Quitters Never Win

by Michael Bisping

  Watching the wins Rockhold had after our last fight closely, we confirmed that he still stood with his feet a little too far apart after missing with punches. This would limit his available escape routes from my counter-punches.

  ‘When he winds up like that he can only pull back in a straight line,’ Jason pointed out on a laptop. ‘He even does that with his hands by his sides.’

  ‘He’s overconfident,’ Brady said.

  Jason agreed: ‘Rockhold is going to be real overconfident now he’s the champ. Mike’s going to get him all steamed up in the build-up. Rockhold will be overconfident and also pissed off. He usually likes to start slow and find his range before committing in a fight – this fight he’ll be rushing. He will make mistakes and we are going to take advantage of every one.’

  Fight week arrived and before I knew it the UFC camera crew were following me around everywhere for the fly-on-the-wall series Embedded. The crew was positively thrilled when I told them I was going to drive with Rebecca to pick Lucas up from school and, of course, the little terror didn’t waste his chance to troll his old man again.

  ‘I think he may be stronger,’ my offspring said of Rockhold.

  ‘Who’s going to win though?’ I pressed, expecting exactly what I got.

  ‘I think … him!’

  While I was volunteering to be clowned by my own son for the cameras, Rockhold had the Embedded crew follow him to his regular pedicure spot.

  ‘Bisping thinks this is going to be his fairy tale,’ the champion said while soaking his nails. ‘I will have none of that. This will be his swan song. I will prove there’s no such thing as destiny. I cannot wait to shut his mouth.’

  Myself, Jason and Brady all lived driving distance away from the host hotel, the Manhattan Beach Marriott, but on the Tuesday of fight week we were all in the lobby checking in. The traffic in LA is so unpredictable it just made sense to stay at the host hotel. It was only 45 minutes from my house (traffic allowing) so I packed lightly.

  Just before I left, I went back upstairs to our bedroom. It took a minute of rummaging through drawers to find, but I put the Breitling Avenger Seawolf watch on again. Its long wait to be passed on to Callum was only a few years from being over, but I wanted to wear it again that week.

  And Callum was also with me the whole week, too. He was off school, so it was perfect. He was understanding when I explained he couldn’t be in my corner, that the emotional distraction in Scotland the year before had been too much for me. But being with me for all the TV, radio and PR hits, the press conference and weigh-ins plus staying in the hotel was an amazing shared experience for me and my first baby. Callum was one of the boys all fight week. Me, Callum, Jason and Brady laughed and joked our way to challenging for the world title.

  In 25 UFC fights, I’d never struck the exact balance between focus and fun like I did in June 2016. One night, when we got back to the hotel after doing a late-night talk show, we were met by a Vicky Coghlan, who was now the UFC head of PR in the UK. She presented me with a British flag with literally hundreds of good-luck messages inscribed on the cloth.

  ‘These messages are from actual fans,’ she said. ‘We put it out on social media and we took hundreds of them and printed them onto the flag.’

  The messages were in tiny print, but were powerful motivation. These were the people who’d been behind me for a decade, and they were with me again before the biggest fight of my life. My throat clicked a little from the inside. I was going to carry that flag – and the dreams of the people who’d supported me the longest – with me come Saturday.

  By this stage in my career I’d headlined ten UFC events in eight different countries. I’d fought on massive cards like UFC 66 and UFC 100. None of them compared to headlining as the challenger for the world UFC title. There was a buzz about the event. I got the sense a lot of people who followed the sport were happy I’d finally got my shot.

  ‘This isn’t an accident,’ I told several interviewers as they pointed cameras and recorders at me at the media day. ‘I’m not here because Jacaré turned down a shot – I’m here because of a lifetime’s worth of hard work. From the age of eight when I first put on a pair of gloves I knew I could become world champion one day. I’ve worked tirelessly – you’ve no idea how hard I’ve worked for years – I’ve had twenty-six fights in the UFC, almost forty professional fights and God knows how many kickboxing fights and jiu-jitsu tournaments before that. I have worked for this my entire life.’

  On my opponent, I was honest about the task in front of me. ‘I know Rockhold. I know what he is capable of. He is a very, very good fighter – but the opponent doesn’t matter. This is about me. Me getting the chance to fulfil my destiny and becoming world champion is what I am focusing on. It doesn’t matter if it is Rockhold or Godzilla on the other side of the Octagon – it is going to take a bullet to the brain to stop me Saturday night.’

  The press conference was held at the Forum itself on the Thursday. Opened in 1967 and located directly under the eastern approach route for planes landing at LAX, at 3900 West Manchester Blvd, Inglewood, the Forum is about as historic as American arenas get outside New York’s Madison Square Garden.

  The Forum had served as the home ground for the Lakers basketball and Kings hockey teams as well as hosting virtually every major music act you could think of. As we made our way to the arena floor we passed a huge wall where hundreds of the biggest names in sports and entertainment were listed in painted block letters as previous headliners. I stopped for just a second to see that Elvis had sold the place out, Bob Dylan had recorded his famous Before the Flood live album there and Muhammad Ali had fought there.

  The press conference was set up on the arena floor. A lot of press and perhaps 500 fans were in attendance. There was a real buzz about UFC 199. The co-main was another grudge match, the third (and final) clash between Dominick Cruz and Urijah Faber, and both the bantamweight greats were sat with Rockhold and me as Dana White introduced the two pay-per-view title fights.

  With the presser under way I wasted no time needling Rockhold, who had shown up dressed like a daytime talk-show host.

  ‘Luke says he’s on a different level, that he can destroy everybody and this, that and the other. I don’t turn down fights. Two weeks, two days, two hours – I’ll fight anyone, any time, any place, and certainly against this arsehole.’

  It was a jab, intended to sting. I wanted to draw a response from the media and fans in the audience – and from Luke. And that’s what happened. The fans giggled and Luke started his first pre-fight press conference as champion on the defensive.

  ‘I chose you, I said I wanted—’ Rockhold began, but I cut him off.

  ‘You chose WRONG!’

  Rockhold takes himself extremely seriously. I know how thin his skin is from mutual friends who delight in ribbing him. Luke had come to the press conference intending to project himself as a professional, a well-spoken and well-respected sports champion. My job that day was to ruin all that for him and send him away off-balance and angry.

  Cruz and Faber were two old rivals and they went at it too, making for a lively opening few minutes of a press conference. Then Rockhold answered a question from my regular broadcast partner on Fox Sport (and now ESPN) Karyn Bryant about people confusing his confidence with arrogance. And MMA’s answer to a Ken doll launched into this homily about putting positive energy out into the cosmos.

  ‘Some people strive to hate but some people strive to achieve things.’ Rockhold spoke as if he were revealing the secrets of the universe. ‘If you think something, the likelihood of it happening is very slim. But if you believe something, if you know something is going to happen and have confidence … you will achieve things in life.’

  A vague embarrassment blew across the room, but guru Luke had more pretentious nonsense to drop.

  Mic in his right hand, he leaned forward and started hitting the table, televangelist style, with his left. ‘That’s how you overcome. That’s ho
w you put yourself out there. That’s what I do. I believe—’

  I’d had enough: ‘Sounds like the worst self-help book you’ve ever read: conceive, believe, achieve … Shut the fuck up!’

  Half the room, including Dana White at the podium, laughed out loud. More than just uncomfortable, Rockhold was now embarrassed. I pressed home the advantage.

  ‘You’re talking as if you are this dominant champion,’ I said, turning to look in his direction. ‘You just won the belt. This is your first defence. It’s not like you are Anderson Silva – who I just beat, by the way.’

  Rockhold did his best to come back. ‘You’re just an average bloke … I AM A SAMURAI!’

  ‘Samurai? What is this? “Conceive, believe, achieve – I am a samurai!” Stop it. You are making a fool of yourself.’

  I turned to the crowd. ‘I get to come in on two weeks’ notice, punch him in the face, and become world champion. I am a happy man. This is my destiny. I believe it, Luke! I bee-lee-ve!’

  Uproarious laughter rained down on the champion and his fresh pedicure. This press conference was already a 10–8 round.

  Then Ariel Helwani asked Rockhold about the infamous sparring session and I jumped in again. ‘Here come the excuses! Don’t worry, Luke, I got them: he was drinking red wine, he’d had a late night, he hadn’t sparred for a while and he was hanging out with chicks. Did I miss any, Luke? It’s okay, mate. I know it’s sparring and you shouldn’t talk about it – but I did. It is out there. I whupped your arse!’

  It was all too much for the housewives’ favourite. He was now stripped of his zen yoga master affectations and the real him started to leak out.

  In response to Anderson Silva’s name, he spat, ‘I’ll show you the greatest!’ Trying to change the narrative that he had all the advantages in the fight, he stupidly volunteered that he had a knee injury. Finally, as if to show me how clowned and humiliated he felt, he went below the belt and made several nasty remarks about my eye injury.

  It was like getting an FBI psychological profile on my opponent. His mindset was reckless, angry and easily manipulated. That’s exactly how I wanted him in the fight.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CONCEIVED, BELIEVED, ACHIEVED

  After the fun and games of the press conference came the serious matter of making 185lb the following day. UFC 199 was the first event where the weigh-ins were held from 9am to 11am the day before the fight. Until then, the practice had been for fighters to step on the scale at 4pm, but the California Athletic Commission had come out with a new procedure to give fighters additional time to recover from squeezing their bodies into their chosen weight division. So, for the very first time, the weigh-in would be held in a small function room at the hotel. That was when I needed to hit 185lb.

  But UFC weigh-ins were a tried and tested part of promoting a big fight and so in addition to the official weigh-in a ‘ceremonial’ one was scheduled for 5pm at the Forum arena. The ceremonial weigh-in would be identical to the usual big production weigh-ins – big stage, music, Dana, Rogan, Octagon girls and thousands of fans – except just for show.

  ‘The early morning weigh-in is the one you hit weight on,’ we were all told a million times. ‘The 5pm weigh-in doesn’t count.’

  Me and Rockhold would be fighting at around 9:15pm the following evening – that was 36 hours after weighing in. Looking back, it was very possible that those additional six hours could have handed the naturally bigger Rockhold yet another advantage. However, I was focused on myself. I welcomed the early weigh-in because I knew it would do me good.

  A 9am weigh-in meant that if I woke up overweight at a normal time, say 8am, there would be little or no time to correct course. That gave us three choices. 1) Cutting all the weight before I went to bed and trying to sleep weighing 185lb – a total non-starter. 2) Waking up at 5am and cutting weight then – I didn’t fancy that either. So we split the difference and went for 3) I cut weight until midnight and then woke again at 7am to cut the rest.

  Just before 9:15am we made our way down to the second-floor function room that had been set up for the weigh-in. I was surprised how much media were there, sat to one side in rows. There was a step-and-repeat banner and a stage with the scale on. Behind the step-and-repeat – and out of view of the media – the UFC and Commission had an area to complete the official particulars. I took care of that, selected the gloves I would fight for the world title in, got undressed and went out to step on the scale.

  185lb!

  Job done, I started rehydrating immediately.

  Seven hours and about 14lb later, there was a crowd of thousands at the ceremonial weigh-in at the Forum. They knew the real weight-making had come and gone, but the ceremonial weigh-in was free to get in and had become part of the anticipation for a big fight.

  With the heavy towels and salt baths a distant memory, I felt amazing. Sat backstage, all the fighters looked to have more energy. Instead of slumping lethargically in chairs like we usually would be, we were all up and about chatting to each other and staff.

  Callum, the expert in MMA that he’d become, was loving it. But he was nervous and excited when it came time to walk through the curtain and climb the stairs to the stage in front of 3,000 people. While Dana, the matchmakers, Joe Rogan and the rest waited I began stripping off. I’d gotten my shirt and a shoe off before there was an awkward moment as a floor manager leaned in to explain stripping off wasn’t actually necessary.

  Kinda like UFC 66, I thought, another echo from a decade ago. Everything is coming full circle. I stepped on the scale and hammed it up for the fans.

  ‘THE CHALLENGER – MICHAEL BISPING!’ Rogan boomed into the microphone, drowning out cheers and piped-in rock music.

  Now Rockhold came out, skipping from behind the curtains towards the stage. I didn’t notice he wasn’t cheered as much as I was. The fact he appeared fully recovered from the weigh-in had my entire focus. Reaching the stage, the champion threw off his white T-shirt and stepped on the scale. As Rogan bellowed out his name, Rockhold raised closed eyes to the heavens and stretched his arms out in a Jesus Christ pose.

  Every single time you see Rockhold you can’t help but notice he’s fucking big. No beanpole, either. His long limbs are wrapped in the kind of tight, cabled muscle that generate power. He was impossibly huge for a middleweight. He got off the scales and walked towards me. Dana stepped between Rockhold and me, on high alert.

  ‘Let’s see what you got, big boy!’ I said. Luke got into it, too, and we smirked and gestured aggressively at each other while lobbing insults. The crowd was loving it, which was why I was doing it. I was now a hugely experienced UFC veteran and had learned to manage my temperament. Fighting under a red haze of anger was not going to help me win the UFC title. The banter on the stage was only for fun.

  Dana wasn’t so sure. ‘Don’t touch! Don’t touch!’ he yelled as he gestured me towards Rogan, who was waiting mic in hand to do a quick interview.

  Joe asked me what it meant to be fighting for the belt. ‘I’ve been in the UFC for over ten years,’ I said. ‘I’ve fought the best in the world. I’ve had my ups and downs but you can’t keep a good man down. I’m here now and I do believe this is my destiny.’

  Then I played to the audience, adding, ‘There’s not a single person in the world I’d rather take the belt off than this smug arsehole!’

  The crowd cheered and laughed. I’d given them what they wanted from a Bisping weigh-in. They were very welcome.

  After about ten hours of deep sleep I woke up. Here it was. Saturday, 4 June 2016. In 12 hours I’d finally challenge for the UFC championship of the whole world. This was the end of the road I’d been on since I set off for Nottingham. Before that, even. Since the age of six when I wanted to be the best kid in the jiu-jitsu class.

  After a good breakfast downstairs and a little rest, I tried something new for a fight day. I went to work out.

  While attending an event as a commentator, I’d been stunned to see J
on Jones sweating in the hotel gym just hours before one of his fights. I’d gone my whole career hoarding every drop of energy from the moment I made weight to the second I stepped into the Octagon. But here ‘Bones’ was pounding a treadmill with his size 15s.

  Jones explained that, after putting our bodies through the horrors of a weight-cut, the first time we asked them to perform athletically should not be under the win/lose circumstances of the fight. This idea had sort of occurred to me before, but having one of the best ever swear by it convinced me. So, about 1pm on fight day, Brady, Mario, Jason and I went to the fighter workout room. The blue mats the UFC provide all week had already been packed away and the standalone, UFC-branded punching bags were gone too. The room was now just a room, but it was all good.

  ‘Let’s get some music on,’ I said, and Brady set up his phone and a speaker on the windowsill. I’d previously introduced Brady to some old-school British music and, as chance would have it, Stereo MCs’ ‘Connected’ was the first song on his playlist.

  As I shadow-boxed, hit pads and drilled takedown defences for the next 50 minutes I absorbed the soundtrack of my carefree teens and early twenties. I wanted to carry some of who I was back then into the Octagon. Not the recklessness and anger but the feeling of having nothing to lose. That every chance was one worth taking.

  The 90s-infused workout helped me cast away into a restful sleep for a few hours. I woke up feeling good. At the pre-arranged time, Jason and Brady came to my room and we packed our gear for the fight. Callum had now joined Rebecca and Ellie. I’d see them all Octagonside later.

  ‘Feeling good?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Great,’ I said. The confidence was still there but the fight nerves had now made their appearance too.