Quitters Never Win

by Michael Bisping

  We went through our checklist. Fight gloves, check. Cup, check. Mouthpiece, check. Something to play music on, check. Shin pads just in case I wanted a light spar, check. Boxing gloves just in case, check. Bucket, check. Stopwatch, check. Separate bucket for ice, check.

  And I was already wearing the watch I’d first put on the evening of 24 June 2006.

  ‘Full circle,’ I said as we made our way downstairs to be transported to the arena.

  The early prelims were well under way when I arrived at my dressing room at the Forum. The ceiling was lower than in more modern arenas, but there was a lot of space. My Reebok fight gear was waiting for me, neatly arranged in an open locker. Several BJJ mats were taped down to the floor. As usual, there was a monitor showing the prelim fights. I turned the sound up a little and sat down to watch as my team began unpacking our gear.

  Sitting there like any other fan watching on any other TV screen, I let myself become absorbed by the fights. The idea was to delay getting into ‘fight mode’ for as long as possible. That was easier said than done with people constantly coming in and out of the locker room. First the California Commission needed to see us. Then my assigned cutman came in. Then the UFC needed to shoot some inserts. Then the referee of my main-event fight, Big John McCarthy, stepped through the door for his pre-fight instructions.

  I listened intently, as I always did whenever McCarthy spoke. Then, respectfully, I said to Big John, ‘Don’t stop this fight. If I am in trouble, I’ll let you know. I’m going to turn this fight into a war. That’s the plan to win. Don’t you stop it just because I’m in trouble.’

  McCarthy had heard this before in his quarter-century of serving as the third man in the cage. He said simply, ‘I’ll do my job. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  After Big John left, I got back to watching the fights. The pay-per-view portion of the card was starting. I began to get changed into my fight gear. I let the reality of the evening begin to build. My hands were taped and the fight gloves wrenched over that tape. My fists felt strong. I stretched my leg, back and shoulder muscles out, all the better to squeeze them tighter in the fight.

  Brady and I drilled on the mat. We moved in circles, sliding arms and legs in and out of jiu-jitsu holds.

  On the monitor, the second PPV fight was about to begin: Henderson vs Hector Lombard. A horrible and overhyped little man, Lombard was someone I’d had several run-ins with at UFC events over the years. I thudded punches into Jason’s target pads. I raised my heartrate up, then paced the room and let it drop. Hendo got a massive win with an elbow strike. I was happy Hendo had scored another one of his big knockouts, especially against that Unhappy Halfling. I smiled and pointed, but didn’t focus on it for longer than a moment.

  I went back to the drills. I felt amazing. I was enjoying the moment. I’d earned this.

  ‘Two more fights and then we walk, Bisping!’ came a voice as the door shut again.

  (The only sour moment came when I was told I wouldn’t be able to walk out with the British flag with the messages from the UK fans. Even though it was, y’know, the flag of my nation and it had been given to me by literally the UFC PR department, the people in charge of enforcing the Reebok policy told me they’d fine me $20,000 if I walked out with it. Despite this nonsense, that flag is one of my most prized pieces of memorabilia from my entire career. It’s folded into a triangle and in my office as I type this.)

  It was now time to fully focus on the battle ahead. I hit the striking pads with 85 per cent power. I felt amazing. My weapons were ready. My confidence was sky-high. Thirty, forty minutes melted.

  ‘Bisping – time to walk!’ came the call.

  And so we walked. But this time was different. It was unlike every other fight I had in my career. This was usually the time when the fight became real. Physiologically, my autonomic nervous system would recognise the ‘fight or flight’ situation and shut down non-essential functions, diverting their energy into my muscles. (One of the non-essential functions is the digestive system – hence the feeling of butterflies in the belly.)

  By now, just minutes before the start of the fight, I knew the butterflies and nerves wouldn’t be making an appearance this fight. I felt focused, not fixated; energised, not hyper.

  We arrived at the tunnel from backstage to the arena floor. The pre-fight promo was running in the arena and the lights were dark. The only illumination was coming from the camera in front of me, which would beam our short walk to the Octagon to the world.

  ‘Man,’ Scot said, ‘I’ve never seen you move as well as you have this camp. I’ve never seen you as calm as you are tonight.’

  ‘Destiny,’ Jason said.

  The air inside the arena was warm. Because of the body heat of the crowd, it always was come main-event time. ‘Song 2’ blasted out. The lights blazed colours. The cameras sped towards me. Fans outstretched arms. I got close to the Octagon and looked for Rebecca, Callum and Ellie. There they were, front row. I went over and hugged them for a second. Their expression told me everything I needed to hear.

  ‘YEAH!’ I yelled.

  My team took my walkout shirt off. I was checked over at the prep point. Vaseline was applied to my face so Rockhold’s punches wouldn’t tear at my skin. The roar of the crowd registered for the first time as I ascended the Octagon steps. On the top step I turned around and flexed my biceps to cheers. The fans – these American fans – were for me. And not just Americans – I saw several British flags wiggling excitedly in the stands. More than just enjoying it all, I took the best of each moment – the support, the love, the thrill of what I was about to do – without allowing anything to weigh down my concentration.

  Rockhold walked through the Octagon gates minutes later. He looked even bigger than the day before and had regained that look of can’t-be-bothered confidence. He was prancing around, running backwards and doing weird dance steps. Like all samurais do, I guess. He pretended to yawn several times. What a bell-end.

  Bruce Buffer did his thing. While he was introducing me, I took out my mouthpiece and made sure the British fans watching at home saw I had our flag on it.

  Jason and Brady were on the other side of the fence now, leaning in. ‘I feel fucking great,’ I told Jason. ‘You fucking look great!’ he said. ‘Best I’ve ever seen you!’

  Rockhold was announced. He did some Bikram Yoga bullshit for the camera. Buffer left the Octagon. All but one of the camera crew followed. Very near now. Referee McCarthy waved Rockhold and me towards the centre. The crowd noise rolled up into a roar. Big John gave his final instructions but Rockhold and I were more interested in a final few verbals.

  Rockhold mumbled something and shook a hand side to side.

  ‘What’s that, buddy?’ I smiled.

  ‘No touch,’ said Rockhold, announcing he wouldn’t partake in the traditional show of respect.

  I smiled wider. ‘No touch?’

  Rockhold shook his head again. ‘No touch!’

  ‘I’ll touch ya in a second, mother-fucker!’ I laughed, backing up into my corner.

  The cameraman retreated to the safe side of the fence. The Octagon door locked. We waited for McCarthy to signal us to fight. The final few moments were ticking away and I was still as relaxed as I’d ever been. Measured in years, sweat or tears, it had taken an eternity to get here. Now the UFC champion was 20 feet away; the title 25 minutes of everything I had away. Rockhold looked bigger still. I didn’t care. He was a great athlete. I was a great fighter. And we were about to have a fight!

  I barely heard Big John’s catchphrase: ‘Are you ready? Are you ready? Let’s get it on!’

  Rockhold came forward to meet me, smiling. I kicked him in his lead right leg and the smile disappeared. I tried a little pressure, but while searching for my range Rockhold whipped my lead leg with a kick. That stupid ho-hum expression expanded across his face. I landed a right cross. Then a jab came close. My arms, shoulders and back felt loose. Rockhold looked annoyed.

  One
minute in, my scouting report read that 1) Rockhold was indeed predisposed to moving his head to his left every time I threw a straight punch; 2) while he’d added a much heavier jab to his game, he overcommitted to it and became off balance when it missed; and 3) he was again looking to take my head off with the left head kick.

  I put 1) to good use immediately. I threw a jab which was never intended to land, tricking the champion into moving his head to the left – and into a nice right cross. Then I continued to batter Luke’s right knee. I didn’t know whether this was the one he’d hurt in training but, for sure, it was the one that needed planting in order for 3) to happen.

  The war began at the 3:15 mark. I stepped in and missed with a left hook but had time enough to throw a straight right behind it. Luke slipped the cross exactly as I expected him to – and my second left hook landed with a thud. Rockhold retaliated with his best punch – the right hook – and came after me.

  In most other fights, I’d have moved away at angles only to return a second later to take the initiative back. Not on this night. I planted my feet and fired my fists. Another left hook bounced off Rockhold’s head. There was no poker face about him. Luke Rockhold was very pissed off and overconfident. The smack-talking, the disrespect I’d made him chew on in the build-up and his own condescending superiority was working against him. So was his lack of fighting IQ; I knew from that sparring session that when it came to reading a fight in real time, Rockhold was a functional illiterate at best.

  My last left hook had clipped Rockhold but didn’t land with full authority. I could have felt a little anxious that I’d given the game away – but I didn’t think that one technique was going to win me the fight all by itself. In our game-plan the ‘draw his right hook/side-step/left hook counter’ was one of a dozen micro-strategies in place to bring Rockhold to a place where he’d begin the championship rounds tired, hurt and discouraged.

  And once we were inside that inferno where our lungs were choked and our arms were filled with lactic acid, I knew – I knew – that I could remain in that place longer than Luke Rockhold could ever believe possible. I knew that I would emerge from that kind of firestorm as the UFC middleweight world champion.

  He landed a solid left shin to my stomach. I snapped my heel into his right knee. Maybe recognising that I was laying foundations for the later rounds, Rockhold’s aggression sky-rocketed. He landed four kicks – to my body and leg – in a row. Then he landed a left cross. That look was back on his face as he swaggered towards me with his hands by his side.

  Whether it was anger or arrogance, Rockhold was now intent on a first-round KO. Rockhold’s corner were not happy with what they were seeing. ‘Tighter!’ ‘Not so hard!’ ‘Don’t rush!’ ‘Quit chasing him!’ they shouted.

  On the PPV broadcast, Joe Rogan noted at this point: ‘Rockhold’s chin is straight up in the air.’

  I’d noticed that, too, as I bit down harder on my mouthpiece. You arrogant dickhead, I thought. I can’t wait to see the look on your face in round three, round four, round five, as it dawns on you – way too late – that you had no idea what you were in for tonight.

  He landed a hard inside leg kick before whipping another towards my face. I used both hands to parry it and even through my gloves my palms stung for a second.

  Rockhold then skipped forward and threw his jab. It was a good shot but instinctively, I’d placed my left foot on the outside of Luke’s right. I fired a right hook to his body and the left hook that Jason and I had drilled. The telemetry from my fist reached my brain immediately. I’d landed a massive shot direct to the champion’s jaw.

  He dropped to the canvas. He was hurt.

  YES! I thought. The crowd’s roars faded into static. Time slowed down. Rockhold scrambled to his feet.

  No you don’t!

  BOOM!

  Another hook detonated on his chin. The impact sent him spinning backward. He crashed on the canvas again.

  Instead of his expected day at the beach, I’d now swept Rockhold far out to sea. He was out of his depth, broadcasting panicked distress signals with every short-circuited movement. I went in for the finish like a Great White.

  Rockhold was slumped, arse on the canvas and his back against the cage. The angle was awkward. I was conscious to avoid getting pulled into his guard. I side-stepped his prone legs and torqued every bit of power I could into my punches. Rockhold’s head snapped right. Then left. Then right again. The lights cut out behind his eyes.

  Suddenly Big John’s oak-tree forearm swung against my lower neck so fast the impact hurt. It was the best feeling in the world because it meant the referee had waved the fight off. It was over.

  A second of time snapped and I heard my own voice inside my head say, I’ve won!

  ‘MICHAEL BISPING! IS THE NEW! UFC MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD!’ Mike Goldberg screamed on the broadcast.

  The moment overloaded my senses. A thousand different thoughts flooded my brain all at once. There would be no need for a war. I wouldn’t need to take this fight into the trenches. I wouldn’t have to fight my way out of any tough spots. I wouldn’t need to ignore painful cuts around my eyes or climb off the canvas. My heart and will to win would not even be needed. Because it was over, already. Done! I was already the UFC Middleweight Champion of the Whole World!

  I screamed in victory and vaulted to the top of the cage. My arms shot into the air as the fans roared noise down at me. As I celebrated the Octagon was rapidly filling up with security, commissioners and whoever the hell these people are who materialise the moment a big fight is over. My eyes found Rockhold. He was still sat against the fence; now surrounded by methodical medical people and concerned teammates.

  I understood immediately what was beneath the bewildered look on Rockhold’s face – an offline human brain sprawling to reboot. Then his expression changed and I knew he could now see me again, too.

  ‘FUCK YOU!’

  He couldn’t possibly have heard me yelling, not over the racket of the 15,587 fans who were cheering and yelling after witnessing what to them was one of the biggest upsets in recent UFC history. But it wasn’t necessarily a fuck you to Rockhold. It was a fuck you to everyone who’d doubted me, underestimated me and tried to stop me from becoming the man and father I wanted to become. Sat on that Octagon fence, at the summit of the MMA world, it was a fuck you to anyone who’d ever written me off, and a fuck you on behalf of everyone and anyone who’d ever believed in me.

  Nothing I say can do justice to what I felt in those few seconds. That left hook had whacked the top off a fire hydrant and I could feel emotions I’d kept shrink-wrapped inside since school gushing out.

  I dropped off the fence and my bare feet hit the canvas. ‘Easiest fight of my life!’ I told the camera.

  This was the moment I’d chased for long years – I was now living it! UFC world middleweight champion! Won it forever. No one could ever take what I had done away from me! First round! No one gave me a chance! No one! No one except …

  My family. Where’s my family?

  I saw Audie Attar had already managed to get Rebecca, Ellie and Callum to the top of the steps. I waved the security guy to let them through the Octagon door and hurried towards them.

  Rebecca and I sank into a massive hug in the centre of the Octagon. ‘We did it! We did it! We did it! Babe – we did it!’ I repeated it over and over into her ear.

  We did it – as a team. I wouldn’t have got as far as Eldon Square Leisure Centre without Rebecca. She is the only woman in the world who would have supported such a crazy idea in the first place. She’d put a roof over our family, then put her own ambitions aside so I could pursue my dream. She’d put me back together so many times; after the army rejection letter, the visa issue, UFC 100 and other defeats, the manager issues, nearly losing my eyesight. When sections of the media painted me as a villain, she reminded me who I was to the people who knew me the best. She was my wife, my motivation, my sports psychologist and my best friend.r />
  For a second, it was a decade before and I was running up to her at the MGM Grand with that first bonus cheque at UFC 66. I snapped back into the present and I hugged my two eldest kids.

  Only dads of daughters know the special pride when his little girl looks up to him as her protector. Ellie was looking with tears of pride in her eyes at her dad – me – the UFC champion of the world. I choke up even thinking about it. And Callum – my first-born’s face said it all. He understood what we’d all achieved together. He was crying and cheering both at once.

  We all held each other in the centre of the Octagon. We’d all sacrificed time together in order for this to happen. Spending the first minutes of my reign as world champion in a group hug with my family was my proudest moment on earth.

  I celebrated with Jason, Brady and Scot. Lorenzo Fertitta, on the verge of selling the UFC for over $4 billion, was in the Octagon and looked thrilled for me. Back in the locker room my phone was blowing up with texts that would take me days to return ‘thank yous’ to.

  The UFC title belt – identical but much heavier than the replicas I’d allowed myself to hold once or twice – was wrapped around my waist by Dana as I heard Bruce Buffer, the man who’d MC’d the other happiest day of my life, announce the greatest moment of my career.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, referee John McCarthy calls a stop to this contest at three minutes, thirty-six seconds of the very first round … Declaring the winner … BY KNOCKOUT! AND NEW! UNDISPUTED! U-F-C MIDDLE-WEIGHT CHAMP-I-ON OF! THE! WORLD! … MIKE-AL! THE COUNT! BIS-PING!’

  Rogan asked me to describe what I was feeling. I did my best.

  ‘Listen, I want to be humble here even though I want to be an arsehole. First of all, thank you all for being here. I am so happy right now. I started fighting when I came out of my mother. [Ugh, what I meant to say was “I was born a fighter”.] I have always been a fighter. It always got me in trouble. But there’s nothing I do in this life better than fighting. This woman here [Rebecca] supported me every step of the way. If it wasn’t for her, my family, my dad, my mother, the support of the UK, everybody here, I could not have done this. I’m an average guy. This was my dream. Nobody was taking this away from me!