‘No,’ I said. ‘Thank you, though.’
‘You’re welcome, sir. Is there anything else I can help you with today?’
Unless she weighed 200lb and could hold pads, there really wasn’t.
In disbelief, I called my manager’s mobile, fully expecting another blizzard of bullshit from him. The dial tone confirmed he was still in England. Then it went to voicemail.
My manager didn’t call or return texts until several days after I got back from America.
But Rebecca arrived on 28 December. She was all the support I needed.
The UFC 66 weigh-in was attended by more fans than had ever attended any of my fights. Over 4,000 fans piled into one half of the Grand Garden Arena to see the 18 fighters hit their poundage mark and pose in their shorts.
The other half of the arena was kept out of the fans’ view, behind a giant curtain. UFC floor manager Burt Watson directed me and Kazeka through a partition in the curtain and to a section of seats.
‘Sit here until called for, baby,’ said Watson. He was an African-American who’d gone from the military to managing boxer Joe Frazier. He described the job he did for the UFC as ‘babysitter to the stars’.
In contrast to the noise and brightness of the stage area, backstage was so dark the Nevada Athletic Commission had bankers’ table lights set up so they could see the paperwork every fighter had to complete. Next to the paperwork desk was a small curtained-off booth where each fighter was taken one by one for a final medical and eye exam. Next to that was another table with bankers’ lights where we chose the gloves we would fight in.
The emerald seats all around us looked black in the dimness. And finally, in the middle of the floor like it was waiting in the shadows, was the Octagon.
At 4pm Joe Rogan, live mic in hand, burst into view of the fans and skipped up the stairs to the stage. ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO THE OFFICAL U-F-C SIX-TEE-SIX WEIGH-INS!’
He was joined on the stage by Watson, Joe Silva, the Octagon Girls and the Nevada Athletic Commission boss Keith Kizer. One fighter after the other walked out, weighed in, and hammed it up with his opponent for the cameras.
This ritual repeated with a rising sense of anticipation until, 15 minutes in, Rogan announced, ‘NOW FOR THE MAIN CARD OF UFC 66 – LIVE ON PAY-PER-VIEW …’
It was Eric Shafer’s turn. My opponent was wearing green shorts that, with his bright-red hair, made him look very festive indeed. The biggest stars in the sport – Andrei Arlovski, Forrest, Tito and Liddell – were in line behind me but my eyes lasered on Shafer’s back. He looked big, strong. And then he was told to walk and disappeared through the curtain.
Rogan’s voice boomed again: ‘TWO-OH-FIVE FOR ERIC SHAFER! AND … HIS OPPONENT FROM THE ULTIMATE FIGHTER … MICHAEL “THE COUNT” BISPING!’
‘Go, Bisping,’ said UFC staffer Liz Hedges. I stepped through the parting in the curtains – into a shower of cheers. I was taken aback for a second. I wasn’t expecting that sort of response. The previous nine athletes hadn’t got those sort of cheers – but that was the power of The Ultimate Fighter. The show had placed me in the fans’ living rooms every week for three months.
They hadn’t merely seen me win fights, they’d seen me miss my family, tell anecdotes and jokes to pass the time and even make a bit of an arse of myself. They’d seen enough of me to know a little of who I was as a person – and they’d decided they liked me.
I managed the walk up the stairs to the stage without tripping but I’d made a rookie mistake in electing to wear a sweater, tracky bottoms, trainers and, who knows why, even a baseball cap. It took me forever to strip down. I’d noticed the other fighters would hand their clothes to their cornerman – which is the whole reason we go up there with a cornerman – but Muniz stood there with his hands in his pockets. I rushed to pile my clothes up on the floor while Dana, the Who’s Who of the UFC and 4,000 strangers watched me.
Exhaling and stretching out my arms, I stepped on the scale.
‘Two-oh-five!’ Kizer said.
‘TWO-OH-FIVE FOR MICHAEL BISPING!’ yelled Rogan.
Stood there in only my underwear, I scrambled to pick up some of my garments from the ground (Muniz’s hands remained pocketed), but apparently I’d already held the show up too long already.
‘Mike!’ Dana shouted.
I dropped my tracksuit bottoms and posed off with Shafer in my underwear. You’ll forgive me, but I didn’t attempt any sort of banter or intimidation tactics on account I felt kinda awkward with my arse squeezed into compression shorts. Shafer and I shook hands and the formalities were over. He exited stage right while I gathered up my garments.
After reaching the backstage area I retook my seat. I vaguely noted every other fighter was ecstatically excited to be drinking and eating.
‘Dana will be here in thirty minutes for the fighter meeting,’ UFC vice president Donna Marcolini shouted to all the fighters. ‘All fighters and camps – remain here for the fighter meeting.’
Then Donna approached me and asked if I had a CD with me. I looked at her like she had two heads.
‘A CD,’ she repeated. ‘For your walk-out music? Your manager would have been told to bring one with whatever song you want played as you walk out to fight.’
It was the first I’d heard of it, I had to tell her. My managers hadn’t shown up for two weeks. I’d not given a second’s thought to walk-out music. I was brand new to all of this, sorry.
‘Dana will pick something for you,’ Donna said. ‘Don’t worry.’
The UFC 66 fighter meeting was held about half an hour after Chuck and Tito had weighed in. All the fans and most of the staff had left and the arena was even darker, and quiet except for the periodic Beep! Beep! Beep! of an articulated crane slowly carrying large spotlights into the rafters above the Octagon.
The other 17 fighters who’d be fighting the following night all sat in the first six or seven rows of the risers. Most fighters had one or two coaches with them, and each mini-team was spread out from the others. Particular care had been taken to avoid close proximity with opponents.
The new kid in class, I sat right at the front. Rory Singer apparently wanted to make a similarly good impression and sat right next to me. After a few minutes, Dana and Joe Silva came over to us. They went over a couple of house-keeping regulations (a holdover, probably, of the days when different MMA organisations had slightly different rules) before getting into the real reason for the gathering.
Dana put both fists down on the long table the Commission had used an hour earlier. The UFC president leaned forward and began to fire us up.
‘Tomorrow night’s your night,’ he said to one and all of us. ‘Go out and fucking shine. Win! Fucking win – but win exciting! Let it go! Don’t be sitting at home next week and be going, “Oh, fuck! I should have let it all hang out – I should have let it go.” Let it go!’
I was already nodding away – but Dana wasn’t done.
‘Do it! And for that … I’m gonna give twenty thousand dollars to the two guys in the best fight of the night. That’s twenty thousand dollars! Each! And twenty thousand dollars for the best knockout and twenty thousand dollars for the best submission …’
Almost interrupting himself, he added, ‘Fuck it! Make it twenty-five thousand dollars for the best fight, best knockout and best submission!’
‘Make it thirty!’ I shouted.
Rory liked my suggestion. ‘MAKE IT THIRTY!’ he yelled, as if, together, we could peer pressure the UFC president. But then Joe Silva was heard from: ‘Remember, you can get two bonuses. You can get Fight of the Night and either Knockout or Submission of the Night in the same fight. It’s happened.’
I hadn’t thought of that. Quickly, I calculated how much money that would be in British pounds: more than I’d seen in my life.
I looked over my right shoulder and found Eric Schafer. Sorry, buddy, but I’m gonna smash you tomorrow.
UFC 66, fight day, was here. In the morning I took
Rebecca shopping for something nice for her to wear to the fights but – not knowing enough to go to one of the off-Strip malls – we couldn’t find anything within our budget. Still, we had a great few hours; neither of us had done much travelling and it was a relaxing way to spend the last few hours before the fight. When we got back to the hotel we had a light lunch in the MGM Grand buffet before heading back up to our hotel room to wait out the final few hours before the fight.
The information packet the UFC had given me at Tuesday’s check-in said I needed to be at the arena by 4pm. That was about three hours and ten minutes before I would be gloved up and making the walk. Muniz had promised to arrive a little before me. He would make sure the room was set up correctly, that we had towels, water, a spit bucket and the other tiny details that became vitally important the instant you needed them. He would be joined by Walter, another friend of my amazing manager, who had been recruited – by text, no doubt – to also work my corner.
Around 3:30pm, I put on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, trainers and a UFC-branded hoodie. Rebecca looked on with pride.
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘I love you,’ I pulled her close into a big hug. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got this, babe.’
With that, I set off from my hotel room.
As soon as the elevator doors opened to the ground floor I felt it – the MGM was blazing with energy. Nothing compares to a big-fight night in Las Vegas. The tables and slots were doing noisy business, the restaurants and bars were buzzing and everywhere you looked there were hordes of fans in UFC, Tapout and Affliction gear.
As I got closer to the entrance to the Grand Garden Arena itself, I ran into a wall of maybe 2,000 fans anxiously waiting for the doors to open. These were the hardcore of the fanbase; the ones who absolutely had to see every single fight on the card.
They were locked shoulder to shoulder like a Viking shield wall. How are UFC fighters supposed to get to the arena? I asked myself. Their managers probably figured that out for them, I answered, and your manager is in Liverpool.
With no clue what to do, I approached a pair of security guards in purple blazers. Trying very hard not to say, ‘Do you know who I am?’ I explained why I needed their help. They looked at my UFC hoodie and exchanged glances.
‘You’re a fighter, sir?’ one asked. ‘Where’s your wristband? Where’s your team? Why don’t you have any bags, sir?’
I didn’t know I’d had three days to collect a wristband from the UFC. Apparently it was written in my fighter packet somewhere but I’d missed it. If only I’d paid someone, let’s say 20 per cent of my purse, to take care of all this for me.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know about the wristbands,’ I said. ‘I really am a UFC fighter. My name is Michael Bisping. My team are waiting for me in the arena.’
A throng of fans managed to convince the security guys to escort me through the crowd, through the metal detectors, down the escalators, into the Grand Garden Arena and into the backstage hallways.
From there I picked my way by the commissioners, UFC staff and camera crews until I reached my dressing room.
MICHAEL
BISPING
was printed out on a sheet of A4 and taped to the outside of the door. I stepped into a room about the size of my bedroom back in Clitheroe. There were two foldout chairs and a massage bench against the walls; a bathroom off to the left and two mats on the floor. A TV crew from the British channel Bravo was waiting to capture the shot. Muniz and this Walter were nowhere to be seen.
‘Where’s your team?’ the British producer asked.
‘Good question.’
Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door and Mario Yamasaki stepped inside to touch base. The referee assigned to officiate my fight, he went over the rules (in 2006, rules varied slightly from promotion to promotion). He wished me luck and left. I waited another 15 minutes and then stood up and went back into the corridor to stretch my legs – only to be asked to clear the way as gloved-up fighters and their cornermen stormed by towards the entrances to the arena floor. Just then, Tito Ortiz came bouncing by on the way to his dressing room. He was flanked by five members of his world-class team and they all wore uniformed ‘Team Punishment’ gear.
I went back inside my room and took a piss.
Around 5:15pm Muniz and Walter showed up. Almost 90 minutes late. At least they had my gear with them. I got changed into my army camo-coloured shorts. I laid my civilian clothes out on a chair and placed my trainers side by side underneath. An official came in to wrap my hands. Then he helped me squeeze my fists into the gloves I’d selected the day before. He then left. It was still only 5:45pm and time was slowing down.
‘Let’s warm up,’ I said. I stretched until I felt limber enough to drill some submissions with Muniz. Then I shadowboxed up a sweat. I felt solid and fast; 6:40pm was here. Good. It wouldn’t be long now.
‘FIFTEEN MINUTES, BISPING!’ boomed Burt Watson from the doorway.
I continued bobbing up and down on the mat. I threw jabs and hooks at two-thirds pace, visualising.
‘FIVE MINUTES! FIVE MINUTES, BISPING, AND WE ROOOOOOLLING!
The UFC’s theme music could be heard from the monitors. Mike ‘Goldie’ Goldberg and Rogan were talking into the camera. UFC 66: Liddell vs Ortiz II was live on pay-per-view.
Watson and two other staff were at the door.
‘TIME TO ROLL, BABY! LET’S DO THIS! THIS IS WHAT WE DO! ALL NIGHT LONG! ALL NIGHT LONG! WE’RE ROLLING!’
Burt led me to the lip of the arena tunnel. There was only a black curtain between me and UFC 66 now. Shafer was already in the Octagon, waiting. I heard the first few bars of ‘London’s Calling’ by The Clash over the speaker banks. Nice choice.
‘LET’S GO!’ Burt threw back the curtain. I could literally feel the body heat of 13,761 people as I plunged into the MGM Grand Garden.
The arena had transformed yet again. Lit up in blue and gold, and noise in every direction. Fans were cheering, reaching out for fist bumps. I reached back. I caught sight of Rebecca for a second.
I got this, babe.
I quickened my pace and turned left to the Octagon. The nerves caught me again as I stopped to have Vaseline applied to my face. They fell away for good as I leapt up the step to the Octagon. I felt the texture of the canvas under my feet as I did a lap around the cage.
Buffer introduced us. The referee gave us our final instructions. One last roar from the crowd. The fight was happening.
Schafer had a tense, straight-up gait about him in the Octagon. He was stalking forwards but not in a stance that offered much defence. I cracked him with a lead right cross. The shot stunned him for a second. I followed up by pressing him against the cage and digging a knee into his midsection. I then stepped back and disengaged. It was early days. I wanted him in the Octagon centre.
Now he followed with his hands tight by his eyes so I flicked a kick to his lower leg. He caught it but I managed to scramble to my feet. Nevertheless, I was surprised how fast his hands had gone from guarding his head to grabbing my ankle.
Resetting myself, I shot another arrow of a right hand and it also hit the mark. Then my jab landed. But then I again followed up the punch with another left-leg kick to Schafer’s mid-section. This time he not only caught it, but made sure he completed the takedown. I landed in the centre of the Octagon with a thud. A split-second later my opponent’s full weight crashed on my chest.
This was exactly where Shafer wanted the fight. He set to work, trapping my right arm under his knee and working to land strikes to my face. I didn’t panic. I pulled my arm free and claimed half-guard. Schafer passed, though, and locked in an arm-triangle. He squeezed – hard – but the pressure was in the wrong place. I escaped and climbed to my feet. He jumped on my back. His grip was tightening around my neck but from the feel of his weight I knew his head was higher in the air than mine. I leapt up into the air before arching down towards in a swan dive to the canvas. Schafer’s skull bore the
impact of over 410lbs of fighter hitting the Octagon. Rattled, Schafer lost his grip and I used the fence to get back to my feet, threatening him with a guillotine to keep him thinking as I did.
He dived for a takedown. It was slow. My left knee thudded into his jaw. We grappled again – Eric the Red’s strength was evaporating. He was now impossible to miss with punches. Blood was pumping from his open mouth as he lay on the floor. He was tired and open-mouthed. An open mouth makes the jaw even less adept at absorbing punches; every time I saw the black of his mouthpiece I threw a punch.
Schafer rolled over to his side – a clear signal to the referee that his ambitions had ended.
The referee waved it off at 4 minutes and 24 seconds of the very first round.
Lying on the Octagon, with the cameras catching every inch of my smile, I caught my breath. The Octagon door swung open. Medics rushed in to tend to my defeated opponent. My corner, Shafer’s corner, Dana and Rogan, all followed.
Thank you, I said to Kazeka. I tried to hand him my mouthpiece to put in his bucket, but he was celebrating like we’d won the lottery.
Buffer announced me for the second time in six minutes. While interviewing me in the Octagon, Rogan volunteered the information I’d had ‘visa problems and some other things’.
‘I’d like to fight a lot more regularly,’ I said. ‘I could not wait to get in here … somebody – everybody – better watch their fucking back.’
Yeah, alright, the smack talk still needed some practice. A lot of things did but, for now, it was finally a time for a celebration. After the ‘visa issue and some other things’, I could finally relax and let myself enjoy some of the fruits of my hard work. I showered and dressed quickly and joined Rebecca, who’d watched my fight all by herself from the stands, to see the rest of the fights.
I’d been sat down for less than five minutes when Donna found me. She gave me and Rebecca tickets for Octagonside seats but then added, ‘Michael – Dana and Lorenzo need to see you.’ She didn’t say ‘now’ but she meant it.
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