by Nick Gullo
Fast-forward to the next night: a packed bar again, Tank holding court in his corner. Only now the seat beside him is empty. We shake hands, I sit, and the entourage disperses.
“So what’s it mean to be a fighter?” I ask.
Tank sips his drink, smiles. “Don’t over-intellectualize it. It doesn’t fucking matter. Some things work, some things don’t. Don’t intellectualize what you think martial arts is. Whatever works, works. It matters what kind of person you are.”
What does that mean? He just shakes his head, exasperated. He says something about the warrior, and the warrior’s code: honor, courage. Just what you’d expect from a fighter. Okay, Grasshopper, you must demonstrate honor, courage…
But then he pauses, and mulls the line he just fed me. “When I said I was a warrior, I did not realize I was opening myself up to include these people that I don’t think are warriors … because they are not.”
All right, here we go, the real Tank peeking from behind the curtain. “In what respect?” I say.
He rolls his massive shoulders. “Tito would call himself a warrior. But Tito Ortiz is the biggest pussy, dirt bag …” Tank reels off a grocery list of pejoratives before adding “For him to say he’s a warrior—don’t put me in that class. If Tito walked through that door right now, and he saw me, he’d turn that tail and duck out. That’s not a warrior. I never turned down a fight.”
UFC 11.5, or the Ultimate Ultimate 2 tournament, was held in Birmingham, Alabama, in December 1996. In his quarterfinal bout, the bell sounded and Tank charged Steve “The Sandman” Nelmark, landed a right, and from the center of the ring Nelmark stumbled back into the cage. Tank attacked, swinging. They wrestled against the fence. Nelmark wrapped Tank’s head in a guillotine, but before he could cinch down Tank lifted the big man overhead and slammed him to the mat. Boom! They grappled for a few seconds, then gained their feet. Tank swarmed in typical fashion, blow after blow, backing Nelmark into the cage. In trouble, anything to stop the fury, Nelmark clinched. Who is this lunatic?! Having none of that, Tank yanked his arm free, stepped back, and hooked a fist to Nelmark’s temple. In a frightening blur his knees buckled, his body crumpled, neck and elbows twisted in a painful pretzel. And there he lay. His first loss, his last fight. One of the most terrifying knockouts in MMA history.
“A man is shaped by his environment,” I quip.
Tank lowers his drink and recalls his high school days, when he trawled these very bars, when Huntington Beach was a very different town. I know this is true—old photos testify to graffiti on crumbling walls, skinheads, alleys, the dingy tattoo parlor, motorcycles outside biker bars. But I wonder, If a warrior is shaped by his environment, what happens when that environment softens?
Before I can ask, he says, “But these guys don’t like to fight. I used to drive around, drinking my beer. I had a van with a thousand-watt stereo, and I would pull up [to a dojo], get out, and go, ‘Who wants to fight?’ I’m not joking. The instructor, the warrior, would say, ‘Sir, we can’t really do that …’ I’m like, ‘You’re a fighter, let’s fight!’ ‘Well, our insurance, we can’t, we can’t’ … pffft! That’s why I hate all those guys, they don’t fight … I don’t fight for money. I fight because it’s who I am.”
Surely he’s not calling out the top ranks, is he? Oh, but he is.
“How many of these fighters really fight?” he says. “[Tell] B.J. Penn, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at two o’clock in my backyard and we’re gonna fight’ … he wouldn’t do it. I have beaten up well over two hundred people in this town.”
“So what are you doing now?” I ask.
“Writing. I just completed a thousand-page novel.”
WTF?
He smirks. “I’ve got a degree.”
“Your dad, that’s right, he was a college professor.”
“Yeah, it started out as an autobiography, but …”
For three years Tank says he has holed up in the same bars he used to terrorize: then, bottles smashing and fists flying; now, huddled in the corner with headphones, scrawling his story upon legal pad after legal pad. But he found that the narrative kept straying from reality’s narrow path into the woods of fiction, and out leapt Walter Fox, the archetypal badass hero.
To be fair, history’s best fighters, the fighters we will actually stand in line for hours to watch—win/lose/draw—are also history’s most brilliant promoters. Ali. Tyson. Sugar Ray Leonard. There’s usually only one from each era. And Tank, well, he promoted. Which makes perfect sense, as the man is a student of history—along with a stellar fight record he earned a bachelor’s degree in history. So he was likely well aware of the fighter lineage. Yes, for the most part he has departed the cage, but he’s still ringside, here in this bar, reaching for the mic.
“Walter Fox gets down,” he slurs, and there’s a twinkle in his eye. God, he’s so enjoying this. And that’s what I love about him. The man has earned this twilight in this bar, and he’s basking in it.
“Any advice for young fighters?”
“If you have a strong wrestling background, you control the fight, then you can strike and punch. And that’s when the fun starts.”
During UFC 8, in Puerto Rico in February 1996, Tank was milling through the crowd. Allan Góes, a jiu-jitsu specialist, made a snarky comment. Starting a beef, Tank lunged, fists flew. Cameras caught the scuffle. UFC promoters suspended him with pay. When interviewed about the fracas, Tank responded, “Somebody got smart with me, and, uh, I had to lay the law down, I can’t let people talk to me like that … if I would have took it further, I’m coming after your ass, and I’ll knock on your front door and take care of you. Let’s put it this way, you’ve seen Discovery Channel, you’ve seen some animals rip apart a gazelle; that’s what’s gonna happen.”
“What do you think of MMA today?”
“I don’t watch it,” he says.
“???”
“I’m serious. In the old days, it was about who was the baddest fighter … now, all these weight classes, these rules. Pffft. Nah, I don’t know any of the guys.”
I rattle off names of fighters, elicit a few remarks.
Brock Lesnar: “Brock Lesnar couldn’t beat himself out of a wet paper bag.”
Chuck Liddell: “He’s about average, he didn’t have much power.”
Dan Henderson: “[Hendo] needs a stepladder to trim my toenails. You think he could bench six hundred pounds? Of course not. You think he could put up 325 pounds? No.”
Chael Sonnen: “I know that guy. One time I was training with Mark Shultz [Olympic and World Champion wrestler], and he was there. He said he could take me down. I rolled my eyes and he shoots a low single on me; sure enough, took me down. Hah!”
Anderson Silva: “No idea who he is.”
Lying in bed that night, I stare into the darkness, still hearing the din of barroom music and shouting. But that’s not why I’m awake. Tonight I met one of the sport’s revered pit fighters, and instead of talking technique or the game, he seemed more concerned with engineering his own legend.
Egomaniac or genius?
Yin or yang?
Or perhaps both.
Several times he pointed a finger at me and said, “I live to fight, I don’t fight to live.” And the way he sneered delivering the line, I could just see him in the bathroom mirror, perfecting his anti-hero delivery.
Carl Jung preached that all folklore, myths, and, yes, religion are based on archetypes. The Hero. Trickster. Maiden. Wise Mentor. Anti-Hero. These archetypes are embedded in our DNA. We empathize, sometimes hate, even worship them. This is Psych 101. And as a college graduate, and especially as an aspiring writer, Tank must know this.
Me with Don Abbott and Tank Abbott, in Huntington Beach, California.
Which brought to mind his reply to my final question. “Why has MMA finally taken off worldwide?”
Tank smirked, didn’t even have to think. “Because in a bar, or even driving in his car, a dude gets static … well, he wants
to go off and fuck someone up. But he can’t or won’t. That’s why MMA is so popular—guys can live vicariously through us, the fighters.”
Mythology. Religion. Maybe that’s why.
Phase III: The Modern Era (Vitor Belfort versus Randy Couture)
No broadcast platform meant no money for purses, for production, or for advertising to the masses. And for fans who watched, the UFC tournaments lost the intriguing diversity. John Milius, in crafting those embryonic events, understood that sporting events provide a social function far and away more important than a shimmering belt. The drama unfolds while we, the fans, project our fears, frustrations, and aspirations onto the field of play.
In so many ways the Emperor Vespasian understood this when he commissioned the construction of the Colosseum in ancient Rome, just as his successors understood that every great drama requires a motley cast, and thus they injected slaves from every conquered country into the games. Imagine a production with the same character in every role—boring. The fans need archetypes at which to cheer, hiss, and curse. That’s why in crafting the inaugural UFC tournament, Milius and Rorion Gracie selected not only fighters boasting different combat styles but also fighters of various nationalities, wearing diverse garb: an African American in boxing trunks, a Brazilian in a gi, a Samoan in a sarong.
Yet, come UFC 11, in September 1996, six of the eight fighters were American brawlers culled from the same mold. Aside from the violence, the events offered scant spectacle. If you question this, cue up UFC 11 and watch two of the top fighters, Tank Abbott and Scott Ferrozzo, plod around the ring. Both fighters were so fat and gassed, their semifinal match is hard to qualify in terms such as athletic or technical. More barroom brawlers with zero martial arts training. In the end, Ferrozzo’s decision victory is irrelevant, as it renders him so exhausted he can’t leave the locker room for his final fight with Mark Coleman, and thus via forfeit he hands Coleman the tournament crown.
That changed in February 1997 with UFC 12, which heralded the arrival of heavyweight Vitor Belfort, the great Brazilian hope. A nineteen-year-old jiu-jitsu champion under Carlson Gracie, Vitor entered the cage thickly muscled and, well, like something spawned in a lab. Imagine a fight scientist dissecting and improving on Royce Gracie—removing the gi, adding thirty pounds of dense muscle, gifting him with lightning punches, then draping over his shoulders a Brazilian flag. The young hero. A perfect archetype to recapture the glory for the motherland.
And recapture he did. Vitor blitzed through two American opponents, downing Tra Telligman in just 1:17 and Scott Ferrozzo in 0:43. Fans christened him “The Phenom.” But the kid was more than just a freakish aberration—here stood the prototype for our modern MMA fighter: highly conditioned, athletically gifted, with mad jiu-jitsu skills and world-class striking.
For UFC 13 in May 1997, promoters hyped a super-fight pitting Tank versus Vitor: the old guard versus the new. From the referee’s signal Tank claimed center-ring and attempted to manhandle Vitor; but the kid was too strong, too fast, and in seconds Tank lay belly down on the mat, trying to block the blows pelting his head and neck. TKO fifty-two seconds into the first round.
So here’s Vitor, a quantum evolutionary leap. Punctuated equilibrium, they call it. Until UFC 15 in October 1997, when promoters pitted the Brazilian Phenom against Randy Couture, his freakish American twin. While Vitor sweated in a jiu-jitsu dojo, Couture sacrificed and scored on the wrestling mats: state champ in high school, three-time NCAA Division I All-American at Oklahoma State University, sergeant in the U.S. Army, three-time Greco-Roman USA Olympic alternate. Fans dubbed him “Captain America.”
Vitor knew of Couture’s reputation, and he grew so nervous prior to the bout he refused to leave his trailer. The crowd jeered. Promoters panicked, pleading with his coaches. Please, he has to fight, Jesus Christ, we flew him here, sold tickets, they’ll riot… Randy paced the Octagon, growing more and more confident. All those years of battle, he knew: I got this guy, he’s mine, battles are won and lost in the mind … fifteen minutes ticked off the clock and finally Vitor entered the arena, but it was already over—
After an exciting eight minutes and sixteen seconds, Randy defeated Vitor via TKO, but more important than fight stats or titles, this bout ushered in the modern era of MMA—where true mixed martial artists ruled the cage.
THE ZUFFA ACQUISITION
By the late 1990s SEG teetered on a financial cliff. Mounting debts and declining revenues threatened bankruptcy. Dana White, while negotiating a contract for his client, MMA fighter Tito Ortiz, learned that the organization was on the blocks. How Dana mentioned the opportunity to Lorenzo Fertitta, and Lorenzo’s attorneys and accountants urged him to reject the deal—the UFC holds no assets … no promise of solvency … fans worldwide have watched and rejected MMA … the sport at best will linger on the fringes—how, despite these advisors, within a month Lorenzo and his brother, Frank, purchased the league in January 2001 for a paltry $2 million, and installed Dana as president—is well-documented history.
The Brazilian Phenom vs. Randy Couture, UFC 15.
But few know the acrimony this purchase caused within the close-knit Fertitta family. Growing up in Las Vegas, I’ve known Lorenzo most of my life, through intramural sports and local gyms, and I knew his family was close. His father, Frank, was a respected entrepreneur, having bucked conventional wisdom and successfully marketed his off-strip casino to locals. It was a crazy, ingenious business strategy, to offer cheap beers and cheaper meals, cash-your-check promotions, slot tournaments.
The casino flourished, but despite Mr. Fertitta’s hectic schedule he attended every football practice and game, and every week he hosted the entire football team for dinner. And no matter what, his children ate Sunday meals together, a tradition that gathers the extended family to this day.
So when Lorenzo and Frank spurned their father’s counsel and employed his own against-the-grain business strategy to MMA, it was a big deal.
Zuffa is Italian for “scuffle.” This is the name the Fertitta brothers chose for the entity that would control the UFC. While this can be read as an apt descriptor for their new endeavor, it also signals their approach to business: a willingness to roll up sleeves and knock heads—relentless aggression coupled with extreme discipline.
Unlike the prior UFC owners, the Fertittas brought years of hardened business experience into the cage. Since the late 1980s, brother Frank served as president of Station Casinos, growing a solitary local casino into one of the largest public gaming entities in the world. In 1993, Lorenzo earned an MBA from New York University and afterward joined the company as an executive. Come the millennium, they knew how to grow a business.
But just what had they bought? Let’s see: a bankrupt organization hemmed in by recalcitrant politicians, events outlawed in nearly every jurisdiction and blacklisted by cable providers. But despite seven years of misrule and decline, post-Vitor the sport of MMA had progressed—UFC cards featured more international fighters, and those fighters increasingly entered the cage versed in both striking and grappling.
Here were their immediate goals:
1. Land a pay-per-view broadcast deal.
2. Work with government and seek state sanctioning—specifically in Nevada, where hosting events in conjunction with major casinos, as in boxing, might prove lucrative.
3. Improve the live fight experience.
4. Increase advertising.
5. Make Dana the public face of UFC.
None of which would prove easy.
Like father like son: Vitor and Davi Belfort.
3: MARTIAL ARTS STYLES
Bruce Lee, the godfather of MMA.
“Absorb what is useful, discard what is not, add what is uniquely your own.”
—BRUCE LEE
ALMOST EVERYONE in the industrialized world has, at the very least, strolled past a television and glimpsed two fighters trading blows in the cage. This first look is often so overwhelming, so shocking, so thrilling,
that the subtle instincts governing those feints, kicks, and takedowns go unseen. I didn’t enjoy watching MMA until I gained at least a cursory understanding of the techniques and strategies.
So let’s delve deeper, sink beneath muscles and bones, down into the neural pathways, where techniques and hair-trigger responses take root, each lightning riposte honed over thousands of gym hours. Sure, raise a fist to strike me and I’ll flinch. That’s Darwinian. But learning to block properly or roll with a punch, that’s a wholly different process. Take the simple jab: feet shoulder-width apart, weight on toes, knees bent and torso turned, hands raised, chin on chest, push off the rear foot and shift hips while thrusting a semi-relaxed arm along the horizontal plane, then closing in on the target, clench that fist, and quickly retrieve the arm along the same horizontal plane to block a counter.
Think you’re gonna memorize and call up that checklist in the heat of battle? Think again. I’m omitting at least twenty other movements critical to a mechanically correct jab—and in the cage, under the hot lights and in front of screaming fans, there’s no time to ponder.
That means drill, drill, and, yeah, drill some more. Drill until that jab is more natural than the breath you just took. And we’re not talking mere shadowboxing in front of your bathroom mirror, but drilling for years under a skilled trainer’s guidance. A trainer who watches and constantly corrects—step here, no, angle that foot and bend your knee—because, as Vince Lombardi said, “It’s not practice that makes perfect, but perfect practice makes perfect.”
So just what does a fighter drill?
Recall the inaugural UFC, and Royce mopping up with jiu-jitsu, dispelling all doubts. But over two decades the world moved on, and during the ensuing years fighters universally added jiu-jitsu to their arsenals, leveling the Gracie advantage. No more gis in the cage. No more skinny fighters facing three-hundred-pound monsters. We’re talking weight classes, timed rounds, leather gloves, standardized rules, and, yes, fighters trained in grappling and striking.