights departing the area. Halting all flights, of course except one. Had I not remembered their numbers and called to get news of the storm, I would’ve been bombarded with the situation that was on the other side of that door when I finally got a knock. Four of my five guests had gotten held up, and couldn’t make it to Vegas in time for the first day of filming.

  There I found myself, sitting on my hotel room bed, alone, next to Veronica. I wasn’t even sure about bringing her in the first place, and there she was, a girl I’d known no longer than a couple months, being the one and only person that represented me to the whole world. The cameras rolled, and I knew with utmost certainty that the wrong girl was sitting on the bed.

  22.

  Early Summer, 2002

  My stepmom may have been the only one that wanted me to leave as badly as I did. She and my father argued daily, and weeks went by when she and I didn’t talk. When my stepmother was angry with my dad, she would take it out on the stepson. When my father was angry with her, he’d confide in me about it. It made for a very us vs. them scenario. Sometimes I thought she genuinely hated him. She had
a sharp tongue, and I could feel the conflict coming to a head. My presence was disruptive to her.

  Summer break was approaching, and I’d be returning to Tallahassee for a couple months. I planned on not coming back, and I got what I wanted.

  I expected my dad to keep the reins of my future in his hands well into high school, but he’d had enough. I was a source of problems between him and his wife, and I’d adjusted well enough to try things again at my mom’s. As much as I’d always wanted to be part of a big family, I wanted nothing more than to just go home.

  My mom had beaten cancer by this point, and gone back to dating men. I told her things would be different when I got back. I did my best to not be rebellious, to be respectful. I returned to mowing lawns, and still played music every day. I was productive and worked hard. The curiosity in me from years ago was never satisfied, though. I saw my life take a detour to my father’s only because of a single mistake. I thought I wouldn’t let it happen again.

  I didn’t plan on fucking it all up. There was just no one to stop me. I was home by myself every day that summer. Free time and disposable income were the enemies. Like years earlier, my mom was none the wiser as to what I was doing. She wasn’t expecting me to come home and pick up where I left off, but that’s what I did. I went right back into the fire.

  The bus stop kids and their siblings had grown older. Their indulgence had evolved. I knew after living with my dad that not all kids acted the way they did. I knew many of them struggled to determine what was right and wrong and that I knew the difference. Sometimes, wrong just felt good.