Those memories buoyed my confidence … until the day of the fight.
The pressure to win locked my shoulders tight. The dressing room at the Joint in the Hard Rock Hotel was tiny, airless. The walk from backstage to the Octagon was short. The TV lights above the cage were startlingly bright and hot. I felt I was going to faint. I paced the canvas, searching for breath.
My coach yelled through the fence, ‘Deep breath! Take a deep breath!’
I did. I drew in several long draughts of air and on each exhale I felt a little of the tension ease out of my upper body. The fight was only seconds away but I was almost ready.
Then someone from my corner shouted, ‘Remember! Everything you want in life depends on this fight!’
My stomach churned. Referee John McCarthy gave final instructions. The fight began.
Haynes surged forward with a right. I threw him over my right hip and followed him to the ground. I roughed him up with ground and pound, which settled my nerves. He used the cage to get back to his feet and I shot a knee into his gut. Josh swung another right hand. I landed a cross of my own. And another. We brawled against the fence and a battle of skill and will began.
Josh was willing – but he lacked the variety of skills I’d developed. I Thai-clinched his skull and sailed my right knee into his chin, dropping him hard on the seat of his pants. In a massive rookie mistake, I wasted two halves of a second waiting for the ref to stop it. He didn’t – and instead Josh had time to scramble forward with a desperate takedown attempt. I kneed him again – but his hand was on the floor. The second knee had been illegal.
Big John directed me to a neutral corner to admonish me.
‘You kneed him when he had a hand down – that’s illegal.’
‘He was out!’ I wasted energy protesting.
‘He wasn’t out. Don’t do that again.’
Haynes was recovering across the cage. I had to shake my head clear of thoughts of having won the fight.
The fight restarted and I went after my opponent with knees, elbows, big right hands, kicks, slams. Josh Haynes’s face was red with blood, a strange contrast with his pale skin and neon-blue Mohawk. But he was still game. This was a man inspired to fight after his young son had defeated cancer – he had no quit in him.
In between rounds Josh’s right eye had closed and he was noticeably more tired than the previous round. He was easier to control in the clinch and I could get him to the ground at will. He refused to tap to several close submission attempts – but fighting me off leached energy out of him. Three minutes into the second round I beat him in a scramble and began a hailstorm of strikes while he was on the ground. He desperately got to his feet and I dropped him again with a left uppercut. I poured on the punishment but Josh still wouldn’t signal surrender. I let him get up and decked him again. This wasn’t defiance, this was denial. It was now the referee I was appealing to. I was unrelenting and, with 47 seconds left, McCarthy finally rescued my opponent from his own courage.
I collapsed with a smile on my face. I was the Ultimate Fighter.
In the crowd of 3,800 fans, my dad and Rebecca were hugging and celebrating with 20 more family and friends who’d flown ten hours to support me.
Doing guest commentary on the broadcast, Tito Ortiz said, ‘Bisping was the most vicious 205er, the most technical and the most skilled out of all of them. Too bad I didn’t see that when we first got a chance to train – but he is The Ultimate Fighter light heavyweight champion.’
For the first time in my life, Bruce Buffer, known then and now as the Voice of the Octagon, announced that I’d won an official UFC fight for the very first time. ‘… for the winner by TKO – and now – the new Ultimate Fighter to receive a six-figure contract with the UFC – MICHAEL “THE COUNT” BIS-PING!’
Then another first. Joe Rogan, the UFC’s colour commentator, conducted an interview with me. ‘This is an absolute dream come true. Josh showed great heart. The first round – the knee – I thought he was out cold. I stood back to admire my work. My mistake. The guy’s got phenomenal heart.’
‘I think we’re gonna need some subtitles,’ Joe said, referring to the text that accompanied every utterance I’d made on the series.
Then Dana White was on the microphone to present me with my trophy.
‘Michael Bisping, on behalf of your coaches, Lorenzo Fertitta, Frank Fertitta, myself, congratulations! You are the Ultimate Fighter! You get the six-figure contract with the Ultimate Fighting Champions and you also get this Breitling watch.’
The glass trophy was nice but the watch – called a Breitling Avenger Seawolf – was a profound physical representation of what I’d achieved. It cost more than any car I’d ever owned. It was a token that the sacrifices we’d made as a family were paying off, and a promise there was more to come.
Rebecca and I took the kids on a holiday in the summer of 2006. It felt earned, a reward for all the time we’d spent apart. The UFC contacted me about fighting a BJJ expert, Eric Shafer, in early November and I began to train for that. Life began to settle into a rhythm as a UFC fighter.
Then a letter from United States Citizenship and Immigration Service dropped on my doormat like an atomic bomb.
Under INA section 212(a)(2)(A)(i)(I), ‘previously convicted of a crime involving moral turpitude’, my request for a US Employment Authorization Document works visa had been declined. In fact, I was banned from ever travelling to the United States again.
I fell apart in the hallway. My UFC career was over.
CHAPTER SEVEN
VISA PROBLEMS … AND SOME OTHER THINGS
Rebecca had retrieved the US Immigration letter from where I’d flung it. She read all of it – which I clearly had not – and showed me the line where it clearly stated I was able to appeal the decision.
Two months later I was sat at the kitchen table. It was about 10:30 on the night of 2 November 2006. The kids and Rebecca were all upstairs asleep and I was left with a cup of tea for company. I’ve never been a worrier, but the US works visa situation was obviously on my mind. There had been no updates from the immigration attorney I’d hired and nothing from the American Embassy.
My management and I had not heard from the UFC in several weeks, either. I imagined they were pretty unhappy their new Ultimate Fighter winner was in limbo. After all, what’s the point in an American fight promotion promoting a fighter banned from America?
This waiting around and uncertainty was draining. I’d had no real income since June. That evening, I’d broken the glass and used the ‘emergency only’ credit card to pay for another week’s petrol to get to the Liverpool gym and back. We were on our way to being broke again. After all that training, 13 fights (13 wins! all inside the distance!) and giving up months of time with my family– after all of that – we were falling backwards to square one.
The Breitling Avenger Seawolf was on my wrist. I’d barely taken it off since June. I had daydreams of giving it to Callum when he grew up, and him giving it to his son or daughter. Maybe my grandchild would feel something of the sort of pride I felt when my old man first told me about Grandad Andrzej riding out to face the Russian invaders.
I wondered if I’d have to sell it.
As if to answer that gloomy thought, my phone began buzzing. It was a ‘001-702’ number. A Las Vegas number. If I was nervous when I answered, my heart skipped a beat when I heard the voice speaking from the other side of the world.
‘Bisping? Dana.’
Oh, shit. This is it.
‘Hi, Dana. How … how’s it going, okay?
‘Good, buddy. Listen, we haven’t been able to book you a fight since June …’
Oh, here we fucking go …
‘… so how are you doing for money?’
Huh?
‘Money? Err, yeah, things are tight. I’ll be happy when I fight again, that’s for sure. But, yeah, no, I’m doing alright.’
Dana said as soon as I was able to come to the US, Joe Silva would be arrang
ing a fight on a ‘big show’. Then we had a brief chat about the upcoming UFC 65 fight with Georges St-Pierre challenging Matt Hughes, the dominant UFC welterweight king who’d repelled GSPs challenge before. I was again struck by how much Dana sounded like an everyday fan when he talked about the big fights.
There was a pause in the conversation.
‘Listen, I’m sorry about all this, Dana.’
‘What you talking about?’
‘Y’know, the visa and everything …’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘We all do stupid shit when we are kids.’
Three days after the call from Dana, a thin US cheque for $10,000 was delivered to my home. Paper-clipped to the front was a handwritten note:
Get your kids something for Christmas. See you soon – Dana.
That cheque was a turning point. I felt supported and understood by the people I worked for. The cheque had barely cleared when the postman delivered more good news: upon appeal, the American Embassy had approved my visa to travel and work in the United States. The relief I felt with that piece of paper in my hand was unreal.
There was more good news – I would be fighting again in 2006. The UFC rapidly rebooked the Schafer showdown as the opening bout on the massive five-fight UFC 66 pay-per-view event. Scheduled for 30 December in the 16,000-seater MGM Grand Garden arena inside the city-like MGM Grand hotel, the end-of-year bonanza was going to be headlined by the long-awaited rematch between Chuck Liddell and Tito Ortiz.
Moving from the Ultimate Fighter 3 Finale to the main card of UFC 66: Liddell vs Ortiz II was like going from a town-hall gig to opening up a stadium for Guns N’ Roses. Tito had wiped the floor with Shamrock over the summer and was now rematching Liddell in a fight that had captured the imagination of fans and media far outside the Sherdog.coms of the world. UFC 66 was going to be a massive, pivotal night for the entire sport – and I was going to be part of it.
After taking off from Manchester at 10am I spent ten hours on a packed Virgin Atlantic Boeing 747 before landing in Las Vegas at 2pm, local time, on Sunday, 17 December 2006. As predicted by my lawyer, rather than getting rubber-stamped through customs like everyone else, I spent over 90 minutes in the company of the thorough officers of America’s largest law enforcement agency, the Customs and Border Protection (CBP). Who cared, though? I was just relieved to be back in America and the Fight Capital of the World.
There was no information as to which carousel my suitcases would have come out on, so I had to stomp around the entire Baggage Claim – while under heavy audio/visual bombardment from commercials to go see a Céline Dion concert – until I located them. Snatching the handles, I dragged them out backwards through the doors before my ears could again be molested by the shrieks of that fucking sinking-boat song.
Few people who’ve been caught outside in the furious sunrays of Las Vegas’s summer can believe it, but it gets surprisingly cold there in the winter. I pulled my hoodie up as I stood in line for a taxi. The neon lights of America’s playground for grown-ups flashed off the cab’s roof. I wasn’t heading towards all the action for another week, though. I directed the driver to drive right through the strip and four miles along the Interstate 15.
The UFC provides rooms for fighters and cornermen during fight week, but my team and I agreed we needed to get out here a week before that to fully acclimatise. My manager would be arriving two days later along with my striking coach Tony and a much-needed sparring and running partner. A California jiu-jitsu world champion named Kazeka Muniz had been drafted in to help sharpen my submission defence. He was to meet me at the hotel right away.
The hotel we were staying in until 26 December was located off Interstate 15 on Sahara Avenue. Set among petrol stations and plain office buildings, the Palace Station had offered bingo and a buffet to Vegas locals since 1976. It was the oldest of the Fertitta family’s 16 casinos, but was literally walking distance from the basement gym under the UFC offices. That gym would be my training camp until I could move to the MGM Grand the day after Christmas.
Muniz had arrived before me and checked into the twin room we’d be sharing. He was a smaller guy, with an accent drifting between Brazilian and Californian, sometimes within the same sentence. He was an outstanding BJJ coach but soon revealed himself prone to mood swings. We were total strangers, thrown together: working out, eating together and sharing a small hotel room … I could have done without him making it even weirder.
After 48 hours glued together, we both were looking forward to the Liverpool team arriving so we had other people to talk to – and I could bunk in with Tony.
But I didn’t see the Liverpool crew that week. Instead I’d get a daily text or telephone call from my manager stuffed with ‘dog ate my homework’ excuses. Every day, Mr Liverpool would insist flights were booked. The day after he’d admit they weren’t – but they would be booked that day.
Miffed, I took full charge of my own training. I ran the hotel’s 16-storey staircase every morning, repeating the lung-busting drills Tito had put me and Team Punishment through six months before. I made full use of the basement UFC office gym, hitting the UFC logo on the black heavy bag with jabs, hooks and crosses at a pace I knew would overwhelm Shafer.
Then, luckily, Forrest Griffin appeared in the UFC office gym. We were having a bit of a chat when he asked why I was training alone. In no mood to bullshit the guy on behalf of a bullshitter, I told him.
‘I’ve had no sparring since I left England,’ I finished.
‘Wanna spar? I’m going to Xyience now,’ Griffin said. ‘There’s a few guys, Mike Whitehead, Jay Hieron. Decent group. I’ll drive.’
He didn’t need to ask me twice.
The Xyience Training Center was a small gym in a strip mall on South Tenaya Way. (A strip mall, to the disappointment of many pervy tourists, is what Americans call a row of shops.) The rectangular space could easily have been used as a DVD store, a grocery, a shoe shop or anything else. It’s long since shut down, and is probably now a Starbucks.
Forrest was fighting Keith Jardine at UFC 66. He and I were both competing on the night as light heavyweights but Griffin was enormous compared to me. He was also a very hard worker in the gym and our sparring session (in the middle of the mats – the gym had no cage or ring) was intense. Some of the guys working out stopped to watch us go at it, but we kept it professional and well under control.
Afterwards, we grabbed lunch together and Forrest then dropped me off at the Palace Station.
As happy as I was to have had some great sparring finally, at the same time I was even more pissed off that my own team was AWOL. I dialled England again. ‘When are you going to get here?’ I demanded of my manager, who was still at home in Liverpool on the Saturday before UFC 66.
‘It is Christmas Eve tomorrow, so, y’know …’ my manager began as if the steady progression from 17 December to 24 December was both unanticipated and personally inconvenient. ‘We’ll have Christmas here and be in Vegas on Boxing Day. The flights are all booked, nice and cushy. We land early afternoon and we’ll train yer that night.’
‘I’ve been here six days without a proper striking coach to hold pads,’ I said. ‘The fight’s just a week away now. I should have been sparring all week.’
‘Don’t worry. It’ll be cushy. We will be there on Tuesday.’
Christmas Day 2006 was thoroughly depressing. I never thought I’d spend Christmas away from my kids, but instead of watching the excitement on Callum and Ellie’s faces and having a turkey dinner with my loved ones I was alone in an aging casino, watching the dregs of Las Vegas stuff banknotes into slot machines.
Everything changed on Boxing Day.
As the official host hotel for UFC 66, the MGM Grand was already buzzing when we took a cab over in mid-morning. UFC 66 had taken over the place. There were Liddell and Ortiz banners hanging from the tall ceilings of the busy lobby. UFC T-shirts were flying out of gift shops and onto the backs of every third guy you laid eyes on.
The giant 25ft screens behind the jet-wing-sized front desks pumped out a UFC 66 ticket commercial into the eyes and ears of everyone checking in. And Chuck and Tito’s images glared at each other across customised velvet poker tables.
If you include the surrounding hamlets and farms, Clitheroe has about 14,000 residents. The MGM Grand in Las Vegas has just under 7,000 hotel rooms, average occupancy of which is 1.8 people. Add the hundreds of hotel staff, restaurant workers and an army of maids and cleaners, and the MGM can easily house the entire population of the town I’m from. And next door is another hotel almost as big. And next door to that another one. And another. And another. I’ve never got used to Las Vegas.
My comp’d room on the 17th floor had a walk-in shower, a king-size bed, a three-seater couch, a leather-topped writing desk and a dresser that contained a 70-inch TV. After eight nights sleeping a side table away from a sourpuss submission instructor, I’d have been happy with a mattress and a sleeping bag – but this was more like it!
As instructed, I reported to the temporary UFC office to pick up my per diem and fight-week schedule. The office had been set up in a large function room just yards away from the entrance to the Grand Garden Arena itself.
I couldn’t resist it – I ducked into the arena and walked into the centre of the floor where the Octagon would stand four days later. I turned around slowly. Every one of the 16,800 emerald-green seats that stretched out from the floor to the rafters would have a person in it when I fought.
Beyond excited, I rushed back to my room. I was bursting with nervous energy and wanted to train as soon as Tony and the others were ready. I tried to call their rooms. The hotel switchboard operator insisted no such people were checked in.
‘Sir, I have no record of any bookings for any of the names you’ve provided me,’ the nice American lady on the phone said. ‘I’ve searched as far as January fifteenth – nothing. Is it possible your friends are in another Las Vegas property?’
Quitters Never Win Page 10