by Bruce Buffer
In those early days, I started seeing more advertising promoting the UFC, such as full-page ads in magazines like Playboy, Maxim, and elsewhere. This was great to see from a business ego standpoint, but to my mind it was a waste of ad dollars. This wasn’t the best way to attract the ideal viewing market—eighteen- to thirty-four-year-olds who became the heart and soul of the UFC. Zuffa needed something smarter, bigger, and more powerful. They ultimately found it, but it took nearly running on fumes to do so.
One of the early duds was UFC 33. We had five fights on the pay-per-view card, and every one of them ended by decision. It ended up being a night that was, in a word, unexciting. To make it worse, they pumped so much energy into this show. It was our first big foray into the Las Vegas fight scene. We had 9,500 people at the Mandalay Bay Events Center, among them tons of fight-savvy press and executives who’d come out to see what this hot new sport was all about. One of my old friends, Jeremy Zimmer, one of the owners of United Talent Agency, was there. After the fights were over, I didn’t even have to talk to him. The boredom was written on his face. He told me that he “just didn’t see it,” and was less interested in possibly working with the UFC now. I felt like we took three steps backward.
What went wrong? Dana and the Fertittas cracked the code. They figured out that when people come out to the fights, they’re looking for electric, dynamic action. If the fighters go to ground quickly and stay there, trying to get each other to submit, it can make for some pretty boring entertainment for the rest of us. That disappointment didn’t stop the organization. It only fueled their fire to work out the kinks. That was when they instituted the rule that if the fighters hit the ground and there’s no action, the ref has to stand them back up and restart the fight. Now, sure, I know that if you’re really experienced in grappling, you’re probably going to yell, “Fights like that are the greatest!” Well, sorry, to both the trained and untrained eye, those all-ground fights can look static. We’ve got to keep them moving for the sake of the future. They were right about that.
Did it work? Some. But not enough.
Four years after their daring buy, Zuffa was reportedly $44 million in the hole. Dana took a call from Lorenzo Fertitta at one point, who gave him the bad news and suggested that perhaps they should sell off the organization.
Sell off the UFC? Again?
A few days later they had an offer on the table, but it was reportedly under $8 million. Anyone who can do subtraction knows that that wasn’t going to get them out of the hole they were in. But did they cave? No. Depending on your perspective, they did something either incredibly foolhardy or remarkably brilliant. They ponied up another reported $10 million and put the first season of a TV reality show, The Ultimate Fighter (TUF), into production. You know the concept: sixteen young fighters from all over the country would come together at a training camp, get trained by some of the greatest coaches in the business, and work their way up to a major fight. Each show would end in a fight. Randy Couture and Chuck Liddell, another two of my favorite fighters, would guide the young men through that grueling first season.
In a nutshell, TUF was a $10-million crapshoot by Dana and the Fertittas.
It’s funny, because around that same time I actually had the chance to work on a boxing TV show but turned it down. One day I received a phone call out of the blue from the office of Mark Burnett, the producer of such hit TV shows as Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?, The Apprentice, Survivor, and Shark Tank. My caller started talking about how Burnett needed an announcer for his new series The Contender, which was going to be hosted by Sylvester Stallone and Sugar Ray Leonard.
I assumed they were looking to book Michael, and launched into a discussion of what his schedule was like.
“No,” the caller said. “We want you.”
I was taken aback. It was kind of a turning point for me, because until then I had been doing my thing for the UFC and hadn’t really thought that my persona, or whatever you call it, was making an impact beyond the world of MMA. But now here I was, hearing that Burnett had personally requested that his office contact me with the offer. It was a dream call, as far as I was concerned.
I heard them out, but I politely turned them down. It wouldn’t have been a right fit for me, and it would have encroached on Michael’s turf. The squared ring is not the world I chose to announce in. My world has eight walls. Now, bear in mind, I’ve never appeared on any of the season shows of TUF. I’ve never once visited the set, to be precise. I’m only brought in for the finale shows, where they fight to become TUF season winner. But I’m still pleased to have walked away from that other job, and to have my contribution be my announcing talents at the end of each TUF season.
From the start, the Spike TV show actually struck me as far more interesting to watch than The Contender. Why? At the end of every show, you saw an entire fight, not a highlight reel, the way you did on The Contender. Both five-minute rounds—and a third round if a draw took it into overtime—could now be seen by millions of Americans who just happened to be clicking through channels. Well, shoot, what do you think happened? People who’d never seen the sport were galvanized and frozen to the screen.
That first TUF finale in 2005 culminated in the legendary Stephan Bonnar/Forrest Griffin fight in Vegas. The show aired live on Spike, so you didn’t have to pay to see it, just tune in. Zuffa made sure that everyone who had followed these men through the full twelve weeks would not have to pay a dime to see how it ended.
The second the fight started, the crowd was on its feet and stayed standing for what turned out to be one of the most amazing fights anyone had ever seen. These guys were balls-to-the-wall, fighting with every ounce of skill they had, punching, kicking, and evading each other ruthlessly. It was amazing to see where this fight was going. You couldn’t imagine that they had this much skill, intensity, and desire to win locked away inside them. When it was over, we were all beside ourselves. It was arguably the most real conclusion to a reality show that has ever aired in the history of television.
I was so excited that when I got into the Octagon to announce the winner, I made a mistake, at least in my mind. I told the crowd, “You’ve just seen the greatest fight ever in the Octagon.” You probably don’t think that’s a big deal, but announcers are supposed to project an air of impartiality. If you start editorializing, you’re entering the realm of sports commentary. (Joe Rogan, God bless him, would later echo my exact words.) But this time, you could say that I had been transported by enthusiasm like everyone else. I could not freaking help myself. So sue me.
You probably know what happened next.
Dana got in the Octagon and awarded a six-figure UFC contract to the winner—a bleeding Forrest Griffin, by unanimous decision—along with a car, a dirt bike, and a high-end watch. But then he stunned millions when he announced that he was also awarding Stephan a UFC contract.
The crowd erupted. It was insane. It was a small venue, true, but that was appropriate because somehow this single event, which had nothing to do with the regular run of official UFC shows, had engendered such an emotional connection with fans. They had watched these guys over twelve weeks, and they were ready to come watch them fight to the end.
THE two men hugged each other. Stephan fell to the floor in a gesture of gratitude, hands over his eyes, head back, as if he were about to weep.
In that big, historic moment, I lost all my composure and reacted like a little kid, throwing my arms in the air and shouting. If you watch the video, you can hear and see how emotional I was. It was amazing. I went out of character for the second time in a matter of minutes. I thought Dana and the organization had acted so generously, so chivalrously. In that moment I was a fan, along with millions of others who will probably watch UFC shows till the day they die.
Now, of course, the next day Zuffa still had bills to pay, and what was now $44 million to pay off, but they had found the thing that would help them rope in viewers, and they’d cemented a seductive rhythm of s
hows designed to make the sport accessible while still maintaining its mystique. The formula was simple: free TV, free TV, free TV, pay-per-view, and back to free TV again. And all the while, tons of reruns of The Ultimate Fighter aired in marathon chunks to catch the eyes of newcomer fans. Leading into the next season, the show had a huge built-in audience.
That one golden moment will never be forgotten, and it helped brand the sport. The pay-per-view numbers went up from there. And Stephan and Forrest will probably have a place in the UFC forever.
As I write this, The Ultimate Fighter is now in its sixteenth season, and I’m proud to say that I’ve announced at sixteen finale shows. I also think the show has earned its place in the UFC’s pantheon of properties. It’s the gateway drug, so to speak. It lures people in, gets them hooked emotionally, and doesn’t let them go until they’ve made a commitment to the sport. The show does more than show fighters training. It trains fans.
TUF is the only show of its kind. You don’t see young men who want to be pro baseball players or pro basketball players on TV. You don’t bear witness to their energy and urgency and passion, where they desire something so badly that they can practically taste it. That’s what this show is about: getting people pumped about the sport and realizing that if they have what it takes, they can go for it, too. That’s pretty special in TV today. TUF shows a side of sport that is usually hidden from view.
It also makes for just great TV. The TUF 15 Finale in June 2012 was especially moving, I thought. Like millions of viewers, I could not help but be moved by the heartfelt story of fighter Michael Chiesa. He’d lost his father during the series’ filming. In a touching moment, Dana had told Michael to go home to be with his family; instead, Chiesa came back and ultimately won the whole thing in honor of his dad and his family. Just a great night of TV all the way around: great fights, and great emotional impact, which you can only get from TV.
That’s why, when I meet young fighters who ask me how they can fight for the UFC, I tell them to try their damnedest to get on TUF. If you dream of being a fighter, and there’s a tryout in your weight category near you, there’s no excuse not to go. Yes, if you get in, you’ll be isolated from your girlfriend, your job, and your family for about twelve weeks, but it’s worth it. In return, you’ll gain invaluable friends and maybe even a little notoriety overnight. And you’ll be light-years ahead of other fighters whom the fans have never seen until they walk into the Octagon.
Yes, it can be annoying to have people all over the world watch your life on parade for twelve weeks. They’re going to know what you eat and drink, how you sleep, how you conduct yourself, how you get along with others, and they’re going to form an opinion about you based on what they see that may well be negative, cruel, or downright unwarranted.
But that’s TV. They’ll either love you or hate you. We all go through it, and you have to develop a thick skin to shrug it off and say, “I could care less what people think of me. Say what you want—just spell my name right.”
The show is a great way for a fighter to get noticed, but no matter how much persona a fighter has, he will not go far unless he is also a phenomenal fighter. Style is no substitute for skill.
One night, Stitch Duran and I were in Milwaukee watching a young fighter. He came out and he had nailed down his persona beautifully. He had a cool nickname, he had the walkout costume, he had the music, and he made a great connection with the crowd.
He was, shall we say, highly marketable.
He put in a great fight that night, but he lost.
Why?
We noticed that his cardio sucked. He was gasping the whole time he was in the Octagon. Later I walked over to him just as Stitch, who’s seen a lot of fighters in his day, pulled the kid aside and asked him a simple question: “Son, are you doing cardio training?”
“No … well, I don’t do enough.”
We were both shocked. How can you end up here in the Octagon and not be working on your cardio? That’s a recipe for getting killed.
You have to get some training, we told him. It’s nice to put all this effort into looking great and putting on a nice show for the fans, but you can’t rely on personality and marketing to win fights. Costumes and attitude are superficial. That’s icing on the cake. You can get away with that only up to the point that you can’t fight. Then the crowd will cross you off the list and move on to the next guy.
It was our chance—Stitch’s and mine—to impart a little wisdom to a young athlete. Clearly, he got this far because he’s got great ability. But right now he’s a piece of MMA clay waiting to be molded correctly by the right trainer. We passed along the names of a few trainers for him to look up.
I saw in him something I see in a lot of fighters: a kind of reluctance to make that break with their families and their hometowns. A lot of these fighters come from humble beginnings, and they’re afraid to be selfish, to put the focus on their passions and leave a family that perhaps depends on them for an income.
I know it’s not easy to make that sacrifice, but if the fighters don’t make the effort, they may always be wondering if they could have made it. Or as Brando said in On the Waterfront: “I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody.”
I’m not an active fighter and trainer, so I can’t speak from that angle. But I am speaking from the lifetime experience of having trained before, and of watching great fighters rise above not-so-great fighters.
What makes the great ones great?
Why do some spend a career in the Octagon and leave it beloved, while others come and go in the most forgettable manner, never to be seen again?
It comes down to training. Sure, style and personality are factors, too, but if you can’t breathe, forget it. You’re dead before you start.
Someone asked me once, “Do you see yourself in these young fighters?”
Hell, yes, I do! I never wanted to be a fighter, but I know the life. It’s the world’s loneliest sport. Every morning you wake up and put your body to a test that most people never do. You chase something most people can’t understand. You spend eight weeks preparing to fight a guy who can take your head off. That is all something most humans will never fathom. And to top it off, you have no team members backing you up when you step into that cage.
Good trainers know this. They impart this truth to the young men and women they’re training.
When the gate slams shut, you’re all alone.
10
THE PEOPLE’S CHAMPION
One night, at one of the early shows, I went into the men’s room, and there in every urinal were these little baseball-card-sized cards with Tito Ortiz’s picture on it. The card listed his stats and credentials, and promoted his clothing line. I was checking it out as I was, excuse my French, peeing on his head.
Tito Ortiz is one of those fighters who always impressed me, not only for his fighting ability but for reasons that go well beyond that realm. He’s a perfect example of a fighter I’d like young fighters to emulate. Tito’s a fighter who gets it, and one who will always be remembered as a titan of the UFC.
Submission wrestling is his key skill, but his conditioning is beyond most. Very few people train to the level that he does. In fact, in the past I have worried that he could possibly be overtraining. I know: you’re thinking, how is that even possible? But you can do that.
Come to the weigh-ins sometime and you’ll see that as soon as the fighters step off the scales, their trainers are there with food and liquids, forcing them to suck it down and start taking in some nutrients after working hard to cut weight. Tito has mastered the art of cutting weight. But to do it, he once again pushes his body to an impossible limit. People have even joked that he should shoot a video titled “How to Cut Weight the Tito Ortiz Way.” His response? “Yeah, but it would have to come with a disclaimer: ‘Following this program may just kill you!’ ”
One Friday in 2011, the night before he was to appear in the main event at UFC 133, we went to dinner at a churrasca
ria, a Brazilian steakhouse. The waiters were parading around with giant skewers of beef, chicken, lamb, and pork—every type of cut and preparation imaginable—slicing it hot off the grill for you. It was the day before a fight night, so Tito wasn’t touching a drop of alcohol and I was drinking moderately.
Earlier that day, he had clocked in at 205 pounds at the weigh-in. Seconds later he was gorging himself on pasta, bread, and fluids. He counted up the calories and offhandedly announced, “I just gained eight pounds.” He didn’t have to get on a scale; he knows his body so well that he can do that.
Irony of ironies, as we were surrounded by all this meat, he started telling me how he had, on occasion, dropped eighteen pounds in a single day. First he does his workout. Then he takes an Epsom salts bath. He dresses in a nylon sweatsuit and gets in bed under a ton of blankets for thirty minutes with his headphones on, listening to music. That’s guaranteed to lose him seven pounds in two hours. Later, rinse, repeat.
I don’t know how many people would be willing to go to such lengths for their profession, but fighters do. Most people would say the human body is not made to be treated like that. And sure, if you’re not under a doctor’s or trainer’s care, you could easily wipe yourself out from heatstroke pulling a stunt like that. But fighters are not like the rest of us. On a daily basis, they are pushing the threshold of what the human species can tolerate, from pain to sweat. The payoff: Tito is capable of losing an average of ten or more pounds in the last twenty-four hours before he steps onto a scale at the weigh-ins.
Okay, so that’s dedication to the regimen. But what about dedication to marketing and self-promotion? The first time I met Tito in 1997 on the set of Friends, he was a young, excitable kid who was jumping up and down, proclaiming, “I’ll be a champion one day! You watch me!” Back then, I thought, Who is this kid to talk so big? He hadn’t had a fight yet, but he knew what he was going to do and was not ashamed to do a little pre-publicity for himself.