by Nick Gullo
That’s right, the same guys he’d rolled with a few years earlier. And for their second event, UFC 31 in May 2001, they called on him to fight Joey Gilbert. And B.J. TKO’d him in the first round. Seven months later he fought Jens Pulver for the UFC lightweight championship. B.J. lost a majority decision, but after several succeeding wins he fought again for the lightweight belt—this time to a draw against Caol Uno. Frustrated, he jumped at the next title shot, moving up a weight class to battle Matt Hughes. Against all odds, B.J. proved true the old-school jiu-jitsu maxim: Great technique bests size and strength any day of the week.
Now back to our Era versus Era theorem. Or rather, “If we pit two in-prime prodigious MMA fighters, each using the training and fight strategies from their respective eras, who will triumph?”
Of course, B.J. as a test subject doesn’t seem germane, as he, after all, trained inside the ever-evolving AKA gym, home to countless veterans, rising stars, and enlightened trainers. Environment shapes, Darwin might say. But in 2002, B.J. packed his bags and returned to Hawaii, where he would remain for much of his career. Back in those lush jungles he gathered local coaches and fighters into a self-made camp, replicating the early days of MMA, before elite teams littered the stateside maps. A moth preserved in amber, physically and mentally intact but adaptively stalled.
Not to say he wasn’t nurtured. Or maybe that was the problem. “In Hawaii there are no professional sports,” B.J. told me. “The fighters are the professional sports, that’s why fighting is so big. That’s who they look to, and who I represent. My people get behind me, and I don’t want to let them down.”
But it’s my contention that this Jurassic Park environment shielded him from the evolutionary pressures of the modern MMA world. Sure, prior to each fight he flew in sparring partners, and for some fights he trained on the mainland at the private RVCA gym, in Costa Mesa, California—but that’s hardly a substitute for the day-in, day-out stresses that mold most fighters. And as for fight strategy, in his memoir, Why I Fight: The Belt Is Just an Accessory, B.J. trumpets his slogan: Just Scrap.
Forget game theory, and forget decision trees—B.J. enters the cage to brawl.
RORY MACDONALD
There’s no debate, Rory MacDonald represents the new breed. Wanna talk lab experiments? Plop any MMA devotee in a sterile room of beakers and blue flames, and no question in a glass bowl he’d sprinkle the following genes: six-foot frame, mesomorphic physique, stone-cold demeanor, anti-social tendencies, kinesthetic aptitude, above-average intelligence…
Oh, and don’t forget that outlier-like obsession.
After Rory’s only loss, a last-second heartbreaker to Carlos Condit, he abandoned his hometown of Kelowna, British Columbia, for the big city and elite coaching of Tristar Gym in Montreal, Quebec.
In so many ways Rory personifies the ten-thousand-hours theory. “I wasn’t naturally talented,” he told me. “I first walked into the gym like a fool. Maybe I had some scrappiness, and maybe I was mentally tough, but I sucked at fighting. I just wasn’t any good.”
Yet, head bowed and humbled he stuck with it, worked and worked, never mind the clumsy pubescent body he forced to kick bags, shoot doubles, lift weights—hell or high water he would mold and master the damn thing, in the process racking up hours as if in a video game: 1,000, 2,000, 3,000,… “I was always dedicated to my craft. I love martial arts. To get good fast you have to love what you’re doing. If you don’t have a passion for something, you’ll never excel at it.”
After administrators booted him from school for truancy and other juvenile mayhem, he dove headlong into training—seven days a week, hanging round the club until nightfall. “I left with the last guy. I’m more passionate than most, and that’s probably why I got good so fast.”
That and the sophisticated approach of Tristar. “My training is very intense and programmed,” Rory said. “The moment I step in the gym I know my plan, I know exactly what I’m working on.”
THE FIGHT: UFC ON FOX 5
After the walkouts B.J. and Rory stand under their respective banners. Bruce Buffer bellows into the mic, and, elbows crossed on the Octagon walkway, I glance left to right and it’s clear our theory is strained. These are hardly equal specimens: Rory stands six-foot and monstrous, dwarfing the five-nine B.J.
They’re both welterweights, what gives? Damn it. I flashback to our primer on weight loss: over an eight-week camp a two-hundred-pound fighter will shed ten, twenty pounds, denying desserts, and training three times a day, and the last week he cuts salt and sweats and pisses out the rest.
That’s how 99.9 percent of current fighters roll, including Rory.
Not B.J.
The Hawaiian jiu-jitsu master holds to that old-school maxim: Great technique bests size and strength any day of the week…
Sounds good to me. I’m all about Helio Gracie. But glancing across the Octagon, at Rory, all titan-like, then at B.J., I remember how the much smaller Helio had his arm snapped by Masahiko Kimura during their fabled match.
The ref starts the action, and it’s an old-school battle for sure. Rory kicks B.J. in the chest. Manhandles him against the cage. Throws a left elbow that nearly drops him. Forget the size/reach advantage, Rory is too fast, too conditioned, too technical to catch or counter. A tiger mauling its prey for five minutes.
Between rounds B.J. slumps on his stool, and a guy from his corner yells, “Use your face, use your fucking face!”
I have no idea what this means…
The second round starts and it’s more of the same: Rory throws stiff jabs and level-10 kicks, short elbows to the face. Joe Rogan laments B.J.’s lack of strategy, and he lays blame on the corner: “Unfortunately they didn’t have much to say to him technically, it was mostly just cheerleading.” Then, after another textbook blitz: “Oh, brilliant combination—left hook, right hand by Rory, then a front kick to cap it off.”
Rory drives a vicious kick to the liver and B.J. doubles over, holding his side, cringing. Hurts to watch, and sucks even more to recount, because like most MMA fans I revere B.J. and his accomplishments, and I’m angry that this old-era code has blinded him to that even wiser truth: ; The weak are meat the strong eat.
Ever the warrior, B.J. survives the three rounds, but via unanimous decision he drops his fourth loss in six fights. No, this wasn’t the equally matched experiment we’d hoped for, but on the flip side, the results bolster this new-era approach.
Evolution triumphs.
Again.
Rory MacDonald and B.J. Penn in the cage.
Rory warms up backstage with Firas Zahabi; Rory MacDonald, way of the Bushidō
7: THE MOUNTAIN
Rashad Evans lost in thought.
THE MOUNTAIN. It’s such an apt metaphor for any sport: those hundreds of thousands scaling the rocky slopes, risking anything to reach the next crag, trying to remain focused, inspired, don’t look down, delusional even—whatever it takes to climb higher and stay fixed on the peak—the peak where the champion stands surveying his kingdom to the horizon.
It’s gonna be so awesome up there, that view, and everyone knowing I’m the best in the world. I’ll sacrifice anything, I don’t care…
But when you consider the long odds, clearly it’s the path, not the pinnacle that defines the journey. And even if the goal is achieved, take note: most champions hold the belt on average just 1.55 fights. That’s right. Scan through UFC history and you’ll find 55 champions, who (as of this writing) on-the-whole successfully defended their titles a mere eighty-five times (stats courtesy of UFC editorial director Thomas Gerbasi). Now that’s daunting math.
So to understand the sport we must turn from the summit and assess the lifetime of dedication and work, the struggles to conquer the fear of falling, and the fear of injury, the will to wipe away the tears and continue climbing, all while knowing at any moment the rock in your grip might crumble.
After years of training in a single combat discipline, an athlete transitions to
MMA, enters an amateur event, wins, enters a few more, compiles a winning record, joins a respected team. Fights a professional MMA bout or two, then auditions for The Ultimate Fighter (TUF), the UFC’s reality TV series that’s designed to function as the company’s minor league.
That’s where I first met Myles Jury. He entered season 15 riding a nine-fight win streak, all stoppages during the first round, and because he suffered a knee injury during TUF season 13, and was forced to leave the show without a bout, people knew his name. And these people, including his TUF coach, Dominick Cruz, expected big things. In his first TUF fight, the Vegas bookies picked him to rout Al Iaquinta. The fighters entered the cage, split two hard-fought rounds, fought a tiebreaker, and Iaquinta emerged the winner.
After the show I found Myles backstage. He was unhappy about the split decision, so I switched the subject and we talked San Diego, jiu-jitsu, and Swami’s, a surf break in Encinitas, California. Rough life, I told him, hanging on the beach, training all morning, lunch then nap, train again, grab dinner and a movie. He laughed. We agreed to hook up for a surf—but forget Swami’s, that over-crowded long-board zoo, I told him, come up to Newport and test your skills.
I never thought he’d call. But he did, and after a night session we grabbed fish tacos and beers and shot the shit.
“I love training, love to fight, but getting in the water, just paddling out, there’s nothing better. Anything to keep from burning out.”
Burning out? You’re just starting this climb—
“In the UFC, yes, but I’ve already been fighting ten years. And with wrestling and tae kwon do, it’s not like I just walked into the gym.”
Okay, so where do you see yourself in the next ten years?
“I think about that all the time. I know I can’t fight forever, and I don’t want to be fifty years old, working at somebody else’s gym. So I’m trying to be smart with the decisions I make. Not just with fighting, but also my investments. It’s such an important part of the game.”
Do you want to start a family?
“One day. But for now I’m just enjoying the journey. This sport is so selfish, the time and dedication you’ve got to put into it. When you get to the UFC, you think you’re the shit and you know the game, but it’s a whole new level, in every sense—the fights, the media, the fans.”
So many fighters say they don’t care about the belt, but I’m calling bullshit. How bad do you want it?
“[Laughs] It’s true, you hear that a lot. Maybe it’s because you don’t want to set yourself up for a letdown. There are so many variables. If I tell myself that no matter what happens, I’m going to get that belt, then I get in a car wreck and can’t fight again, then what? But I think about it. I do. The closer you get, it’s like it pulls you in that direction, keeps stealing your attention. So you push it away, work harder. I guess that’s the irony. I’m here to prove to myself that I’m the best fighter in the world, and getting the belt solidifies that. How else do you really know? You don’t. You need the belt. But still, you have to stay focused on what’s real, what you can control. I can control how hard I train, but I know the UFC could cut me tomorrow.”
And Myles is correct. Joe Silva, matchmaker for the UFC, rarely gives interviews. Dana calls him Benjamin Button, or “the grumpiest old man in a young body you’ll ever meet,” but it may have something to do with his job description: he’s tasked with pitting fighters in thrilling, title-relevant bouts, and should a fighter lose too many fights, Joe drops the axe. Question is, how does he define “too many”?
“The hardest part of my job is balancing sport and spectacle,” Joe told me. “The fans want excitement, but there’s the title contention, and some fighters are just flat-out boring.
“The worst part of my job is cutting fighters. Think about how hard it is to lose a job. But this is more than a job, this is a lifelong dream, and I’m the one that crushes that. Even if a fighter loses three in a row, inside he’s telling himself, It’s just a slump, three wins and I’ll get a title shot, I can still win that belt.”
Joe lifted a notepad from his pocket and scribbled some numbers. “Fans get upset when I cut a fighter, but look at these numbers …”
The UFC promotes 33 events a year.
@ 12 fights per card, and 24 fighters per event that’s 792 available slots
PROBLEM: UFC retains 450 fighters under contract each owed 3 fights per year that’s 1350 needed slots
SOLUTION 1: promote 23 additional events (1 per week)
or
SOLUTION 2: cut 190 from the ranks
“We can’t carry this many fighters. It’s so damn expensive to put on an event—the travel costs, the advertising, the manpower—it stretches the company thin. And revenues? People don’t realize that without pay-per-view buys, MMA doesn’t work. Television networks don’t pay enough—not yet at least—and the gate doesn’t cover the costs. The sport is still growing. One day the ad revenues will cover, but we’ve still got a lot of work to get there.”
It’s not about the money, most fighters will parrot. And I somewhat believe them because as with most sports, in MMA only the most acclaimed athletes earn mansion and Bentley money. Oh, and don’t forget recent reports that 78 percent of NFL athletes go broke within three years of retirement, and 60 percent of NBA players within five. So if it’s not about the money, and if, let’s say, a title shot remains a distant glimmer up the mountain, why do these mid-pack fighters continue clawing and stretching for a higher foothold?
“One of the reasons I got into fighting,” Jon Fitch told me, “was because I’d never really been in a fight. It’s like in Fight Club, the famous line, ‘How much can you really know about yourself if you’ve never been in a fight?’ Yeah, there were some minor scrapes at the bar, where one punch is thrown and it’s broken up. But the opportunity to step into a cage with another guy, and the only way out is win or lose, now that’s terrifying. But it was something I had to do, because how much do you really know about yourself without facing that fear? It’s the clearest mirror you’ll ever stand in front of.”
Three days later, Jon Fitch lost a unanimous decision to Demian Maia at UFC 156 in February 2013. Two weeks later, the axe fell, severing him from the UFC roster. Fans freaked, taking to Twitter and Internet forums to complain that the cut was unwarranted, unfair—but few crunched the numbers. Dana shrugged “It sucks, but welcome to sports. We’ve gotta trim the rosters so the guys remaining get the fights they’re due.”
A few days after sitting with Myles Jury, I’m in line at Keen’s coffee (a local Newport Beach digs) and in walks Ian McCall, carrying his one-and-a-half-year-old daughter, London. Small world, this MMA. We chatted, watched London totter about the shop, petting a dog, and it hit me—Ian and Myles appear so different, but both fighters have sacrificed everything to climb that mountain. The only real difference is that Myles just left base camp, while Ian is near the peak.
McCall started training under Chuck Liddell during Liddell’s zenith years. Training with, and partying with. But for McCall, the partying got out of hand: he suffered a near-lethal overdose and awoke days later in the hospital. He entered rehab, and, thankfully, saw the light. Now he’s one of the top-ranked flyweights in the world. He’s also a single father, changing diapers while working for that belt.
So tell me about the journey…
“I’ve always been a prodigy in the gym, but I liked drugs too much. It all started when [laughs] … No, seriously, I was wrestling in college, think I was eighteen and I’d already fought, when I hooked up with Chuck Liddell. We started training, and right off the bat, he told me—you’re gonna be champ one day. Then I saw him grab the belt, and he blew up, became like a rock star overnight. It was insanity. I’ll tell you right now, no one partied like Chuck. Not before, or since. Those years were off the rails. Unfortunately, that put the idea in my head that that lifestyle was okay. And for that I paid.”
Well, it’s not like you’re the first.
&n
bsp; “No. You’re right. I’ve partied with rock stars, movie stars, and hands-down, fighters party the hardest. It’s weird. I think it’s because we are so tied to the gym, and so strict, and we have that agro gene that make us want to just freak out, so when we go off, it’s not pretty. I’m not saying all fighters. Some never party. But me, before rehab, I liked excess way too much.”
Does having your daughter help you stay straight?
“Very much so, because I know I can’t fuck this up. I’m raising London on my own, and though it’s hard, she makes life so good for me. It’s exactly what I needed. I’ve done everything a man could want: traveled, partied, seen cool things, and when my girlfriend said she was pregnant, I was like, alright, I’m going to man up and do this, I’m going to try and earn money and provide a nice life for this little girl. It might sound cheesy, or cliché, but my mom used to say, I love you so much it hurts. I never knew what that meant. But now, with my daughter, I think about her when she’s not with me, and the sadness—my mom was right, it hurts.”
How much longer do you see yourself fighting?
“I’m twenty-nine now. For most people that’s young, but for a fighter, my time is limited. I’m getting older. I’m strong, I’m fit, but training non-stop takes a toll. I’m not elastic anymore. I hope five more years. I’ve got to get that belt. Anyone in the know knows I’m better than Demetrious [Johnson] and Joe [Benavidez]. I haven’t performed well in the UFC, and it’s embarrassing.”
Is that your motivation, fighting for the belt?
“There will be so much weight lifted when I win the title. I’ll feel so much better about myself. Now, I feel like a failure. I came into the UFC to do a job, and [losing the flyweight semi-final to Demetrious Johnson] I failed at it miserably, and I can’t live that down. It sucks. So now I’m in the gym all the time, but it’s still never enough. I train so hard, but it’s like I need complete world domination, you know? I need to fuck shit up on a daily basis, or I’m not happy with myself.”