Into the Cage

by Nick Gullo

  “You get the bubble guts,” said former lightweight UFC champion Frankie Edgar. “The anxiety is so intense, you wish you could speed it up and walk out right then.”

  I love photographing this scene because after the fists are gauzed and taped, there’s no turning back. The tension is fucking awesome, and no camera—still or rolling—can capture the emotion in the room. “When they’re getting taped, I go up and touch their pants,” Burt told me, “you know, to make sure they’re clean, and just the way a guy’s breathing, I can tell if they’re scared shitless.”

  Afterward, backstage and awaiting Burt’s call, fighters pace, stretch a bit, watch live fights on the wall monitor. Every once in a while the video crew enters, the camera lights splash on, and the fighters posture for the live audience—throw punches at the lens, offer a brief smile or a raised index finger. Then the crew departs, and it’s back to the slow simmer.

  José Aldo (top) and Antonio Rogério Nogueira having their hands taped.

  Chad Mendes—countdown.

  Jon Jones, in the garden.

  At this point in the journey, a fighter must relax and control his nerves. The dreaded adrenaline dump—hands sweating, heart pumping, pupils dilated—is more dangerous than any competitor. To cope, some fighters shadow-box, some drill with coaches, some even run the halls.

  Firas Zahabi, head trainer at Tristar Gym in Montreal, and some say the mastermind behind Georges St-Pierre, first works his fighter into a steady sweat, then he assesses the fighter’s mental state. “If he’s too calm, I might slap him a few times, try to rile him up. If he’s too nervous, I’ll talk him down. It also depends on his opponent: if the guy is more technical, or in better shape, I get my fighter fired up to charge—because anything can happen those first few minutes. It’s only in the later rounds that technique comes into play. Or if it’s the opposite situation, and my guy is more technical, I coach him to weather that first barrage.”

  THE WALKOUT

  In the past few years I’ve shadowed countless fighters as they enter the arena—the team emerging from the tunnel, tracked by the live cameras, favorite song pumping, fans reaching for a touch of cloth, and that rising roar greeting: Anderson Silva, Jon Jones, Nick and Nate Diaz, Benson Henderson, Rory MacDonald, Georges St-Pierre, B.J. Penn, Tito Ortiz, Junior dos Santos, Cain Velasquez.

  It’s always a rush—but even more thrilling is a moment the entire arena shares: when the undercard fights end, the lights dim, murmurs sweep the darkness, and as the tension stretches just so, the trill of synthesizer melody cuts through and the velveteen sea erupts. Every time, no matter how many events you attend, no matter how exhausted or hungover you feel, your forearms pock and your gaze arcs skyward.

  It’s hard not to equate this ritual with some sort of modern religion. More Mao than Billy Graham, but still—the arena as cathedral; ten, fifteen thousand united in collective ecstasy beneath those Blade Runner monitors. Sure, Dana White is an avowed atheist, but even this song—most think it’s “Teenage Wasteland,” but the real title is “Baba O’Riley”—was penned by Pete Townshend in homage to his spiritual guru, Meher Baba.

  These religious undercurrents infuse the moment, and I often imagine a peasant right then zapped from the Dark Ages to now—no comprehension of electricity, much less recorded music or pixels—but he knows fighting, and staring up at these giant humans battling in the sky, I’m sure he’d scream with the throng and make sense later.

  CLIMBING THE STEPS

  So we’re in this cathedral, just steps from the cage, watching our fighter strip down to only gloves and trunks, naked but for the sacrifice of his preparation—those eight weeks of physical, mental, and, yes, spiritual toil. How fitting that ancient mystics regarded the octagon as a symbol of rebirth and resurrection, hence throughout Europe all those eight-sided baptismal fonts.

  Our fighter hugs his teammates, and alone he raises his muscled arms in a cross, submitting to inspection from on high—and it’s also worth noting this isn’t solely a Judeo-Christian metaphor. The cross as symbol predates the crucifix. Predates even ancient Egypt’s ankh. Archeologists have even discovered crosses painted on the walls of Stone Age caves.

  “It’s such a surreal moment,” John Fitch said, “standing [on deck], you’re getting sent off to war, and that’s when you have to kill the fear. That’s when I tell myself I’ve done everything I could during the eight weeks leading up to the fight. If you haven’t properly trained, the fear gets worse and overcomes you. But I’m pretty diligent [during camp], so I’m able to squash the fear during the walkout and grease-up period. And climbing the cage stairs, that’s where I shake it off. When I walk into the cage, one of the first things I do is yell, to get my mindset in the right place. It’s my war cry, announcing I’m ready to go, I’m here, let’s do this.”

  The Walkout, with Daron Cruickshank.

  THE FIGHT

  The cage door closes. The bolt drops. The ref signals Fight, and it’s on. Circling, weaving for efficient angles, or charging straight ahead—now is when a fighter tests his resolve. Can he implement that fight plan? Round after brutal round, ignore the creeping fatigue, the throbbing knee, blood stinging the eyes—or does he say to himself, Fuck, he’s too strong … I’m cramping … just survive this next round … no shame in a decision, if I clinch…

  Either way, moves and techniques had better occur via reflex because as this internal monologue reveals, now it’s a battle of wills. The only unsettled question is who’s will is gonna break first?

  MMA is a beautiful sport, if not always on the physical plane—where the long clinches and circling sometimes prove tedious—then on that higher, more ethereal plane. The plane of the spirit. Where each feint, tie-up, and kick is unleashed not merely to damage, but to chip away at an opponent’s will.

  Only after visiting gyms, training with fighters, overhearing their intimate conversations, did I appreciate how a bout equals more than the sum of its violence. Forget the surface. What you’re watching is a battle of character, resolve, courage in the face of pain, and doggedness in the face of exhaustion.

  Top: Forrest Griffin, on deck, UFC 148;

  bottom: Mauricio “Shogun” Rua on deck, UFC on Fox: Shogun vs. Vera.

  Top: Anthony Pettis, the last stop;

  bottom: Vitor Belfort, arm-barring Jon Jones.

  Top: Mike Easton backstage, prepping to celebrate his victory at UFC 148;

  bottom: Jorge Santiago, assuaging his loss.

  “This is the first thing I am thinking about,” Lyoto Machida explained. “I am not the biggest, the brightest, or the best, but it is all about breaking the spirit of whoever is in front of me … I sense weakness, and I focus on that. You sense which weapons you have to take away from him.”

  But can you actually feel when an opponent breaks?

  “Yes, I feel a collapse, and I know at any moment the fight will be over.”

  Nearly every fighter embraced this philosophy: Break the will, break the will. Vitor Belfort, however, cautioned, “You must be careful. If you are trying to break [an opponent’s will], and you don’t, then what happens? You break your own will. I learned that early. Get empty, that’s the secret to success. Empty the mind, become water. You cannot stop water—water finds a way, just let it go.”

  During our conversation I was surprised to hear Vitor, like Lyoto, apply his combat philosophies to everyday life. Like spilling sand from one palm to the other: life as art, art as life. Vitor told me: “If I am going into negotiation and I want this direction, what happens if I don’t [achieve it]? So go there freely—have your strategy, but remain flexible. Survive the storm, the thunders and hurricanes inside the fight, and enjoy your time. We have max twenty-five minutes, so enjoy it. Make it the best twenty-five minutes of your life, that way you don’t have any regrets. I have so many regrets in my life—things I should have done, and I didn’t—so that’s why I tell people, ‘Everything you want to do, do it now, not tomorrow. Don’t wait f
or the next round, this may be the last.’ ”

  During UFC 152 in Toronto in September 2012, Vitor caught champion Jon Jones in a vicious armbar. Lifting his hips, hyperextending the elbow, and straining for a submission, Vitor heard a pop! and thinking the joint broke, he released—allowing Jones to wiggle free. The entire arena stood screaming, few expecting such an underdog feat.

  Vitor tried again and again to repeat the maneuver, to the disbelief of many, dropping to the canvas and pulling guard—which opened him to Jones’s patented ground-and-pound elbow attack. Early in the fourth round, Jones transitioned from those elbows to an americana submission, and forced Vitor to tap out, thus ending the Brazilian’s dreams of recapturing the UFC light heavyweight belt.

  So I had to ask—this strategy, was that water?

  Vitor gazed at the ground, gently shaking his head. “No, I had him, I did—but I kept trying to force it. This is something you must overcome in a fight, because though [the armbar] worked once, I should not have kept trying it over and over. I pulled guard the next time, he elbowed me, and the fight changed. It was back and forth—I went to his field, now he’s in my field. I’m punching him, controlling, then I pulled guard again … I made so many mistakes in that fight. Mistakes I regret, big-time. I haven’t watched the fight because I am still so sad. People say, ‘You did great’—but I didn’t. I should have won the fight. That fight I should have won everywhere. On the ground, even standing up I was winning, I was beating him and then I pull guard because I was so [fixated] on doing something that worked early. I kept trying to find his arm. So, no, that was not water—I should have flowed, but I didn’t, and it cost me.”

  It’s fascinating how any missteps along this journey—ineffective training, poor fight strategy, improper diet, backstage nerves—weaken a fighter and even if he lies to others and tells the world he’s never felt better, during the fight this doubt eats at him.

  Which brings us to perhaps the most important decision a fighter makes: In which camp should I train?

  Or, couched in terms of the hero’s journey: Which grizzled old-timer shall I choose as my mentor?

  5: FIGHT CLUB

  Top: Team Alpha Male.

  Bottom: Urijah Faber, adrenaline junkie.

  “MMA is not a fucking team sport.”

  —UFC PRESIDENT DANA WHITE

  TECHNICALLY, D.W.’S RIGHT—each fighter must scale those steel steps and cross that Octagon threshold alone. But pause and rewind the tape, and watch him backpedaling onto the deck, submitting to inspection, then hugging his trainer—but wait, there!—just as he closes his eyes during that final embrace, from that point he’s on his own … right?

  Not really. Sure, during the bout he’s the one enduring kicks and elbows, but his team sits cageside, shouting instructions, and between rounds they’re placating his doubts and laying down next-round strategy.

  So let’s keep reversing the footage: he and his team back-step through the crowd and into the tunnel’s holding area, where together they pace under camera lights … in the locker room he warms up with his team … the team arrives at the arena … the team flies to the host city … back in the gym, all day, every day, the team is together.

  You get the point. A fighter is rarely alone. He lives and trains with a camp.

  But not all camps are created equal. Each boasts its own philosophies, hierarchy, social mores, geographic pros and cons—which is why “Which camp should I choose?” is one of the most important forks on the journey.

  THE COMMUNE: TEAM ALPHA MALE

  After parking in a strip-mall complex on the outskirts of Sacramento, California, I gaze through the bugged-up windshield and spot a sign for Ultimate Fitness. I grab my workout bag and head inside, ducking from the summer heat into the cool, familiar clinking of weights, thuds on heavy bags, the whiff of lemony disinfectant and sweat. It’s a typical MMA gym—boxing ring, mats—until turning toward the register, there’s a massive cutout of Urijah Faber, arm raised triumphant.

  Most members of Team Alpha Male wrestled in college; and that wrestling culture carries over. “You grow up competing against your friends,” Urijah said, “going through this crazy regimen together, and that brings you close. In the wrestling world, your first major competition is to decide the best guy in the room for the varsity spot.”

  Joseph Benavidez fought for the inaugural UFC flyweight championship during UFC 152 in September 2012 in Toronto. I sat with him and Urijah, and we discussed the team’s structure, ethos, etc.: “It’s a unique approach, as we don’t have a head coach,” Benavidez told me. “We all help, and we all want what’s best for the others. It’s like combining our wills into one; and what I mean is, if it’s just me wanting a win, that’s nothing compared to Urijah, Chad, T.J., all of us wanting that win, and all of us putting in the work to make it happen. That’s why we’re a real team, and not just a camp.”

  So how do you choose?

  Joe: “You need to find people who bring out the best in you, other like-minded people. I don’t want to hang with some dude I’ve got nothing in common with, where we don’t get along. Being from New Mexico, the easy thing would’ve been to train with [renowned MMA coach and New Mexico resident] Greg Jackson. But now I’m with family, and at Jackson’s camp, where 100 fighters are flocking in and out every day, I’d just get lost in the shuffle.”

  If you don’t have a leader, who sets the schedule?

  Urijah: “Well, every fighter has specific needs, and that’s why we have so many different coaches. It’s like coming into a restaurant and looking over the menu. ‘I’ll take a bit of this wrestling, some of that jiu-jitsu—some muay Thai, American kickboxing, boxing.’ A fighter customizes the meal based on his weaknesses, or needs.”

  Joe: “It’s a very open environment; no one gets upset when I go outside [the camp] and seek other coaches, stay with them for a week, bring them in. Now that I’m actually making a living from the sport, I can afford to bring outside coaches in for weeks at a time—not only for me, but the team also benefits in seeing what else is out there. A fighter has to explore all options. MMA is still so new that no one has a lock on all the techniques and training methods. Even if you’re at the top of the game, you’re still learning. There’s just so many aspects to the sport.”

  Top: Urijah Faber, training with Dustin Akbari.

  Bottom: Joseph Benavidez on the treadmill.

  That’s great for general training, but who determines fight strategy?

  Urijah: “If someone’s got [an upcoming] bout, the team watches tape on the opponent and writes down what they think. Then different guys work together, some step up and help coach. Justin Buchholz helps map fight plans for many of us.”

  Joe: “ ‘You are your best coach,’—I love that saying. You know what you need, what your body needs, and you know what you should do in the ring.”

  Urijah: “We don’t need somebody to tell us, ‘Okay, this is what you must do in this next fight.’ Sure, there are general themes, weaknesses we look for, but it’s up to [each fighter] to step in there and compete.”

  MMA training is difficult, so what if I wanna sleep in and skip morning practice?

  Joe: “The team holds you accountable. There’s always someone that says, ‘Hey, come in at this time … and, ‘Where were you this morning? I needed you.’ Every day they push you. Like when you go against a teammate who got the best of you—you want to get him back. So it’s good to know you’re always gonna be challenged by your team.”

  Urijah. “We train 24/7 because this is our job—what the fuck else are you gonna do, sit around and watch TV? Most people think our sport is difficult and unappealing, and probably pretty scary. But for us, if you’re training three to six hours a day, preparing non-stop, it’s like riding a bike—you’re not scared to ride a bike once you learn. The first time you start pedaling on your own, of course that’s scary. But for us, after hours and hours of wrestling, sparring, and hitting mitts—all that preparation nu
llifies the fear. You become immune to it. It’s funny to look across the other side and realize how crazy we are. Like, we fucking fight our closest friends all day. We beat each other senseless. Joseph [Benavidez] has ten stitches in his lip right now because T.J. [Dillashaw] tried to kick him in the face and instead caught him with a knee. But it’s no big deal. Together we shed blood, sweat, and tears. We’re the tightest knit group because we share those things.”

  So I gel with the guys, I’m a wrestler, how do I join Team Alpha Male?

  Urijah: “Just sign up at the gym. Everyone’s welcome. But from there it’s sink or swim. We beat the fuck out of each other. There is no pussyfooting around—the weakest get weeded out quick, and what’s left is a fucking core group of bad asses, and that core sets the tone. It’s really like, Show up and if you earn a spot on the team, then you’re part of the team. If you’re holding people back, then we’ll ask you to leave [the pro classes]. You can come back after you’ve taken some of the general classes. Either way, I never try to talk a fighter into coming out here because it never works. Once you talk someone into coming out, it’s your fault if it doesn’t work. This is a self-motivated sport. If you’re getting pushed [into MMA], then you’re in the wrong fucking sport. This shit’s hard.”

  So is it a team sport?

  Joe: “Listen, I consider them brothers and they’ve all helped me get to this point, and I feel as though I’ve helped them. So—”

  Urijah: “We don’t compete at the same time, so it’s not really a team sport. But it is a family sport.”