Quitters Never Win

by Michael Bisping

  Henderson’s weapon of choice was a right-handed punch thrown in an arch, raising up before crashing down like an artillery shell. At 3 minutes 17 seconds of the second round he landed one directly to the left side of my jaw. I was out before my head bounced off the canvas.

  I go back and forth on how I feel about the second shot Henderson chose to throw while I was laid out and defenceless. Either way, I’d been knocked out in the most devastating fashion. A decade-plus later, Henderson KO 2 Bisping remains one of the top three knockouts in the sport’s history.

  ‘I remember the whole thing now, Jacko,’ I repeated in the ambulance on the way to hospital.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said.

  ‘We’re all fucking sorry in this vehicle,’ Mir added.

  We all shared a laugh or two, gallows humour for two guys who’d already been to the gallows. The hospital ran their tests. I was fine. ‘You’re good to go,’ they said.

  And I did go … out for a drink. I felt I had to. When I got back to my hotel room a dozen family and friends were waiting for me, they all cheered and clapped me as I walked in the room. I was hugged and had my shoulders slapped. These people had travelled to the other side of the world to support me and for some of them this was their one holiday of the year. Even though I wanted to crawl into bed and shut off the lights, I owed it to them to suck it up, put on a brave face and spend some time with them.

  ‘Alright, let’s go drown my sorrows!’ I announced to cheers.

  In hundreds of MMA, kickboxing, KSBO, BJJ and every other type of fight I’d been in, I’d hardly ever lost and had never once been defeated conclusively.

  Even the impact of the Rashad loss had been cushioned. After all, I’d told myself, it was a split decision in a weight division I clearly wasn’t best suited to. Plus, there were positives (my wrestling, the second round) and clear corrective action (moving to middleweight) to focus on and get busy doing.

  The Henderson result was something else entirely. I hadn’t just been beaten; I’d been KO’d at the biggest show in UFC history. There was no commuting this defeat; I’d trained harder and for longer than for any fight in my life and still didn’t get the win. There were no positives to take away or easy answers to implement.

  UFC 100 never ended. The image of Henderson, arched in mid-air, swinging the base of his fist downwards towards my unprotected chin, was everywhere. On T-shirts, banners, posters and every UFC broadcast. A plastic figurine (aka a toy for under-sexed grown-ups) was released of Henderson swooping down with that hammer fist.

  The final seconds of the fight were omnipresent on every website, forum and embedded in every nasty tweet I was sent.

  It felt like half the world was celebrating the worst moment of my life and so I hid behind self-deprecating humour.

  ‘Who’d circle into his opponent’s best punch?’ I asked rhetorically in interviews.

  I was smiling as I spoke, but inside I was crushed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  AIN’T GOING NOWHERE

  Growing up, I felt like I was good at one thing – fighting. All the way to my early twenties, my sense of self and, really, self-worth was based on being a good fighter. Now it felt like half the world was insisting I wasn’t a good fighter. The online abuse was insane. My entire career was getting torn apart. It bothered me more than I let on to anyone.

  It’s a lonely place to put yourself, hiding what you are really going through. I even kept Rebecca in the dark.

  Right after UFC 100, Rebecca, the kids and me joined her parents in Malaysia for a long holiday. Kate and Graham had moved there earlier in the year and they were dying to show their grandkids their pool and nearby beaches. Lying around in the moist heat in the morning and playing in the cool saltwater of the South China Sea with my kids in the afternoon was exactly what I needed. I remember lying down on a towel on the sand, watching Callum and Ellie build sandcastles. This is why I work so hard, I thought; this is what Rebecca and me get in return for me going away for weeks and even months on end.

  It was a great holiday. But UFC 100 sat in my guts like a rusty beer can the whole time.

  Early on the second Sunday morning we were in Malaysia, UFC 101 was broadcasting live from Philadelphia, 13 time zones away. The top attraction was Anderson Silva, in search of someone to give him competition, stepping temporarily up to light heavyweight to take on former 205lb champion Forrest Griffin.

  We sat down as a family to watch in my in-laws’ living room while eating a fruit breakfast. The kids were kept happy for a couple of hours with the promise of another day at the beach.

  As everyone who was a UFC fan by 2009 knows, Anderson blew Forrest away. Despite Forrest’s size, courage and world-championship-winning abilities, Silva knocked him down three times in a three-minute blitz.

  My mother-in-law couldn’t contain her astonishment.

  ‘What’s his secret?’ Kate asked me. ‘He’s so good! Why is he so much better than everyone else?’

  My comeback fight was scheduled for UFC 105 in Manchester in November. I asked for Wanderlei Silva, the Brazilian whose five-year reign of terror as PRIDE FC champion had already made him a legend in the sport, but he was out for the rest of 2009. Instead, I was matched against another PRIDE stand-out, Denis Kang.

  The ‘Super Korean’ had been the runner-up in PRIDE’s 2006 Grand Prix, fighting in the finale despite tearing a bicep in the semi-final earlier than night. Kang was the kind of assignment every fighter faces without an abundance of enthusiasm: a dangerous opponent whose name isn’t well known outside the hardcore fan base.

  Kang was installed as the odds-on favourite to win the fight on 14 November, while I was listed by American sports books as a +175 (7/4) underdog. What that meant was the bookies gave Kang a 64 per cent chance of winning the fight and me a 36 per cent.

  ‘I’m going to go out there and win big,’ I told the fans and media at a ticket on-sale event at the Manchester Arena. ‘I’m looking to finish in the first round, be very aggressive like I was early on in my career.’

  My training for the fight began in late summer. I don’t remember feeling any difference in returning to the gym after the Henderson result than any other first week back. My confidence wasn’t shaken or anything, I wasn’t gun-shy in sparring and there were no doubts or hesitations I needed to address.

  Apparently the team around me felt differently. We had several established boxers in the gym with us for a week, and I took the opportunity to spar with them. In one session, one of the pugilists dropped me a couple of times. I could feel an anxiety tighten around the room. Heavy bags went unpunched for a few seconds and Zach Light, who was now coaching at the gym, put both his hands on the ring apron and trained his eyes on me.

  Then I touched down a third time and Zach leapt into the boxing ring to wave the sparring off.

  ‘No more today,’ he said as he stepped in front of me.

  My sparring partner looked at me for confirmation.

  ‘Nah, I’m good to go,’ I said, rolling my shoulders and getting back into stance.

  ‘No!’ Zach insisted. He stepped back in front of me. ‘It’s over. You are done for today.’

  It was frustrating. I really was perfectly fine but everyone in the gym was sliding me glances. I can understand it. From the outside looking in it can’t have looked good. Most of the people in the gym were there in the Mandalay Bay Arena dressing room when I literally couldn’t remember where – or when – I was. Now I was getting dropped in sparring. I got it, Zach felt he needed to look after me.

  One Sunday evening in August, I was in bed at home enjoying Rocky III. The kids had commandeered the TV downstairs. I love the Rocky movies; even the ones that are heavy on 80s excess have devastatingly accurate character beats for fighters.

  I got to the part where Balboa was knocked out by Clubber Lang and had to hide his anguish from Mickey. Sly Stallone’s character was beaten and heartbroken but still trying to pretend everything was okay. I teared up. Th
en I broke down. It had taken two and a half months for me to not choke these feelings back down.

  That’s when Rebecca came up to check on me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she said, slipping through the door.

  I had one hand pressed against my eyes, holding the tears inside, and waved for Rebecca to shut the door with the other. I didn’t want the kids to hear.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Rebecca said, holding me. ‘I had no idea, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t let on …’

  That was a big first step.

  Slowly, piece by piece, I began to reconstruct myself.

  Losing like I had sucked. Missing out on the title fight sucked. The abuse I was taking was awful and it sucked. It all sucked but … I wasn’t finished. I’d made some money by that point, enough to propel myself into a different career. If I truly thought that was as far as I was going in the UFC I would have walked away.

  But I wasn’t done. Fuck, no, I wasn’t done by a long way. The naysayers were wrong. I was one of the best in the world. I would fight my way to the world title.

  ‘You’ll get there,’ Rebecca said.

  ‘We. We’ll get there,’ I reminded her. ‘I wouldn’t have even had one pro fight without you.’

  We also decided to have another child.

  A couple of weeks later I was on my way out the door to have a quiet drink with my friend Blenky when Rebecca shouted for me to come upstairs for a minute.

  ‘I’ve news,’ she said. ‘We’re pregnant.’

  I was looking forward to at least a couple of months of trying every night but baby number three was already on the way. Michael ‘The Count’ Bisping, 67 per cent accuracy in the Octagon, 100 per cent accuracy in the bedroom! Ha!

  We hugged and laughed and then I shouted Blenky, who was waiting for me in the kitchen.

  ‘Blenky!’ I yelled. ‘Me and Becks are having another baby. This isn’t a quiet drink any more, mate – you and me are going to go get shit-faced!’

  There were factors that, while they had nothing directly to do with me running into Henderson’s atomic right hand, had still contributed to the loss. I couldn’t afford to ignore them any longer. My body had been a ruin in the weeks leading up to UFC 100 and, while I would struggle not to over-train for the rest of my career, I now accepted that there was such a phenomenon.

  The way I’d been making weight – dieting and running the pounds away weeks and weeks before the fight – was thrown out of the window, too. The Liverpool gym coaches had no experience with or inclination to learn how to properly cut weight, but after three years in the UFC I had dozens of contacts who did.

  UFC 105 was the first time in my career I did my weight correctly. I reported to the UFC hotel HQ on the Monday weighing a stone (14lb) above my weigh-in weight. I loaded myself with gallons of water, literally flushing out toxins and sodium from my body, for three days. That dropped my weight by 4lb. In the 24 hours before the weigh-in I used salt-baths and a sauna to drag out every drop of moisture from my body. Then at 4:20pm on the Friday, in front of 4,000 fans at the weigh-in, I scaled 185lb exactly. By 10pm that night I was back up to 195lb and by fight time I was a little more than that.

  It’s important to realise that social media isn’t real life; and that MMA bloggers’ opinions only matter as much as you think they do. I got that message deafeningly loud and crystal clear from the 16,693 fans packing out the Manchester Arena.

  The ear-splitting cheers those people gave me at UFC 105 meant everything to me. They didn’t hold back their emotions or hedge their bets until I had the fight won. They put their heart and souls on the line and declared – as loudly as their voice boxes could – that they were with me. All the way!

  It wasn’t just the decibels ringing in my ears or the rumble under my feet, it was the outstretched hands, the fists pumping in the air and the expressions on their faces. Not one of them had written me off. They still believed in me. The energy surge was intoxicating. I pointed down the TV camera tracking me to the Octagon and screamed at my critics: ‘YOU HEAR THAT, YOU FUCKERS?!?’

  On commentary, Joe Rogan mistook my gestures for anger – ‘Man, Bisping is pumped up! Look at him! He looks psychotic!’ – but it wasn’t anger. It was determination. Weapons-grade determination. I would not let these people down.

  The first round against Kang did not go to plan, though. He caught me with a right hand and I spent the next four minutes grappling to defend against his attacks. When the horn sounded to end the round I turned to all four sides of the arena and mouthed, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ I’d promised them that I’d be aggressive and go all out for the first-round finish, and I’d spent most of the first round on my back.

  Everything clicked together in the second round. I landed combinations, changed levels, took him down and unleashed an arsenal of punches, elbows and knees. Every success was cheered. I felt like myself once more. Kang got up briefly. I took him down again. I continued to hack away. Then I let him up and landed more strikes from a standing position until he fell.

  Referee Dan Miragliotta waved it off at 4:24 of the second round.

  The fans went mental and I was so overcome with emotion that I had to sit down on the canvas for a few seconds to compose myself.

  ‘That answered every single question,’ Rogan had to yell into his mic over the noise in the arena. ‘Every single one of them. Bisping’s back was against the wall, he took on a very tough guy, and – in my opinion – had the performance of his career. He was put in a bad position, he got dropped, he defended on the ground and when it was time to finish – he finished. He beat up Denis Kang and finished him.’

  As Rogan took his headset off to walk up the stairs and interview me, Callum sprinted across the Octagon. I saw him coming and knelt down to hold him tight.

  ‘I love you,’ I told him.

  ‘I love you!’ he said.

  Joe touched me on the arm to signal the start of the interview. The fans were still cheering.

  ‘You’ve no idea how I felt after the last fight,’ I said into the microphone. ‘This is my life, I dedicate everything to this and it really hurts me when people don’t give me the respect I think I deserve. I’ve never, ever, turned down an opponent in my life. I’ll fight anyone. I want to go right to the top. I know I’ve got a long way to go. Bear with me. I’m trying, guys.’

  After rebounding from UFC 100, something changed in me. I stopped worrying about my MMA career abruptly ending and me going back to my former directionless life. There were no more unforced and almost superstitious references to leaving my old life behind ‘for now’.

  Our family had moved just outside of Clitheroe to a newer, bigger house. We’d given my mum the place on Nelson Street. We weren’t rich, but the debts were long gone, the house was paid for and there was money in the bank.

  One midweek lunchtime I was slowly driving a brand-new silver Audi S5 through the narrow roads of Clitheroe town centre. I was going to pop into my dad’s for a cup of tea. I passed the Key Street pub on the left and the car park where my life had once jumped the tracks and derailed on the right. The night of the arrest seemed ages ago, in a lifetime lived by a completely different guy.

  That was the moment when I realised I’d come too far to ever be pulled back. I’d done it – I’d made something of myself.

  ‘YES!’

  I thumped my fist into the car roof and drove on.

  The fight with Wanderlei Silva materialised as the co-main event of the promotion’s first ever event in Australia. UFC 110 was booked for the Acer Arena, Sydney, on Sunday, 21 February 2010. To keep the US pay-per-view slot of 7pm on Saturday night, UFC 110 would start at breakfast, local time, and I’d be fighting in the early afternoon.

  I flew out with Jacko two weeks before the fight. We stayed with Tama Te Huna, a former fighter turned gym owner whose younger brother James was making his UFC debut on the card. One of the best things about the MMA world is the sense of
community. It’s a crazy thing we do for a living, and there’s often an immediate camaraderie between those of us who do.

  The warm weather had a great effect on my body; old injuries didn’t nag nearly as much and sweat flowed evenly from my pores. I felt I was getting healthier as well as stronger and fitter.

  The first order of business was getting my body used to providing maximum output at the time I’d be fighting. To drag the hands of my body-clock to AEDT time, I would go for sprints in the surrounding woods and hills early in the morning. Then I’d eat a light breakfast and rest for a bit before heading to Tama’s Elite gym for pad and bag work and light sparring.

  The MMA scene in Australia was still developing, but the Elite gym was always packed. They weren’t all pro-level in terms of skills, but they were in shape and the facilities they had access to were great. It was impossible not to consider moving down under permanently; Rebecca and the kids all had Aussie passports, after all.

  While I was considering my future, there was a sucker punch from my past.

  It was around this time that Paul Davies, who I’d not even had as much as an email from in five years, got back in touch. Ultimately, he would serve me with a lawsuit. Remember that document I’d signed just before he emigrated? Davis was claiming management fees for while I’d been in the UFC. I was shocked and hurt, to say the least. I’d looked up to this man my entire life. He’d offered me a path forward when my life had reached a complete dead end.

  If he’d have made a phone call or sent me a message I’d have been happy to pick up the conversation exactly where we’d left off half a decade before, when we were sat at his kitchen table in Nottingham.

  I put the legal letter out of my mind for the moment but, months later, I settled out of court with Paul for an amount I would have been happy to have given to him if he’d have gone about it any other way.