by Nick Gullo
Top: Ronda backstage before receiving the first women’s UFC belt.
Bottom: morning workout.
Of course she was devastated, and when she turned ten, to channel that grief, Mom started her in judo. “The gym was far from the house,” Ronda said, “so to make the drive worthwhile she’d make me roll not only in the kids’ class but also with the adults. I started tournaments a year later.”
Thus, the journey started—training, competing, training, competing—and at seventeen the wunderkind qualified for the 2004 Olympic Games, then won the World Junior Judo Championships, and earned a bronze at the Junior World Championships, which, for most of us, hell yeah, pop the champagne corks—but not Ronda. “My mom never praised me once—” she shrugged “—after I won the bronze medal, she said she was disappointed.”
Who knows, perhaps this denial of praise and the constant pressure molded her into one of the best female judo-kans to ever grace the mat, but the little girl in her suffered. “I know people view me as this tough-ass chick,” she told me, “but I cry. I cry a lot. Every single night from thirteen to eighteen, after training I’d be in the locker room sobbing. I needed to be perfect and beat everybody in the room. If anybody threw me even once, my God, it was so painful. I never cry from an injury, but if someone threw me, I’d bawl.”
The path to the Olympic podium was rocky and strewn with thorns, and halfway there, the week of her eighteenth birthday, she ran away from home. “With my mother and coaches always pushing, pushing, there wasn’t a moment in the day for me. Every moment, every second other people planned, I had no say. I didn’t have the courage to confront them. My way of standing up for myself was to buy a plane ticket and fly across the country. I went to my friend’s house in Albany.”
In time she began training again, and “to pay the bills I entered tournaments, and I swore, to show everyone up, this would be the best year of my career. That’s why I moved to Montreal … but once I got there, no one would coach me because I was American. Judo culture is total bullshit like that. But this only pushed me harder, and training on my own I won the World Cup, medaled three times in Europe, and, sure enough, everyone wanted to work with me again. So I went back, hoping things would be different, but after I medaled [earning bronze at the 2008 Olympic Games], not one coach or teammate called to see if I got off the plane in L.A. safely. It’s like, Oh, we’re done with her now. They didn’t give a shit. These were very superficial relationships, and that left me very angry and spiteful, so I decided that’s it with judo, I’m done.”
After mulling what next, she transitioned to mixed martial arts, and who would’ve guessed that in this more vicious world she would find the camaraderie, acceptance, and love she always craved. She finally found home. “Now, my coaches and teammates are my best friends. God, I’m so glad I’m not in [judo] anymore. I couldn’t even watch a full match in the Olympics last summer.”
Ronda entered the cage six times in a single year; for a bit of context, during 2012 Jon Jones fought twice. Just flip through her 2010–11 slideshow: each time she walks out note the background, and how in each photo the crowd grows: more cameras, more cellphones recording her passage, more fans reaching for just a touch. “When I first moved to Los Angeles I was so poor I lived in a dirty little apartment, waiting tables at Gladstones by night, training all day, and now—”
Now she walks down the sidewalk and moms stop her, clasp her hand, and thank her for serving as a role model. Make no mistake, Ronda is the poster girl for women’s MMA. The icon who inspires females around the world to hit mitts, kick bags, don gis. Everywhere you turn: That slender teller at the bank, chipper smile and bruises on her forearms, she trains MMA. The flight attendant clicking shut those overhead bins, she trains. Ottavia Bourdain, wife of revered chef Anthony Bourdain, and Amanda Lucas, daughter of George Lucas, creator of Star Wars.
As does Taylor Ross, an eleven-year-old surfer girl from Orange County, California.
TAYLOR ROSS
I first heard of Taylor through her work with Pipeline to a Cure, a charity that aids those afflicted with cystic fibrosis (CF). The charity seeks to marshal the surfing world to help with fundraising and public awareness campaigns, and here’s the surf connection—CF is a genetic disease that triggers thick mucus buildup in the lungs. Doctors realized that inhaling saltwater mist, via frequent swims in the ocean, reduces inflammation and infection.
The surfing community is small, so a friend tells a friend of my interest in MMA, and next thing my phone rings. “Bro, you gotta come see this little girl, she surfs down at Blackies and she also fights. She beats on boys, it’s awesome.”
That week, after watching YouTube videos featuring Taylor’s fights, I drove to an office park in Costa Mesa, and strolling into OC Kickboxing & Mixed Martial Arts, a gang of kids in white gis ran past. It was a typical MMA gym: a small weight area near the boxing ring, Helio Gracie photo and inspirational posters on the wall. But walking to the back, I saw three rows of kids, thirty in all, patiently awaiting instruction, and just as many soccer moms seated along the mats, sipping Starbucks, casually chatting.
That’s when I realize it’s not just men and women training MMA—it’s also our kids. Welcome to UFC Nation.
In the second row a little girl, with streaked blond hair and blue eyes turns and waves at her mom. It’s Taylor, and it’s such a touching moment I melt. Partly because I know Taylor’s disease is sapping her health, yet she’s so cute, always smiling. And when you learn the median age for those born with CF is thirty-seven—and that’s median, not guaranteed—you want to hug her, or punch a wall, or both.
Back in the UFC offices I told Dana about Taylor, and moved by her commitment to spread awareness of the fatal disease, he picked up the phone and in minutes a small team joined us around the conference table. The next week a crew from UFC Ultimate Insider, a weekly show on Fuel TV, descended on her gym. Filmed her training, interviewed her family at home, then we went surfing. “I wanted to start jiu-jitsu after I saw the Karate Kid,” Taylor told the cameras. “I can relieve stress by taking someone down. Sometimes I think of the disease when I hit the bags.”
THE AFTER-PARTY
Following the Sons of Anarchy premiere, we head to Gladstones, a restaurant overlooking the moonlit Malibu beaches, for the after-party. It’s more of the same: SOA cast and crew, industry execs, paparazzi. Dana stops to chat with Charlie Hunnam, and I follow Ronda through the crowd, to a bar tucked far from the racket. Turns out she knows the layout well, as this is where she used to wait tables.
She peers over my shoulder, trying to spot the manager, who she says treated the servers badly, and I’m curious about this need to show others up—her old judo coaches, this manager, her mom. Because if the will to win is an elite athlete’s greatest weapon, perhaps she consciously nurses these slights and snubs, stoking the fire, anything to power through another training session.
Taylor Ross shadow-boxing.
Top: Stitch wraps Taylor’s hands backstage.
Bottom: Taylor and Ronda.
We order drinks, me another shot, her water, and sit in a booth and chat.
So what do you think of these studies that show women earn 77 percent as much as men for the same work?
She shrugs. “Well, it’s better than it used to be, but still it’s a process. Even in sports. A guy walks into a gym, his reputation precedes him—if he’s won in the Olympics, that’s never questioned. But me, when I walk into a new gym, I have to prove myself over and over again, because everyone’s questioning whether I’m really that good.”
Do you like watching women’s MMA?
“Yeah, those girls throw down. It’s very rare you see a boring women’s MMA match, it seems they always have a chip on their shoulder, something to prove. And they’re newer in competition, so they’re less structured in the way they fight. You never know what’s going to happen, all bets are off. Not like the calculated matches you see on the men’s side. Women take it pe
rsonal. They leave the ring still angry, like ring the bell again. They want it more than boys.”
Do you recommend MMA for young girls?
“Sports are a metaphor for life. Training and competing builds confidence. Girls shouldn’t have to walk around afraid. I carry myself differently knowing that whatever happens, I can handle it. That confidence translates into whatever I do. Like the other day I was at a media lunch, surrounded by journalists. Years ago I would’ve been intimidated, nervous, but I tell myself, Well, at least I can beat the shit out of anyone in this room. Crazy, but that confidence calms you, even if it’s not relevant to the situation. You carry yourself differently, and that’s something a lot of women lack.”
That’s the take-away?
“Yeah, that and learning to delay gratification. Everything is so instant now—you instantly get food, instantly talk to people, instantly fly to an exotic island. But competing requires so much dedication, so much time and effort, it’s the best way for kids to learn discipline. You can’t sit a five-year-old down and tell them the importance of college—that’s too far away. But you can put them in a gi and push them onto the mat, let them learn and practice moves again and again, let them experience the rewards of hard work.”
Are you glad your mom pushed you so hard?
“Yeah, now I am. When I was younger, as a teenager, I thought my mom was trying to ruin my world, making me go to camp morning and night. I never went to a slumber party, a dance, or anything like that in high school. I was training. But now the sacrifice is paying off, so I’m glad. And if I can inspire other girls, it was worth it. Most girls don’t have a world champ walking around the house like I did, and that showed me that anything was possible. If I can provide that to anyone else, that would be awesome.”
UFC FOX 4: SHOGUN VS. VERA
The Ultimate Insider shoot culminated at the Staples Center, in Los Angeles, in August 2012. I met Taylor and her father as they entered the arena, and like any first-timer at a UFC event, Taylor was awestruck by the crowd, the mega screens simulcasting the action inside the Octagon, the fighters walking out to pumping music, the postfight interviews in the cage.
But it was also Taylor’s night: the cameras captured her eating popcorn and licorice, pointing out celebrities in the crowd. Then I led them backstage, past the production crews and into the locker rooms, where she watched fighter warmups and even spoke with Joe Lauzon and Brandon Vera. In the hallway, Stitch taped her hand as though she were prepping for her own bout.
Then she met Dana, and the way he broke from a production meeting, shifted gears, knelt and spoke with her—it’s a rare gift to connect with all walks and ages, and not every corporate exec possesses this innate skill. Taylor handed Dana a shirt, which he unfolded and laughed as he read, “You can’t handle the tooth!”
After the backstage tour, near the cage she spotted Ronda. I introduced them, and as they posed for a picture, this wasn’t just girl meeting woman, this was disciple meeting one who’d already scaled the mountain.
I should confess, before starting this book, I too opposed women’s MMA. I couldn’t imagine watching females slug and kick each other. But after meeting Ronda, and watching other elite female fighters, I began to see the light. Ronda Rousey and Meisha Tate coached The Ultimate Fighter season 18, and the show featured women and men contestants. During the season 18 tryouts, I walked into the waiting area and stood among more than seventy female fighters. That’s when I realized: these women, and girls like Taylor, sacrifice and suffer just as much as any man. So who cares what the hell I think—this is their sport, not mine. If I don’t like it, I can change the channel.
Postscript: Four months after the UFC Fox 4 event, a bacterial infection spread through Taylor’s lungs. Her parents rushed her to the hospital, and after lengthy tests doctors gave her a 50 percent chance of survival. It’s not the liver disease, or the painful blockage of pancreatic ducts, or the scarring of the lungs, but infection that accounts for most CF casualties. Thankfully, Taylor beat the odds and, at least for now, she’s back in the gym, and in the water.
Ottavia Bourdain rolls with Renato Laranja.
Ronda Rousey grapples with B.J. Penn while the Mendes brothers look on.
10: THE ULTIMATE FIGHTER (TUF)
Michael Chiesa weighs in.
“Do you want to be a fucking fighter?!”
—UFC PRESIDENT DANA WHITE
DANA STORMED INTO THE WAREHOUSE a few miles from the Vegas Strip, unsure of how to handle the crisis. “Things were fucked. My back was against the wall. Four years of my life on the plane twice a week, never seeing my family, working sixteen hours a day, even Sundays, and it was all crumbling around me.”
To say the stakes were high is an understatement: if this first season of The Ultimate Fighter reality TV series flopped, as most first-season reality shows do, who knows what the hell next, maybe back to training clients, or promoting local boxing bouts, or even schlepping luggage as a hotel bellman. “Walking into the gym I was so angry my hands were shaking. I thought I was going to puke. Ten million, that’s all I was thinking, ten million to put on a show about fighting and now the fighters didn’t want to fight … what the fuck! I had no idea what I’d say, and when I lined them up, it’s not like I was rubbing my hands, thinking, Oh, this is a great speech moment—”
Let’s recap with a quick slideshow: (circa 2000) On the phone Dana tells Lorenzo the UFC is on the blocks … inside the Trump Plaza arena (circa 2004), a slew of empty seats and near the cage Dana grips his cell, brow creased while he receives news that the event is on track for a dismal 40,000 PPV buys … Dana at a year-end accounting meeting (circa 2005), unconsciously covering his mouth while projected on the wall a red line zags across four years, every fiscal quarter a loser…
They’d hired the best, spent millions on advertising and creative promotions, yet none of it increased the PPV revenue. Which meant the losses piled up. UFC 1 garnered 80,000 PPV buys, UFC 2 got 300,000 buys, and over a decade later, despite state sanctioning, advancements in techniques and training, numerous national ad campaigns, piles of news stories and magazine covers, the latest event yielded a paltry 40,000 buys.
Come 2008, my family’s road trip finally wound into Vegas, and after Dana picked me up we head to the Fashion Show, a mall on The Strip. Over pizza and salad at CPK we caught up, and recounting how bad things got, he said, “We all grew up together, right, so imagine I talked you into buying this thing, and your family’s against it, but you do it anyway. Then it starts tanking. Every quarter the same story, all while the casinos are also taking a hit. Everyone’s shaking their heads, wondering why you jumped in with me, the dude that got kicked out of Gorman [high school]. And I’m coming into your office month after month, telling you, ‘Bro, I know you’re hurting, but we need more.’ It was depressing. For the last infusion [of cash] Lorenzo was so ashamed he didn’t even ask Frank for his half, just funded it himself. Finally, Lorenzo broke and told me to sell it. That was the worst night of my life …”
In 2004, the Fertitta brothers found themselves in a blood-soaked ER, the casinos hobbled, the UFC on life support. That summer they’d launched American Casino, a reality TV series crafted to market their new Green Valley Ranch property. The show drove traffic to the resort, increased awareness more than any campaign, and that success lit the bulb: Damn, if this worked for a casino, why don’t we rent a house and fill it with young fighters, who bet your ass in close quarters will bicker and brawl, then we’ll match them to fight in the Octagon…
No brainer, right? Sixteen adrenalized fighters vying for a lucrative UFC contract. Just add water, step back, and film the mayhem.
Stoked on the concept, Lorenzo and Dana flew to Hollywood and pitched every network in town. Listen, forget Survivor, our show is more intense and cheaper to produce, it’s called The Ultimate Fighter … Meeting after meeting, each and every pitch ended with polite handshakes and a Thanks, guys, love your enthusiasm, BUT American audiences
will never buy into a new sport.
The Apostles, Mike Rio and Daron Cruickshank.
They learned quick that Hollywood execs are all racing for second place. Forget innovation, the strategy is to clone a proven winner, tinker a bit here, change the title from American Idol to X Factor, then rush it to market—hence all the copycat reality shows. Who cares if Big Brother, with its similar stuck-in-the-house concept, worked. Or if American Chopper, another niche concept, worked. Thanks, but no thanks.
This was it. Lorenzo and Frank met behind closed doors, deciding how to unload the money pit. Again, Dana waited. Hours passed. The phone rang. Dana answered, expecting dire news; instead they offered to personally front the $10 million in production costs.
Long story short: Producers auditioned and filled the house with hungry fighters, Chuck Liddell and Randy Couture agreed to coach the teams, Spike TV agreed to air the episodes, and just weeks into production, Dana received the call that a handful of fighters were complaining about cutting weight, and well, they didn’t want to fight.
So Dana marched into the TUF gym, head buzzing with finances, friendship, family, and as he scanned the gathered fighters—including Forrest Griffin, Chris Leben, Josh Koscheck, Stephan Bonnar, Kenny Florian—he realized this wasn’t just his great opportunity, but also theirs, If I was their age, in this place, with so much on the line, all this national exposure—
“Do you want to be a fighter?” he asked. “That’s the question. It’s not about cutting weight, it’s not about living in a fucking house, it’s about, Do you want to be a fighter? It’s not all fucking signing autographs and banging broads when you get out of here. It’s not. It’s no fucking fun, man. It’s a job, just like any other job. So the question is not did you think you had to make weight, did you think you had to do this … [it’s] do you want to be a fucking fighter?! That is my fucking question, and only you know that—anybody who says they don’t, I don’t fucking want you here, and I’ll throw you the fuck out of this gym so fucking fast your head will spin. It’s up to you. I don’t care … cool? I love you all, that’s why you’re here. Have a good night, gentlemen.”