by Josh Samman
“Get in!” I heard my devious bastard of a friend Baxter yell from the back of a pickup truck, as I walked outside to see who was honking. Most of the kids my age had siblings that could drive now, a whole new level of freedom and danger.
I hopped in, not thinking twice about it. I hated the idea of missing out.
“Where are we going?” I asked. He had a mischievous look on his face.
“We’re going picking.”
I didn’t know what that meant. It was hard to hear over the wind in the back of the truck, so I just sat along for the ride. A ride is what I got.
23.
"The meaning of life is to find your gifts. The purpose of life is to give them away."
- Pablo Picasso
The film crew wrapped up the first scene as I said goodbye to Veronica and got ready to head downstairs to the sauna to lose the last few lbs before the official weigh-ins. Once there, we would pile into a hallway upstairs, all anxious to step on the scale at 185 lbs. Combat sports employ weight classes to separate different sized athletes, and our weight class was middleweight. Being the bigger man in the cage was a competition in itself. After weighing in, we’d then be able to eat and rehydrate back to our natural weight, which for me was between 205-210 lbs. The cut was grueling, but I’d done it fifteen times before and had become adept.
The feeling in the air was unreal. There we were, 28 prizefighters, all hungry and thirsty, literally, figuratively. They’d found the perfect group of athletes, an all-star cast to compete, including nine undefeated fighters, and over 200 cumulative wins between us. I had a name in the regional MMA circuit and was one of the youngest cast members on the season at 24 years. I’d taken my first fight at 18, and had my fair share of time in the cage.
Some fighters knew who I was. Some tried to make small talk. I was there to win, but I also wanted to do my best to represent where I came from. I was friendly with those that were friendly with me, keeping in mind that all of us were chasing the same goal, and would possibly have to fight each other soon. We sat in the hallway and did our own feeling out process of each other. Only half of us would make it into the house. The losers on the following day would be sent home immediately, and none of us yet knew who we’d be fighting.
I waited for my chance to weigh in, a quick hop on and off the scale before going to a banquet room reserved for our own personal buffet. I packed back on the weight with carbs and liquids, just as I‘d done many times before, and returned to my room, patiently awaiting further instruction.
Within a couple of hours, we were called downstairs to load up in the van and be taken to the UFC training center, which would be the location for all fights, future weigh-ins, and training sessions during our tenure with The Ultimate Fighter. I went down and loaded in the van with seven other fighters, taking a seat next to my friend Clint Hester. My Scottish lad, Gerard was in the front driving.
“What the hell are you doing driving a van? Don’t they have errand-boys for that?”
“Part of the gig man,” he said. Being a producer included being around the fighters 24/7, making sure not to miss out on emerging storylines in the weeks to come.
“Do you know who we’re fighting?” I asked, always looking to become privy.
“Of course I do,” he laughed. “You’ll be finding out soon.” Soon was never soon enough.
We left the hotel and headed to the training center. As the van doors opened and I entered the facility, I could not contain the smile on my face. No one wanted this as bad as I wanted it, and no one had any idea of what I’d gone through to get there. I absolutely couldn’t believe that I’d considered not coming.
As we strolled through the main entrance, we were greeted by some of the sport’s most iconic images, plastered on a wall. There stood a collage of every successful fighter since season one, in a series of before-and-after pictures walking into and out of their fights. I took a moment to take it in; the stories told, in hundreds of photos. Georges St-Pierre, Matt Hughes, Ken Shamrock, BJ Penn, the pictures seemed endless. It was crazy to see the heroes who had built this thing from the ground up, all displayed in one place, in a gut-wrenching, eye-opening display of all the emotion that went into the sport. Glory and defeat were both powerful, moving things to be captured in a picture, and it was the perfect introduction of things to come.
The double doors across from the collage were unusually flimsy, begging someone to punch a hole through them at any given moment. I was one of 28, and walked in front as I made my way through the hallway into the UFC training center. I’d watched 16 seasons prior filmed in the same building. I was familiar with what I was seeing, but it was all so surreal in person.
Immediately to our right was a large cage, much larger than the one Mitchell and I used for Combat Night. Corporate sponsors lined the floors and posts. Harley Davidson, Miller Lite, FOX. Huge names were funding what we were doing.
Ahead of us was a large wrestling mat area, with three of the most recognizable personalities in the MMA world; UFC President Dana White, accompanied by opposing coaches for the season, UFC light heavyweight champion, Jon Jones, and perennial contender, Chael Sonnen.
The show’s strength relied heavily on the draw of the coaches, and the two there were sure to turn heads. Jon was a master of creative violence, an unstoppable force in the cage. Chael was the best mouth in sports, a genius of fight promotion, a testament to articulation and charisma. Never before had two such high profile fighters been cast as coaches for The Ultimate Fighter, and it made a statement from the UFC to let the public know that the stakes on MMA reality television had just been raised.
Once all of us had made our way towards the mats, Dana began his speech. He told us we had the opportunity to become the future of the UFC, and to make the most out of it. We were there that day not only to meet our coaches, but to find out who we’d be facing the following afternoon. Everyone was still eyeing and sizing each other up, and Dana began to read the list of names. One by one, I saw potential teammates and opponents face off with their opposition until finally my name was called.
Josh Samman. I walked forward, fists clenched. The intensity in the room was through the roof, and I was giddy as a school boy.
Leo Bercier. It was one of the few names I didn’t know, and I watched for who would be the first to move forward. A Native American fellow with the most giant head I‘d ever seen stepped forward. I put my hands up, stared into his eyes, and attempted to soul gaze for a moment, making a mental note of his name to research when I got back to the hotel.
They announced the rest of the matchups, and we headed back to our rooms. I immediately called Mitchell to get info on Bercier. He found his record and some fight footage easily, realizing quickly that he was a one-dimensional fighter, relying strictly on striking to finish opponents. He’d amassed an impressive record of 7-1, with seven first round knockouts. A one-dimensional opponent, but a dangerous one.
I made a couple more calls to friends and family with the numbers I remembered. I cursed myself for not writing down Isabel’s new number before I left. If I were to win my fight, I’d be taken immediately to the house where filming took place, without saying goodbye to anyone other than those with me.
I dozed to sleep that night as I performed my ritualistic pre-fight thoughts. I imagined every possible scenario, walking myself through the fight hundreds of times before it actually happened. For my whole career, I’d had at least a month to visualize and prepare for an opponent. This was a much different dynamic, discovering the identity of my adversary less than 24 hours before competition.
I didn’t mind, at all. I was ready.
24.
Late Summer, 2002
They grew like wildfire in North Florida. They were everywhere. I’d been prompted on what to look for when we got there. Search low to the ground, make sure it bruises purple, and under no circumstances pick one if it doesn’t have a complete ring around the stem. I was in the middle of a cow field on the ou
tskirts of Tallahassee, skewering around for mushrooms; Psilocybe cyanescens, and Psilocybe azurescens, to be exact.
I hadn’t tried a new drug in years. The whole experience started before I even felt the effects of it. The way my friends explained it, mushrooms were a wonder drug that allowed you into parallel universes, where you could hear smells and taste colors. I couldn’t have been more excited. Every kid had different views of what they thought was cool, and this is what I was attracted to. It started at the bus stop and never stopped.
The thing about mushrooms was that we had to trespass onto someone else’s land to get them. They grew the way most fungi grows, via spores, in any animal’s feces with a two or more cylinder stomach. For now, it was just cow shit.
We hopped the fence, empty bags in hand. We agreed to meet in an hour back at the car where we’d parked down the road, then all ran in our separate directions. It was the middle of broad daylight, and I realized we hadn’t discussed what happens if we got caught. I tried to find a tree line and stay out of sight.
We reconvened at the car in an hour, as planned. We’d filled our grocery bags full, and I remember wondering whether it was enough or not. I didn’t know how much a person needed to get high.
We went back to a friend’s, who lived outside our neighborhood, and began sifting through all the mushrooms one by one. Some they threw away, some they placed upside down on a cardboard box to dry, and many got thrown into a large strainer, to rinse before putting in a boiling cauldron. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. I made mental notes as I watched.
The magic had yet to come. It would be hours before the concoction finished cooking. Halfway through the process, they’d added tea bags to the mixture, and a little bit of grape Kool-Aid. When it was ready, I wasted no time. I liked the taste. I had to be told not to drink so fast, that it was my first trip and to be easy with it. At least they’d adopted some concept of moderation.
We waited and waited. I was convinced it wasn’t going to work, that I needed more. I stood up to go back to the pot of Kool-Aid, and it hit me all at once. A tingling sensation radiated from my legs outwards. My ears began resonating in a slow hum.
I felt a sense of euphoria, calm at first, then intense. My friends told me to relax and enjoy it. I was enjoying it. Everything was pleasant. The walls melted and rebuilt themselves before my eyes. It was like a dream, but I was awake and had full control of my faculties.
I didn’t yet know about synapses. I didn’t know what synesthesia was. I knew only that there was a wonderland behind my eyelids, and that I’d reached a corner of my mind that hadn’t yet been explored.
25.
“You were put on this Earth to achieve your greatest self, to live out your purpose, and to do it fearlessly.”
-Steve Maraboli
My chance had finally come. After years of waiting and dreaming, dedicating my life and neglecting relationships, multiple injuries, and downfalls, I had finally captured the opportunity that had eluded me for so long. Across from me stood the only thing in my way. Only a couple hundred people in the world had gotten the opportunity to chisel their legacy into UFC history, and I wanted so badly to be one of them. My mom and the rest of the crew had finally made it into Vegas, just in time to see the fight.
The bell rang, and I darted across the cage, throwing a few stiff jabs before shooting underneath Leo’s guard to take the fight to the mat. Considering his striking ability and my reluctance to have any uncertainty of victory, taking the fight where I could exploit a difference in grappling skill was the most sound plan of attack.
As soon as we hit the mat, it became apparent how inept he was at moving correctly to escape. I realized then that I’d finally done it. I had trapped the untrappable, my white rabbit, in the form of a sweaty, heavily-breathing 31 year-old Native American. I realized there was no way he was going to return to his feet, and I yelled loudly as I moved into the mount position on top of him.
"You ready?"
I’m not sure who I was talking to. Maybe Leo himself. Maybe Dana and the coaches. Maybe my family and friends; not just the few that made it there that day, but the dozens who’d watched, helped, and stood by my side in pursuit of my dream. I didn’t plan on yelling, it was spur of the moment. It was my way of saying "I'm here. I finally made it. This motherfucker isn't slipping away this time."
I rained down punches with both fists, a signature finishing move of mine throughout my career. The technique was not a gimmick, or something I did for flash or show. I did it in my fights because it was brutal and violent. Steve Mazzagatti pulled me off, and I was overcome with elation. Winning four fights in six weeks was a daunting task, but I was one step closer.
I told my mom I loved her, and sat to watch the rest of my future opponents perform. After the fights finished, we said our final goodbyes to our loved ones as the cameras caught the drama and gravity of the situation. Veronica let out some crocodile tears that made me cringe, and I tried my best to feign an authentic goodbye.
We were hurried back to the locker rooms to await the coaches decisions for team picks. Chael had been awarded the first selection of fighters while Jon was given the right to choose the first fight. The tournament format would largely depend on who won which fights, as the winning team kept control of fight order. We gathered back at the same mats that we’d met on the day prior, now with 14 instead of 28. The names began to rattle off.
“Luke Barnatt.” Chael chose first and went with the tallest guy in the room.
“Clint Hester.” Jon selected his first pick. The two had hit it off earlier in the day, and it came as no surprise to anyone.
“Uriah Hall,” third chosen, and he was handed a black jersey by Chael and his coaches. I was wondering when my name would be called. I thought I would’ve been one of the first.
“Josh Samman.” Jones’ second pick.
Not bad.
Not being picked first took some pressure off my back. One by one, the rest of the teams were chosen, all the way down to the very last fighter.
“Kelvin Gastelum.” The little fucker had made it, the youngest kid to ever be on The Ultimate Fighter, at 21 years and a day. He didn’t seem to mind being the last picked. He exuded an attitude as if we all had another thing coming, and no one knew it but him.
26.
Fall, 2002
I tripped on mushrooms for months. It became my drug of choice, partly by circumstance. Shortly after moving back, my mom randomly drug tested me to see if I’d been smoking pot. Somehow, I passed. I was convinced it was a mistake. It made me hesitant to smoke anymore, and mushrooms didn’t show up on a piss test. I’d wait til my mom went to sleep at night, then sneak out and get picked up. I’d roam around cow fields, then the city.
I started 9th grade at Lincoln High School, following the most exciting summer of my short life. Things were so much different at mom’s than they were at my dad’s. I had independence, whether it was good for me or not. I was always walking a fine line, wanting to take things as far as I could, without betraying my mom’s trust. I pushed the limits.
I had girlfriends early into high school. More accurately, I came sprinting out the gate, trying to date several at once. They all lived within a couple miles of each other, and at night, if I couldn’t find a ride from the older kids, I’d skateboard down the road for hours until I got to one of their houses, and risk my life by going inside. Many had dads that would’ve castrated me had I been caught. It was the kind of thrill-seeking I thrived on.
I wanted cash for the upcoming spring break, but it became winter and the grass had stopped growing, so I had to find other ways to earn. I’d go to the local grocery store, and purchase items that were on sale for buy one get one free, then wait for them to go off sale and return them both for double what I’d paid. They’d only do returns in gift cards if I didn’t have the receipt, so I’d stand outside the same grocery store afterwards, and sell the cards for cash.
I’d go to the movie theate
rs, and collect ticket stubs people threw on the ground, then halfway through the movie run out and tell customer service there’d been an emergency and my friends had to leave. I’d say they asked me to refund their tickets for them. They never argued.
Spring Break came, and with it left the virginity of half the girls in our class. Everyone our age was having sex. It was the most debauchery filled, unsupervised week any of us had ever seen, a bunch of teenagers stumbling around St. George Island, horny and wasted. Everyone lied to their parents about who was chaperoning. Like the theater ticket trick, I look back now and can’t believe the stuff that flew under the radar.
When there was no booze to drink, or mushrooms to eat, or girl’s houses to skate to, my friends and I would skate up to the grocery store, and videotape ourselves doing dumb shit. The stunt show Jackass was popular on MTV at the time, and we tried to replicate various segments, and make originals of our own. We’d push each other around in shopping carts, or get the local Hungry Howies to give us leftover dough to make dodgeballs with. Our risk aversion was horrendous, our regard for safety non-existent. I’d soon paid the price.
27.
“What would you do if you weren’t afraid?”
-Sheryl Sandberg
Tor was a mystery.
The next time I found myself inside the cage, we were halfway through filming the season. The pecking order of the teams had been decided. I liked where I stood in the talent pool, although I didn’t like the fact that I had to wait so long to fight again. Filming only lasted seven weeks, and I had three more wins to get through in order to participate in the finals.