Team Shamrock’s evaluation process consisted of a bunch of unstructured sparring that Ken watched dispassionately from afar, then 300 press-ups, 300 sit-ups and 300 squats followed by ‘feats of strength’ tests that had no relevance to the sport of MMA.
The contrast with Tito’s evaluation session the next day couldn’t have been more pronounced. Tito was 11 years younger than his bitter rival and only two years removed from his record-setting reign as UFC light heavyweight champion. Anxious to get first-hand intel on our abilities, Tito rolled with each and every one of us.
I made an impression by catching him with an old-school armlock I’d used since I was a child. Tito tapped and we continued to roll. He used a great sweep on me and, after we’d finished, made sure to demonstrate it at half-pace. That was training with Tito Ortiz – no ego, just a guy with a ton of knowledge he clearly intended to share with whoever made it onto his team.
And Ortiz’s assistant coaches were also amazing to work with. Dean Lister, I knew, was a BJJ world champion who had won several MMA titles and recently signed to the UFC. The chance to spend almost two months training with Lister alone was an amazing opportunity. The third man on ‘Team Punishment’ (named after Tito’s branded clothing line) was a hugely respected striking coach named Saul Soliz. I completely ‘clicked’ with Saul during my 15 minutes on the pads with him.
After a day of training with each coach, there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to be picked for Tito’s team.
On the third day of filming, that’s what happened. Ortiz won the coin toss to get first pick and went for Matt Hamill. I was the second pick, but was happy enough to leave there safely on Ortiz’s team.
Team Punishment began training twice a day the next morning. We were picked up at 9:15am and all driven together to the TUF gym for a 10am session. Team Shamrock would be arriving as we left at noon and trained until 2pm. We’d go back to the house to eat and rest up and then be back at the gym at 4pm for another two hours. Team Shamrock’s second session was 6pm to 8pm.
We trained seven days a week. For the entire seven weeks of filming, I think Tito gave us maybe three afternoons off. It was intense but I’m immensely grateful to have been given that opportunity – it was transformative for me as an athlete and fighter.
The level of the tuition, the precision of the drills we were put through and the knowledge Tito, Dean and Saul were sharing was a revelation to me.
Broadly, Saul was the striking coach, Dean was the submission coach while Tito was the wrestling coach and handled most of the strength and conditioning. All three knew where their speciality intersected with the others and how best the different aspects of MMA could be welded together in the strongest way.
I became aware there was a stigma of sorts about British MMA fighters. There was no denying British MMA was years behind the US, but some of the Team Shamrock light heavyweights were quietly dismissive of my chances.
Then Kendall beat Ross pretty easily in their quarter-final fight.
See, see? guys like Mike Nickels and Kristian Rothaermel snickered. These British guys can’t get it done in America. Bisping is just cocky – that’s not real confidence.
I just sort of looked at them and smiled. I wasn’t Ross. Kristian Rothaermel would find that out himself – he was my quarter-final opponent.
The day of my quarter-final arrived and I couldn’t wait to get to the TUF gym. To encourage the flow of conversation for the cameras, the producers had the two fighters who’d be in action travel to the gym with just one teammate. Kendall and I had quickly become mates and so I chose him to drive with me.
‘Five grand, coming my way,’ I told him in reference to the $5,000 bonus which was paid for every stoppage victory scored on the series.
‘You got this,’ he said.
The rest of Team Punishment and our coaches were already at the gym. Saul taped my hands in our team dressing room. The referee came in and reminded us that, during this season of TUF, the fights in the gym were scheduled for two five-minute rounds. ‘In case of a draw after those two rounds, you will be returned to your corners and commence a third round fought under sudden victory rules.’
The clunky term ‘sudden victory’ was used in place of the actual name of such a sporting situation – sudden death. There hadn’t been a serious injury in MMA to that point, but no one was looking to tempt fate.
Tito reiterated the plan: ‘Get him tired, then get him outta there.’
On Tuesday, 17 January 2006, at The Ultimate Fighter gym, 19–21 Complex Drive, Las Vegas, Nevada, I stepped inside a UFC Octagon for the first time for a fight.
To ensure bouts could fit into TUF episodes uncut, most of the ceremonies associated with professional fights were stripped down or cut out completely. There was no MC, no walk-out music and, the biggest difference, no crowd except for the two teams, coaches, Dana and a few UFC staff and the production team.
I stormed out of the dressing room to the Octagon first. Tito and the coaches kept pace a few steps behind me. My teammates shouted and clapped encouragement as they took positions on one side of the cage. Then Rothaermel entered the Octagon. He looked like he didn’t want to be there.
I’ll soon get you outta here, mate.
I knew from the Shamrock evaluation that I would have a big edge in stamina so set a fast pace. He took me down a couple of times and went for the submissions he favoured. But I’d escape, and he couldn’t match my striking. Two minutes in, Rothaermel was hurt, bleeding and tired. I could hear him snatching for air as I spiked elbows in him on the ground. I stepped away, forcing him to use his last ounce of energy to climb back to his feet. Then I slammed home a right cross that ended the fight. The cheers from Tito and Team Punishment were immediate and loud.
‘As usual!’ I made the point of saying loud enough for the light heavyweights to hear. American opponent? American soil? Didn’t matter – same result.
CHAPTER SIX
TUF TIMES
There was a difference in the house after that fight. I didn’t hear any more whispers about how being the best in the UK ‘don’t mean shit in America’. The relentless aggression I’d showed against Rothaermel spooked the Team Shamrock light heavies. The gossip in the house was now that the 205lb contract would be going to whoever won the inevitable clash between me and Matt Hamill.
Having trained with and against Hamill for several weeks, I’d already reached that conclusion.
After twenty years of training and a desk drawer of gold medals in both Greco-Roman and Freestyle, Hamill’s wrestling ability was substantial. During the first weeks of filming, he’d been able to literally shrug off the rest of Team Punishment’s takedown attempts without using his hands.
Ortiz obviously expected Hamill to win the light heavyweight tournament. Before adding me to his team Tito had said, ‘Every great champion needs a great training partner.’ That was hurtful to a young fighter like I was – a mess of pride and insecurity. It’s easy to recognise now: I was jealous. I looked up to Tito – he was the man – and it stung that Hamill was getting more one-on-one time than me.
Hamill was also dangerously aggressive in training. He recklessly injured several teammates by going much harder than was prudent for guys hoping to fight twice inside six weeks. And it wasn’t Matt’s deafness – even after the producers hired a full sign-language interpreter, he would still go 100 per cent when we’d all clearly been instructed to go 40 per cent.
The producers of the show need to craft narratives, of course, but the reality was Hamill was roughed up in sparring, too. Kendall rocking him with a right had made the final cut but there were several occasions where myself and others would give Matt a receipt for an earlier transgression of training etiquette.
Then there was the incident where Matt and I were drilling armbar escapes. Matt – again refusing to acknowledge the difference between drilling and fighting – refused to concede he couldn’t escape and instead yanked his arm out at a crazy angle.
/> The resulting injury to his right elbow was a factor in Matt’s unimpressive points win over Mike Nickels. Matt’s kickboxing had remained battering-ram crude and he didn’t seem to be improving his striking at the rate I was advancing my wrestling. Nevertheless, I had no doubt in my mind Hamill was the only guy who could stop me from winning the whole thing.
Then came the news that the medical team wouldn’t clear Matt to fight in the semis. Hamill was out of the competition.
With Matt medically prevented from competing, the UFC needed to bring back one of the eliminated Team Shamrock light heavyweights. As shown on the series, Tait Fletcher and Kristian Rothaermel both refused the opportunity to fight me.
The identity of my new semi-final opponent was revealed to me on the floor of the gym. Both teams were in line-up along the outside of the blue mats like every other fight pick. I was stood next to Team Punishment’s Josh Haynes, who’d reached the semis by out-willing Fletcher; across from us stood Jesse Forbes, Mike Nickels, Fletcher and Rothaermel.
All four of Team Shamrock’s 205ers had lost their quarter-finals, but two would be invited back to replace Hamill and Team Punishment’s Noah Inhofer, who quit the show because of some girlfriend nonsense.
Dana and the coaches walked to the centre of the mat and we got the full story from the UFC president. One part motivation discourse, two parts full-on bollocking, Dana launched into one of his patented speeches:
‘Alright, we’re in a situation where Matt Hamill can’t return. Mike [Nickels], unfortunately you have a broken nose so you can’t return to the competition. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed with what I heard today [Fletcher and Rothaermel refused to fight me]. I’m fucking shocked and disappointed. But I know somebody who’ll take this fight with Bisping. I know someone who’ll come in and give his all.
‘The first fight on Thursday will be Jesse and Josh … And the second fight will be on Friday … and all I got to say is, thank God for fucking England.’
The door opened and there he was.
This guy! This crazy, utterly fearless fucking nutter!
‘COME ON, ROSS!’ I shouted, and I grabbed and hugged Pointon like a long-lost brother. ‘You’ve got some fucking balls, mate!’
His big smile flashed his gold tooth. He flexed his arm tattoos.
Everyone in the room – me, Dana, Shamrock, Tito, Jesse, Josh and the production people you can’t see when you watch this episode back – were smiling and laughing. Ross’s excitement to be back was infectious. All of us were so happy for him, a guy who genuinely, passionately loved the sport and whose blind courage was really easy to admire.
My pride and excitement for Ross wore off in the van ride home. It was me he was fighting, and me who was going to have to break his heart.
Can you imagine being so mind-numbingly bored that a visit to the doctor’s sounded like almost hedonistic debauchery? Neither could I, until the fifth week of filming TUF.
I’d become good friends with Kendall – we are close mates to this day – but we’d all run out of things we wanted to say to each other after a month of living in each other’s pockets. Cabin fever had set in. Our communication had become limited to points, nods and the occasional inarticulate grunt. It was like we’d been poisoned and were slowly turning into Yoel Romero.
Being unable to contact my family was really taking a toll on me as well.
So, I concocted a little scheme. Fighters who complained of injuries were quickly taken out of the house and to whatever Las Vegas doctor specialised in the type of injury they had. Not wanting to alarm the producers, I claimed I had sprained my ankle and would like it medically checked out.
The show took zero chances with fighter health, and I was booked an appointment the very next morning. As I hoped and suspected, no camera crew was assigned to my little day trip. It was just me and a driver. I softened the poor guy up with a couple of jokes and small talk about his own family and then: ‘It’s killing me, not been able to speak to my family for this long. Could – could you give me your cellphone so I can call home? Just one minute, just to hear my kids’ voices this once.’
The driver eventually relented. ‘One minute!’ he said. ‘I’ll be in deep shit if anyone finds out this happened.’
I dialled Rebecca. She picked up and was thrilled to hear from me. Having already broken one of the clauses on my TUF contract, I went right ahead and broke another.
‘I won my first fight two weeks ago and I’m fighting in the semi-final in four days,’ I told her. ‘Get this – I’m fighting Ross! Ross Pointon!’
She knew what that meant.
‘You’ve got this,’ she said.
I got the chance to hear Callum and Ellie’s voices. It was a huge boost for me. A reminder of why I was actually lucky to be going stir-crazy 6,000 miles away.
Whatever Tito Ortiz said when he picked me, after working with me twice a day, every day, for six weeks the UFC legend had this to say: ‘Michael Bisping has a huge opportunity to be a great fighter.’
I believed it more than ever. I’d reported to the TUF gym in January in the best shape of my life. Six weeks later, I was three times fitter than that. I’d added a dimension to my cardio that I barely knew existed. My striking had improved, my submissions too, and I’d gained a solid foundation to build a wrestling base upon. More than any of that, I’d worked with the best of the best and confirmed to myself there was no massive gulf between them and me. I was ready to leave the UK scene behind and fight my way through the UFC ranks.
Ross was four inches shorter than me, had a shorter reach and, since his loss to Kendall three weeks before, had barely trained. He would be short and static in the Octagon – so I drilled flying knees for three days straight.
Referee Big John McCarthy signalled the fight to start and I went after my place in the final, firing a kick to the body and punches to the face. I ran into a hard right-cross counter from Ross. It snapped the back of my head into my shoulders at a weird angle. I disengaged, shook it off and calmed myself down.
‘That’s the last one you’re getting,’ I told Ross.
Shamrock was yelling for Ross to move around but my mate had the right idea: he stayed put, planted his feet and conserved what energy he had until I got close – then he swung for my face with all his might. He missed – by miles – with almost everything as I tore away at him with bursts of punches and kicks to the body. Then I launched into a flying knee – it thudded against Ross’s chin.
He tried frantically to escape my follow-up attacks. He absorbed everything he could – but it was all over. I’d done it. I was in the final. I celebrated with my coaches as the reality of reaching the finale sank in.
Across the other side of the Octagon, Ross’s heart was breaking clean in two. As I knew it had to.
‘Come here,’ I said, embracing him.
‘I wannabe a fighter,’ he cried into my shoulder. ‘I … I just wannabe a fighter.’
I peeled him off my shoulder just far enough that I could look him in his eyes. ‘Ross! Ross, listen! Listen to me … you are a fighter!’
Tito joined me in consoling my countryman. ‘No one else had the balls to step up! Head up – be proud! You are a fucking warrior!’
Ross’s courage earned him two fights on the official UFC roster. He retired years later with a 6–17 MMA record. Ross had dreamed bigger than fighting on the UK circuit – his life’s ambition was to be a UFC fighter. No one can ever take away that he was exactly that.
My own ambition was bigger. I’d left the Rosses and cage rage warriors behind me and was about to step onto the biggest stage in the sport.
It seemed like I’d only been back in the UK for five minutes when a UFC camera was trained on me once again, this time following me, Rebecca and the kids around for three days, getting ‘day in the life’ footage that is so vital in connecting fighters with their audience. Then a British TV crew began filming a documentary for the UFC’s UK broadcast partner Bravo (remem
ber that channel?).
As the episodes of TUF 3 began to air on both sides of the Atlantic, I began to see glimpses of what life as a UFC star would look like: an interview with an American magazine here, a photoshoot for a sponsor, the occasional request to sign an autograph while shopping in Manchester. That was all nice, but the doors opening in front of me would be slammed shut if I didn’t beat Josh Haynes on 24 June back in Las Vegas.
I applied everything Team Punishment had taught me while training at the Liverpool gym, which I now knew for sure was leagues below the type of training Josh was getting at the famed Team Quest in his native Portland, Oregon.
In early June I was back in Vegas. I was training with Paul Kelly and a few others from Liverpool along with Canadian Sam Stout and Georges St-Pierre. Stout was headlining the 24 June finale event at the Hard Rock Casino while ‘GSP’ – already considered one of the sport’s super-talents – was helping his friend prepare. I got several useful sessions of grappling with both.
Less useful was the torn ligament in my left knee I suffered 14 days before the showdown with Haynes. I was in front of a sports doctor the next day, who assured me that despite the pain, the only performance impact would be a slight decrease in stability on that leg. It was gonna take more than that to stop me.
Besides, the documentary show had hired out a 1956 Cadillac convertible for me to drive and I was due to pick Rebecca up at the airport. She loved it. I threw her bag in the back seat and my arm around her shoulder on the big wide seat and we cruised down the Strip like we were in a movie.
It’s all coming right, I was showing her.
Josh Haynes was a tough, determined guy who was fighting, not unlike me, to provide a better life for his family. While I meticulously refused to underestimate him, I’d gotten the better of him every single time we’d sparred as part of Team Punishment.
Quitters Never Win Page 9