It's Time!

  “You want me to kill myself?” I say.

  And we both laugh.

  The truth is, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. How am I going to do what I do? How long will it take before I trust myself enough to pull off one of my signature moves? I have a few ideas up my sleeve, but I’m not going to worry them to death on this flight. I’ll deal with them on the ground.

  We talk about our favorite topics: the fights. Who’s fighting? What are their chances tomorrow? Tito especially occupies our minds. It was just a little over a month ago that he took out Ryan Bader in a main-card event. And tomorrow night he’ll be in the main event. What a short amount of time! How will he hold up? What are his chances against Rashad Evans? It feels as though we can talk forever about this stuff, but somewhere over Nebraska we’re snoozing like babies.

  The whole trip seems touched with memory and gratitude, no doubt spurred on by everything that’s been going on in my life. I think my doctor got my wheels spinning a few months back when he gave me the bad news and happened to say, “Congratulations. You’re getting back everything you did to your body when you were younger.”

  BUFFERISM NO. 16

  “WINNERS CONCENTRATE ON WINNING. LOSERS CONCENTRATE ON GETTING BY!”

  I believe this with all my heart. If you’re thinking about how to win, how to work the odds, how to get better, how to strategize, you’re going to win. If you’re always thinking how you’re just going to make your nut this month, you will always be scraping by. Think big. Think to win.

  The younger me and the older, wiser me are tumbling in my skull that morning when the plane touches down in Philly. It feels like a homecoming of sorts. The City of Brotherly Love. The city of cheesesteaks. The city of America’s birth. The city where I spent my formative years. I came to know these streets as a kid, riding the bus to town with my brother to have a blast, checking out the museums, seeing movies, stuffing our faces. Unknown to us, in another section of Philly, our older brother Michael was taking his first steps toward manhood.

  These past few weeks, throughout my recovery, I’ve felt as if I were living my life all over again. The ups, the downs, the challenges, the victories. I heard the music of the slots of Vegas, the crash of waves where I learned to surf, the shouts of my dad, the caress of my mom, the crunch of fists, the ecstasy of women, the tender words of loved ones. I remembered the fighters I’ve known and the fights I’ve seen. I’ve remembered everything that’s made me who I am. And I’ve realized how grateful I am to have the life I have. I’m a lucky guy to belong to such a sport, to such an organization. It doesn’t matter where we are: Philly, Chicago, Toronto, Milwaukee, Rio, London, Sydney, Tokyo. The UFC is a movable feast, and anywhere the Octagon is feels like home.

  As the first rays of sun hit me, I realize something else: vacation’s over and it’s time to get back to work.

  PEOPLE always ask me what my fight weekends are like: What do I really do? What’s my schedule like? How do I prepare? A UFC weekend is like a three-day party for the fans who come from all over the world to watch the fights. They imagine that the rest of us who work the show are out partying, too. That’s true, up to a point.

  I always say I’m a nun the night before a fight, but anything goes the night after. Depending on the city we’re in, there are a number of after-parties. In Vegas the official after-party is always at a nightclub like XS or Tryst. There’s always a VIP booth where the fighters and I hang out. There’s nothing better than hanging out with these men who’ve known the thrill of the fight and the shared bond of the road. And, of course, it’s always nice to have a half-dozen or so ladies in the booth, too.

  Fighters such as Urijah Faber, Jake Shields, GSP, and many others have enjoyed joining me in my booth. (Jake now always makes it a point to ask me if the party’s on when he’s in town for a UFC.) I usually do the big shout-out intro to the whole club around 11:30 p.m., and then the party starts. Probably the wildest intro I ever did in a club was the time I introduced a VIP patron who had just ordered a huge bottle of Cristal. It cost him $150,000. They paraded it in with multiple cocktail waitresses carrying the champagne bottle like it was Cleopatra, while sparklers sputtered away. I thought it was a huge waste of money, but some people crave that moment of public recognition, which is gone about as fast as champagne.

  I’ve become good friends with the internationally renowned comedian Russell Peters. He’s a great boxing fan and has become a huge fan of the UFC. He invited me to dinner in the MGM after a 2011 show, where we ate with his friends. I looked up at one point and saw that I was surrounded by a sea of talented comedians. Joe’s at the next table with his guests, who were all comedians, too. Dinner ends, and Russell offers his car to take us to the after-party. This vehicle pulls up, and it’s an armored limo. Why? I don’t know. I suppose I should have felt extremely safe. But it felt like we were driving to a war zone.

  But, hey, that’s Vegas. In other cities, the options may not be that far-ranging. In that case we have unofficial parties, and just snack and drink at the hotel bar. It sounds boring, but sometimes the biggest UFC faces you want to meet are hanging out just feet from the lobby, because we’re all on a short leash at times.

  As we touch down in Philly, I have low expectations. I don’t think I’m going to be partying much, because I want to take care of my leg. I’d like to get a cheesesteak, but I figure that can wait until after the fight tomorrow.

  I chill out at the hotel for a few hours, then work out, ice the knee, eat lunch, dress, catch a ride to the weigh-in. I see Dana and Lorenzo and everyone’s asking, “Hey, how’s the leg?” I pull up my left pant leg and show off my brace. Emblazoned across the front of it is the UFC logo.

  “Hey, we should sell those,” someone says.

  Some of the fighters come over and ask me about my recovery.

  For some of these guys, it’s the first time they’re hearing about my misadventure. It’s nice to hear their good wishes. I’m touched by their concern. But I just need to get back in the Octagon. I need to feel that microphone in my hand, and then I’ll know it’s okay.

  The weigh-in is fun. They always are. This is what the organization does well—the human touch, interacting with the fans. There have been some really tense situations at these events, where the fighters come together for the staredowns and things get out of hand. Once, one of the fighters pushed his opponent and the guy nearly fell off the dais, which was about ten feet off the ground. And there have been situations where Dana and I and a couple of the other UFC guys have had to physically separate opponents.

  I’m usually invited to tons of parties Friday night. More than I’d ever want to attend. I usually turn them down. The best party I can have on a Friday before a fight is a good night’s sleep. Tonight I go out with Tito, who’s fighting tomorrow. We have a blast at that steakhouse in Philly, but both of us know what’s ideal: get back to the hotel at a decent time and get some shut-eye.

  The next day, Saturday, I go through my usual routine. I order a power breakfast from room service. A vegetarian egg-white omelet. Cottage cheese. Oatmeal with raisins, bananas, honey, and brown sugar. Tomato juice. Coffee. That gets me going for the day.

  I always work out on the road, but I tend to focus more on cardio than anything else. Just forty-five minutes, nothing too strenuous. I don’t want any surprises popping up when I step into the Octagon, like the time in January 2012 when my back blew out on me two hours before the historic UFC 142 in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. That was my punishment for not stretching properly after a seventeen-hour flight. There I was, minutes before the start of the event, in my tuxedo, getting worked on, on the floor of the dressing room of fighter Rousimar Palhares, by his trainer/therapist.

  These days my goal is simply to stay loose for the show. After the workout, if there’s a quality spa at the hotel, I take a steam bath, which is excellent for my throat. I have a massage to loosen me up. Then I go back to my room and look over my fight cards to make sure that they’re
all in order. I’ve gotten this data from the organization in the week leading up to my arrival in our event city. I’ve created a template on my home computer that allows me to flow all the data into it as each fresh infusion is received, so I’m always up to date. Later, when I hit the floor of the arena, I’ll make sure that the fighters’ weights, stats, credentials, and home cities are all correct. I’ll need to make sure that what I’m saying jibes with what the production team will be flashing on the screen in your living room.

  This info can change, but it’s always a good idea to familiarize myself with what I have. I want it to sink in and make an impression. I visualize myself saying those words, but I don’t rehearse them. I don’t like doing that.

  I take some time now to sit in my room and meditate. I started meditating in my twenties, after being turned on to it by one of my business partners. I enrolled in an ashram in Los Angeles and studied there for two in-depth sessions before I learned my mantra. I do it because it’s smart: a twenty-minute meditation session is the equivalent of a two-hour nap for me. I call it my Zen moment.

  I shower, and put on the monkey suit. You’re going to laugh, but I have fifteen or more tuxedoes. I have them custom-made. A while back I met with David August, a high-end tailor to guys like Sylvester Stallone, Mickey Rourke, and Rupert Murdoch, to name a few. Together the lead designer, David Heil, and I designed six new tuxes, which he created for my 2012 UFC schedule. I’d never spent so much on a tuxedo, but David’s work was worth it. I look and feel like a million bucks, and he designed them to allow more range of movement in the Octagon. He knows just what little things make all the difference. For example, he removed the lining over the knees inside my trousers so I can easily drop to one knee without having the pant leg bunch or catch. It’s the kind of thing most custom tailors would never think to do. And honestly, I don’t blame them; after all, how many guys need to move like that while wearing a tux?

  Dressed now, I sing a little Frank Sinatra to myself, usually “Strangers in the Night.” All I’m trying to do is get some intonation going. The way Sinatra pronounces words is amazing. You never fail to hear and understand any of the words he’s singing, because his diction is flawless. Doing this really relaxes me. It’s like standing around and saying, “The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain” again and again, twenty times in a row.

  I’m heading out the door of my hotel room when something occurs to me. I close the door and come back. I move the chair aside and stand in the empty space. I know how I can do this. I point the tips of my shoes at the bed and align my knees with my feet. Then I gently twist my torso toward the opposite wall. I mime holding a mic.

  I’m thinking, Fighting out of the Blue Corner …

  I swing my torso 180 degrees to face the bed.

  I think: Fighting out of the Red Corner …

  I do it a couple of times till it feels okay. It does. It’s not my classic move, more like a one-eighty “lite.” But it might work. I’m not supposed to knock myself out with the physicality for a while. No side-to-side motion. No surfing. Doctor’s orders.

  I hit the lights and go downstairs. There are tons of fans in the lobby. They’re asking the fighters and anyone else they recognize for autographs. I’m happy to oblige. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking, Avoid the big crowds. Don’t get jostled. Take care of the leg. Doctor’s orders.

  I hop the shuttle bus and we get to the arena, the Wells Fargo Center.

  About 12,000 people are attending UFC 133. The crowd is pumped. More people asking me for autographs on the way in. Happy to, happy to.

  In the early days, I used to do walk-throughs, sort of like production rehearsals, in the arena on Saturday. How we’re going to walk in, what music will be played, where the fighters will be, and so on. But now I don’t have to do it, because we’re such a finely oiled machine. Everyone’s in sync. When those fighters walk in, the crew knows what to do.

  First stop when I get to the arena is a visit with Suzy Friton, who applies a little makeup to my face. I know, it’s dumb, but it’s important for the camera, so I’ve got to do it. Suzy’s a phenomenal woman and a lifesaver. I’ll never forget the time I ripped my tuxedo pants, top to bottom, front and back, while doing warm-up stretches five minutes before I was supposed to go on, and Suzy whisked me back behind the stage curtain and sewed those pants up with her little sewing kit—with me standing in them—in five minutes flat. That’s why I love working with this crew: they’re the greatest professionals in the business.

  Next, I visit the media room. It’s a nice place to hang out with the Octagon girls, various other road friends, and media. There’s always good food here. I don’t want to load up, but I haven’t eaten anything other than breakfast. I grab some chicken, anything light. Here, also, is where I snag a great balm for my voice: half a cup of honey that I can keep on my desk. A little spoonful works wonders for the vocal cords, and it’s full of nutrients. If I want something to drink, I try a little warm water, not cold. I also keep a stash of Hall’s eucalyptus lozenges in my pocket just in case. If I don’t have them, I know I can bum one from Suzy. She watches after Goldie, me, and the Octagon girls as if we are family.

  Then I go to the local athletics commission table. I get the missing piece of the data puzzle: a sheet with the names of tonight’s judges, referees, and commissioners. I take some time to review that with the commission, and then I carefully transfer the data to my stash of cards. Unlike the world of boxing, I announce the names of the judges of the main event only.

  I meet with the audio production man who hooks up my interruptible foldback (IFB) earpiece. From that moment on, the director in the production truck is basically in my ear for the entire show. We can communicate easily about special announcements and last-minute directives.

  Next, I find the desk I sit at next to the Octagon, where I set up my water, my honey, various colored pens, and my cards. I rip each of the cards at the bottom in the lower left corner. Just about a half-inch tear is all I need to slip my pinkie finger in there. I learned a long time ago that I need to anchor the cards to my hand in some way. I’m so physical in the Octagon that I could lose the cards if I’m not careful.

  Unlike other announcers, I do not flip the cards in my hands to get to the next one. Instead, I throw each card away behind me onto the Octagon floor, and the referee or the Octagon gate man moves in to pick them up while I’m still announcing. One time they forgot to pick up the cards, and when I sat down I saw one of my cards on the Octagon floor. Believe it or not, during the entire round, the fighters danced around that card, but not once did either of them step on it. I was grateful for that, because—who knows?—they might have fallen and I’d feel terrible about being in part responsible for that.

  The fans are streaming in. Some of them see me and come running down to ask for photos and autographs. I make it a point to sign all autographs and take pictures when asked, but I have to stay focused when the show is about to start.

  The music is starting.

  I stick close to the desk, in my safe zone, and do some voice exercises and a few specific stretching movements to loosen my body up.

  The fighters are flowing in. The early fights kick off the night. Chad Mendes and Rani Yahya are the first prelim. I prep the cards. Check.

  I’ve never rehearsed in my life, but tonight is different. Too much water under the bridge. And if I’m going to do it—and I’d like to be able to—I need to give myself the time to run through it.

  I find a quiet spot in the back and I try it out again.

  Blue Corner. Twist. Red Corner.

  Feels good.

  I walk back out onto the floor. The music’s starting. “Baba O’Riley,” by The Who. They always play this song with video of past UFC moments for the ten-minute period before pay-per-view events or televised shows. The song pumps up the crowd—and everyone working behind the scenes. The song has become a staple for a hundred or more shows, and it really gets the blood flowing.
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  The crowd is loving it. I only need three things to make this happen: the mic, the cards, and the crowd. Everything else I carry inside me.

  I’m about to ascend the steps of the Octagon to pay tribute to these warriors. But before I do, I stop and make one last tribute of my own. I make the sign of the cross. Although I’m a spiritual person, I’m not at all religious—but this is something I do from time to time to honor all fighters and all religions. Yes, doing this gets stares and a few giggles, but I don’t care. When I look up and point my finger to the sky, I think of all those who have gone before me. My uncle John, whom I just lost. My German shepherd Buff. My two nineteen-year-old cats, Bogey and Rocky. And my father. I loved them all. They helped make me what I am, and I carry them in my heart always.

  Every fighter knows that when you meet a man in battle, a piece of him stays with you forever. Some are scarred by their encounters. Some are just made wiser. All of them take the lessons of the Octagon away with them and vow to fight another day. Even if you’re not a fighter, the same laws apply. Everyone you meet gives you something. A chance to learn, a chance to be better. They may delight you, enrage you, seduce you, cheat you, care for you. But you are changed by that meeting. You want to live life? Live it to the fullest. You want to fight? Then, for God’s sake, fight and give your heart to the battle. If you want to live, shout, play, make love, dream, cry—do all these things with passion and the precious knowledge that your time on this earth is short. If you want to live, now is the time.

  I stare at the sky. I think of my father.

  Thank you.

  I go up the steps. I feel the energy of the crowd. I lift the mic to my lips.

  “IT’S TIME.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’m indebted to a great number of people who allowed me to have the wonderful moments and memories described in this book. Every one of them deserves a thank-you from a humble and grateful friend.