by Bruce Buffer
I did four shows with them in all, three Rumble shows and one joint show with the K-1. In this way I got to know the two brothers and their family. B.J.’s mother Lorraine is about five-foot-five, beautiful and stylish. Tom Callos, B.J.’s first instructor, tells a story about how Mrs. Penn, or “Mom,” as I call her, is a good grappler in her own right, who once flattened Callos’s wife in a sparring match. I’d go to these fights, and there was B.J.’s mom, sitting in the front row with her sister and their extended family, cheering B.J. on. At the Expo she’d be manning the booth with her crew of ladies, selling products from their T-shirt and clothing line. Lorraine and B.J.’s dad, Jay Dee, were there every night of those shows, helping out, even if it was something simple like setting up chairs for the crowd. It reminded me of the times I worked together with my mom, dad, and brother on those collectors’ shows. Mrs. Penn, in particular, reminds me a lot of my own mother, working hard to bring money into the family.
Okay, so much for the sweetness and light. Here’s what I have to tell you: if you cross the Penn brothers, watch out. They will kick your ass. When you’re out with the Penns, it’s time to party, but you have to be aware that they never back down from a fight. Once the drinks start flowing, you don’t want to piss anyone off, because you’ll be brawling before the night’s out. That’s the essence of the culture: don’t let the other guy get one over on you. Go out, have fun, but if someone gets in your face, don’t hesitate to take him down. Those islands made B.J. the man he is today, a down-to-earth, warm man—who will not hesitate to take on someone bigger than himself if the guy pisses him off. Imagine having that kind of balls from the day you’re born. Imagine coming from a place where that was accepted and celebrated.
Some guys will fight because it’s just what they do.
In an appearance on my radio show, B.J. once announced that he wanted to fight at least five times a year. He thought that was a pretty good schedule to have. I was incredulous. B.J., I said, that’s way too many times. In fact, by UFC standards, it’s insane. If you train a minimum of eight weeks to get up to speed for a UFC bout, you’d be working your body at full tilt for forty weeks out of the year. No one fights that many times in a year. It’s a very punishing schedule. But B.J. figured, look, I have to stay in shape anyway. I may as well be training hard and do some damage while I’m at it. True to his word, he fought three times in 2010 alone, twice against Frankie Edgar and once against Matt Hughes.
After one of those Hawaiian fight events, we were all out having a good time at a nightclub in Waikiki. It got late. I was tired. I figured it was time to turn in. So I said good night to everyone and left. The next morning I checked the news on the Internet and found out that a little after I left, B.J. had tussled with the cops—had actually fought with a police officer—and had ended up arrested for his bad-boy behavior. Needless to say, given his fame, it was a huge story in Hawaii. Sad as I was for him, I was thankful I hadn’t stuck around or I probably would have been arrested along with him. You have to back up your friends.
ONE other incident, which I am asked about by interviewers and fans all the time, involves me and the veteran UFC/MMA fighter Frank “Twinkle Toes” Trigg. Frank and I are friends, but one night Frank got a little too cocky and did something he shouldn’t have done, to me or anyone.
In June 2006 we had two UFC shows in five days at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas, and after the first show I was hanging out with Trigg, who was between fights, and weighing in at around 195 pounds. We had a round of vodka tonics in Mike Goldberg’s room, then the three of us headed out for the night. When we reached the elevator, the doors opened, and who should be inside but Dana White and his security man, Tom.
At that point in his career, Trigg had had five UFC bouts. The previous year, 2005, he’d fought twice and lost both times. He was two for five, and itching to get back in. We got on the elevator, and before the doors even began to close, Trigg was asking Dana, “When are you going to let me fight in the Octagon again?”
I’m a wristwatch freak, and I couldn’t help noticing that Dana was wearing a cool watch. I stepped in front of Trigg to look at Dana’s watch as the two of them were speaking. Probably not a smart thing to do. For some reason, as I was looking at Dana’s watch, Frank—who was standing off to my side—suddenly hit me firmly in the throat with a ridge-hand strike. The inside part of his hand, between the thumb and his wrist, was right at my Adam’s apple.
I was blown away. You do not hit an announcer in the throat. My voice is my livelihood. It’s like capping a runner in the knees or smashing a surgeon’s hands. I turned around and said, “Frank, why the fuck did you hit me?”
“What are you gonna do about it?” he said.
Well, that’s the wrong thing to say to me. Talk is cheap. I hit him twice in the stomach at about 70 percent power, which sent him back against the wall. Why did I pull my punch here? Because I knew Frank hadn’t hit me at full power, so I made it a point to hit him with less power, too. It’s the basic rule of sparring: you train with your partner at a strong tempo, but not to hurt or KO the other guy. But if he hits you harder, then you hit back just as hard.
I will say that Frank’s on record as saying that I still hit him so hard he almost shat himself. I guess there’s a compliment in there somewhere.
As the elevator doors closed, he immediately came back at me.
We were locked in that elevator for ten floors now, and the fight was on.
Dana, Tom, and Goldie were plastered against the wall of the elevator as Trigg and I punched, blocked, and hit each other. At first we knew enough not to hit each other in the head, but our anger was mounting, and the fight was escalating into 100 percent power. I knew it was only a matter of time before he started pounding my head. I got myself ready to bring it if that happened. Either I knocked him out, or he was going to knock me out.
Frank tried to knee me in the balls at one point—but missed. Instead, he hit one of the other men. I don’t remember who, but I knew it must have hurt. I knew I had to shut him down. So I shoulder-turned him and shoved him to the wall, and when he bounced back I began to slip in a rear naked choke, which I knew was the very same move Matt Hughes had used to submit him in two of their Octagon wars.
I was so angry that in the millisecond that I had him in the hold, I was tempted to say, “Call me Matt Hughes, bitch!”
But suddenly the doors began to open. I knew that the lobby was full of glass display cases. Not cool. If we kept fighting, we ran a risk of crashing through them and hurting ourselves as well as innocent passersby, and racking up some terrible publicity for the UFC.
I threw my hands in the air and roared, “Frank, we’re done, we’re done!”
I looked at Dana. He was smiling; he seemed to have enjoyed this little altercation. So had Frank. And to tell the truth, so had I.
But now I looked down and saw that my expensive new silk shirt was drenched in blood. My blood. The skin over the knuckle of my right thumb was peeled back, and you could see the slick white membrane above the bone. My hand was bleeding profusely. I must have caught it on Trigg’s belt, or one of the large rings he was wearing. I excused myself and went to find the UFC paramedics. I asked them if they could glue the skin shut, using the liquid bandages they use in a pinch on fighters, but they insisted that I go to a local emergency room. There, I received five stitches, a tetanus shot, and a bill for $500.
Funny thing: When the doctor walked into the emergency room and saw me, he did a double take. “A bunch of us were just in the other room watching you on TV!” he said. Of course, he was blown away by the fact that he was treating me and not one of the fighters from that night’s show.
When I went back to the Hard Rock, Frank had calmed down and was so apologetic. I told him I was fine, but for the next three days he kept calling me to see how I was doing. Later that night, I decided to go out to Tryst nightclub. There, I ran into Joe Rogan and Eddie Bravo, who were partying with friends and a trio of beautiful w
omen. One of the ladies was free, and she and I hit it off.
At the time I was forty-nine years old, and all I can say is that I felt twenty-five years old all over again. It was one hell of a memorable night: I announced the UFC, watched the fights from the best seat in the house, had a friendly go with one of the world’s top MMA welterweights, got stitches, partied, and enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman for the evening.
Hell—even as I write this at age fifty-five, it still sounds like a fun-filled evening to me.
Aside from a few close friends, I didn’t tell anyone about the incident, but a few days later veteran UFC fighter Mikey Burnett came up to me and said, “Hey, I heard you took it to Trigg. Good job!”
I was surprised. I asked Burnett how he had heard it. He said Dana had told someone who told him. Eventually the story would leak out and go viral.
Months later, while in the UK for a show, I had the pleasure of hearing Dana relate the entire story to Lorenzo Fertitta, of all people. Dana cheered me and gave me props as we were all having a drink together.
It made me proud. My UFC Heads of State seemed glad that they didn’t have a wimp announcing their Octagon Warriors.
13
ON THE ROAD
A big reason I love my job is that it gives me a chance to travel the world and have some fun in exotic places. In the beginning the UFC stayed close to home, but over the years, as it has grown more and more successful, we’ve branched out. Today I am happy (and exhausted) to say that we’re on the road more than thirty weeks a year.
In the early days I took on some strange announcing gigs unrelated to the UFC. Overseas promoters would hire some fighters and me, and fly us halfway around the world to put on a command performance.
I do mean command. In 1999, I was hired by Sheik Tahnoon Bin Zayed Al Nahyan, son of the former United Arab Emirates president, to go to Abu Dhabi for the Abu Dhabi Combat Club (ADCC) Submission Wrestling World Championship. The rules were a little different: no punching, no kicking, just jiu-jitsu and grappling. If you’ve ever seen either of those classic movies Enter the Dragon or Blood Sport, you have some idea what this was like: a bunch of great fighters from all over the world coming together to do battle.
The promoters sent me a $12,000 first-class seat on Lufthansa to Abu Dhabi, sparing no expense. The flight crew brought out a bowl of beluga caviar for us to share. There were only five of us seated in first class, and none of the other guys wanted any. I was the only one who enjoyed the caviar, so believe me, I had a ball!
The first day of the fight event was like the opening of the Olympics, with all these fighters divided into their home nations. One by one they walked in under their flags.
Now, from the way I’m describing this, you’d think it was taking place in a massive stadium filled with tens of thousands of people. But no, it was just sort of a private party at a private compound, which was home to a racetrack and a horse stable. The sheiks themselves, and maybe some close family members and friends, were there. About two hundred people, tops. Just imagine luxury heaped upon luxury. These men sat in big chairs fit for kings, with endless drinks being poured for them and huge bowls of chocolates sitting in front of them. There was an expansive buffet table in the back, and people could take a break from the spectator sport and gorge themselves on incredible dishes of lobster and salmon and intricately prepared vegetables and drinks. These kings treated us like kings.
I sat at a table for two days, announcing fights literally nonstop from about 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. It was an absolutely intense atmosphere. I usually do all my own data organization of fighter stats, but in this case it was coming so fast and furious that I actually had to have a feeder, someone who passed me the names and figures throughout the day. I walked out onto the mat only once, for the main event.
A lot of the great fighters had signed on for this adventure: Royler and Renzo Gracie, Mark Kerr, Jean Jacques Machado, Caol Uno, Matt Hughes, Josh Barnett, Evan Tanner, Ricco Rodriguez, you name it. Kareem Barkalaev, the Russian, was there, as he was personal fight instructor to the sheik. During one of the fights, Kareem threw a punch and he was barred from the competition and sent home the next day.
Now, we all know today that in 2010 Sheik Tahnoon would acquire a 10 percent share of the UFC for an undisclosed sum. That didn’t come out of nowhere; he’s been a fan of these fights for a long time, even before Dana White and the Fertittas owned the organization. Even after the sheik’s investment in the UFC, the ADCC went on to do a submission tournament in Nottingham, England.
It was probably inevitable that the fighters would be invited to perform in other nations in the Middle East. In 2001, when a bunch of the top fighters and I were asked by one of the sheiks of Kuwait to perform in that country, the Abu Dhabi trip was still fairly fresh in our memory. A lot of us jumped at the chance. This was close to when the organization was being bought by the Fertittas. Here, too, the sheik wanted a throwback to the old-school days of MMA tournaments, when one fighter would fight multiple times in a single night. With tournaments it always felt as if they were drawing names out of a hat, and you fought whomever they drew for you, with little regard for height, weight, or skill set. It was fun, it was fascinating, it was a whole lot of nuts. You’d fight someone, and if you beat him, they’d say, okay, take a break, you’ll be fighting again in a little while. If you had an injury, you probably fought anyway.
I flew over with Big John McCarthy and his wife, Elaine. We were joined in Kuwait by fighters such as Matt Hughes, Carlos Newton, Dave Menne, and, from Russia, Kareem Barkalaev, about a dozen fighters in all. Everyone gets there and they’re all exhausted from the long flight and so begins this very weird, otherworldly experience.
People are praying in the streets everywhere we look. Buildings look battled-ravaged. There’s a military base only a few miles away, and a lot of tension in the air. I’m thinking, I wonder if we’re going to get out of this country alive, let alone get paid. We arrive in the middle of this, and are ushered to a very nice hotel. The second we get there, the word goes around, “Stay away from the Russians.” For some reason, they were not getting along with anyone. John went to check the cage, and he’s walking around the posts, shaking them to see that they’re solid, and it’s clear that if a fighter flew into them, he would hurt not only himself but possibly spectators as well.
We had a good-sized crowd for the show, but sure enough it ended with Russian fighter Kareem Barkalaev losing to Dave Menne in the final fight. In an angry gesture, Barkalaev gestured as if he wanted to take everybody on. The next night, Sheik Naif, one of the royal family members, invited us all out to dinner and we went through a ceremony where each of us was presented with gifts. I was given a curved Yemeni dagger, a really gorgeous piece of weaponry that spoke to my love of weapons and collectibles. Kuwait was certainly different, but most of us were pretty tense during the whole four days, and happy to head home.
• • •
THERE were two experiences in other countries that I can only describe as transcendent. They were remarkable, almost spiritual encounters that made me understand just how much fans in other places revere fighters and the pleasure of sport.
The UFC 134 in Rio de Janeiro in summer 2011 was a turning point for me. I stepped into the Octagon to do my thing.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” I said.
The crowd screamed.
“WE … ARE … LIVE!” I said.
A rumble ripped through the stadium that was deafening, awe-inspiring, and humbling. I got through the rest of the preliminary cards and the crowd was insane. Dana was out back getting ready, and later said he thought the fans were going to punch a hole through his dressing-room wall.
From the response of the crowd, you’d have thought I was doing a concert.
It was only later, after announcing the main event, as I was walking back to my desk, that Stitch Duran stopped me. “Did you hear that?” he said.
“Sure, it’s a crazy crowd tonight!”
“No, Bruce,” Stitch said, “they’re repeating what you say!”
“Really?”
Remember: When I’m working, I don’t pay much attention to the crowd. I’m focused on the fighters and the cards in front of me. So I didn’t realize until Stitch pointed out to me that 17,000 Brazilian fans—many of whom are not English speakers—were nevertheless repeating many of my words as soon as I said them.
I’d never seen anything like that, especially from a non-English-speaking audience. Not even when Michael was roaring “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble!” had I seen fans react this way. When I got to the end of my announcements, they applauded and stamped their feet, which I also had never seen done by the vast majority of fans in North American stadiums.
Later, when I got home and was able to watch the videos, I confirmed what Stitch was saying. I was blown away. From the start of my career, I’ve tried not to be phrase-driven. It wasn’t until early in 2010 that I even trademarked the phrase “It’s Time” and another line I originated, “We are live!” And now, to hear an audience go insane at those words was remarkable, and a huge compliment.
I didn’t know it yet, but it was an indication that I had somehow clicked in a big way with Brazilian fans. In the months that followed, my office would start getting calls asking me to do various promotional campaigns—TV commercials mostly—in Brazil. That was great to hear, but I should not have been surprised. What I saw that night in Rio practically said it all.
As an example, backstage after the show, the Brazilian fighter Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira, who’d scored a knockout in his first round, came up to me and said, “Bruce, thank you so much. Thank you for that energy! It made me feel great to hear myself introduced this way. Please, I must take a picture with you.”
That night made me feel wonderful. Brazilians have such a beautiful, unified passion for sports that it leaves you breathless. Thirty million Brazilian homes watched the fights that night, and they were so important to that nation’s spirit and culture that the fights were shown for free. I will always remember the trip, and look forward to many returns. It’s a beautiful country that has given a lot to the creation of MMA, and I thank them for teaching us all that you can always go deeper in service to the things you love.