Let’s Get It On!

by McCarthy, Big John; Loretta Hunt, Bas Rutten; Bas Rutten

  Semaphore Entertainment Group, a New York—based company that had been successful in the growing pay-per-view market, agreed to broadcast the event. Michael Abramson, an SEG executive, suggested that the name of the event be changed to the Ultimate Fighting Championship, to which everyone agreed.

  Now it was time to pick the fighters. To find the fiercest, deadliest combat sports practitioners in the world, Rorion placed an ad in Black Belt magazine that simply said, “Are you tough enough?”

  Rorion got a few replies, but he wanted to include certain types of fighters he’d have to go after himself. “I have to include a boxer,” he told me. At that time, boxers were seen as the baddest fighters on the planet.

  Rorion and Davie approached both James “Bonecrusher” Smith and Leon Spinks to compete in the first tournament, but they turned it down because they didn’t know what the UFC was and Rorion had no footage to show them. However, Sam Solomon, a trainer of Spinks, was hired as a cutman for the event.

  Though a bit skeptical, Art Jimmerson, a thirty-year-old journeyman boxer who was in line for a shot at an aging Tommy Hearns, agreed to enter the tournament. Jimmerson’s camp later expressed reservations and tried to withdraw him from the event. Acutely aware that much of their audience would recognize and relate to a boxer, Rorion convinced Jimmerson to stay on board by offering him $20,000 to simply show up, though most of the remaining seven fighters would be paid only $1,000 each to enter. The winner of the tournament, who’d have to survive three fights in a night, was promised a $50,000 prize.

  Rorion and Art tried to recruit martial arts’ heaviest hitters, such as Don “The Dragon” Wilson, Dennis Alexio, Ernesto Hoost, and Peter Aerts, but they all turned down the offer. Not convinced the whole thing wasn’t illegal, Chuck Norris wouldn’t even accept a cageside seat from Art.

  Zane Frazier, a karate expert from Southern California, got into the UFC because of a fight against Frank Dux, the legendary and controversial martial artist whose story was loosely adapted into the Jean-Claude Van Damme film Bloodsport. Rorion and Art had been at a karate tournament called the Long Beach Internationals when a real street fight had erupted. Rorion and Art had watched Frazier punch the shit out of Dux over a few disrespectful words.

  Afterward, Rorion had told Frazier, “You’re a tough guy. You want to fight?”

  Of course, one of the eight slots would go to a Gracie. The best jiu-jitsu black belt of all of Rorion’s six brothers was Rickson. He would have been the logical choice, but since he’d opened his own school in West Los Angeles away from Rorion’s Torrance academy, he wouldn’t get that slot. Rorion was pretty savvy when it came to the business side of things, which led to squabbles with some of his relatives. With UFC 1, Rorion wasn’t going to lose all those potential new students who would come looking for training after watching the show. He’d give the spot to his twenty-six-year-old brother, Royce, who taught at the Torrance academy.

  I hadn’t had the money to put in the show when Rorion had been looking for investors, so my own contribution to the first UFC was relatively modest. I was enlisted as Royce’s sparring partner. Royce was six feet and about 176 pounds, which meant he would more than likely be the smallest fighter in the tournament, not that Rorion was worried about that. At nearly 290 pounds, I could help him prepare for the bigger opponents he’d be facing.

  Rickson was still coming around to the academy to train Royce, but I could tell he was seriously pissed off with Rorion. Everybody thought Rickson was the better fighter by far, but he had to step aside and let Royce get the shot at glory.

  5

  I was really excited about the first UFC and was sure people were going to love it. In my mind, there was no question it was legitimate, and I was protective of it.

  A week before the event, I was listening to a local radio show and heard the hosts talking about “this ultimate fight challenge.” I decided to call in and give them some information. No matter what I said, though, the hosts just blasted the event. I had to defend the UFC before it even happened. It certainly wouldn’t be the last time.

  I was so sure of the UFC that I even got Elaine a job as a travel assistant for the event coordinator, Kathy Kidd. Over the months and weeks leading up to the show, Elaine spoke to many of the fighters and their wives while booking flights and hotel rooms. Tina Shamrock was particularly confident about her husband, Ken, who had some experience fighting for a promotion in Japan called Pancrase. Tina basically told Elaine the UFC would be easy for Ken, he’d destroy everybody, and the $50,000 prize would be great for them.

  When Elaine told me how assured Tina was during their phone calls, I took note, but I was far from convinced that Ken Shamrock would be the one to take it.

  The week of the event, Elaine and I flew out to stay at the Executive Tower Inn in downtown Denver, Colorado, which was about six miles from the arena. Elaine spent most of the week prepping with the other staff members in one of the meeting rooms. Meanwhile, I joined Royce’s group, which included his brothers Royler, Relson, Rickson, and Rolker, as well as Fabio Santos, who worked at the Torrance academy, training at a local gym reserved for the fighters.

  When I wasn’t with Royce, I was helping Rorion. There wasn’t really a promotional model to follow for this type of show, so we were all just winging it, which meant there were tons of last-minute snafus to fix. When Rorion needed a certain fighter somewhere, I’d go retrieve the guy. People had to be picked up at the airport, and some would want to be taxied from the hotel to the local gym and back.

  Behind the scenes, Rorion was dealing with much more than mounting his first UFC event. On more than one occasion, Rorion called me to his hotel room to discuss his issues with his family. The UFC was a reunion of sorts for many members of the Gracie family, some of whom had flown in from Brazil. A few of Rorion’s relatives weren’t pleased with the way he’d trademarked the Gracie Jiu-Jitsu name in the United States and felt he was trying to monopolize jiu-jitsu here. Rorion had even legally stipulated that his brother Rickson add his first name to his own academy so it wouldn’t be confused with Rorion’s.

  Rorion told me he’d been physically threatened by one older family member, and he asked if I thought he should hire security or if I could get him a gun. I’d thought Rorion had all the answers, but in the end he wanted what I had. There’s nothing better for self-defense than a gun. I didn’t fulfill his request, of course.

  The night of the show, a few of Rorion’s friends stood within earshot of him, just in case a confrontation erupted outside the cage. It was the first time I saw these little cracks that are present in all families, whether they’re a martial arts dynasty or not.

  When I wasn’t with Rorion, I had the opportunity to meet the other competitors, some of whom had larger-than-life personalities. Kevin Rosier, a lively New Yorker and former ISKA kickboxing champion, showed up at the hotel an unfit-looking 300 pounds or so, but he was funny as hell.

  Kevin talked more about how much he could eat than anything else. “How many large pizzas have you eaten at one time?” He surveyed the people at the table at the hotel restaurant. “I’ve eaten four at once by myself in one sitting.”

  You could tell he was proud of it.

  Naturally, we’d also talked about what was to come. Jimmerson, the boxer from St. Louis, Missouri, told me he doubted Royce would be able to get by his vaunted left jab. “How’s he going to deal with that?” Jimmerson flicked out his fist a few times.

  I asked him a simple question. “How many times per round have you ended up clinching with an opponent?”

  Jimmerson looked confused and said, “I really don’t know.”

  “Well, if clinching happens in boxing all the time and it’s not a legal part of the sport, how are you going to keep it from happening when it is legal?” I asked him to indulge me and took him to a back part of the ballroom, where I proceeded to grab his two legs and take him down in just a couple seconds.

  Jimmerson looked up at me and said, “Oh
my God, he’s going to break my arms and legs, isn’t he?”

  “If you get in trouble, all you have to do is tap out. That’s always an option.”

  Jimmerson knew he’d be facing Royce in the tournament’s first round because Rorion and Art had predetermined that matchup. They knew a win for Royce would be especially symbolic to a United States crowd who understood boxing.

  This was the only time Rorion handpicked an opponent for his brother. Beyond the first round, the matches would be determined by the brackets they were placed in. For the next shows, the UFC would write all of the fighters’ names on a board and assign each one a number. Then they’d pull numbered balls out of a bingo machine in front of all the fighters and assign the matchups in order.

  There wasn’t a weigh-in at UFC 1, as there was no weight limit. There was also little paperwork to be submitted and no medical testing required beforehand to verify a fighter’s health other than a blood test and an on-site physical from a doctor who determined whether the fighter was fit enough to enter the cage.

  In fact, Colorado had been selected as the site of the event because the state didn’t have a boxing commission at the time, so medical tests and paperwork wouldn’t be required. However, Art didn’t consider that the event was over a mile above sea level and a bitch for any athlete who didn’t have at least a couple weeks to acclimate. This would become an issue in some of the bouts at UFC 1.

  At the press conference, there wasn’t much press to speak of at all. The whole event was seen as more of an oddity and was covered as such. Reporters asked the fighters what they expected, but nobody had a definitive answer. Art Davie spoke most of the time, boasting that the promotion had gathered eight of the deadliest martial artists in the world.

  Afterward, the fighters gave a quick demonstration on a Thai mitt bag that had been tied to a pillar with a monitor hooked up to it. To prove who had the hardest strike, each fighter took a turn hitting it with his punches or kicks. Ken Shamrock got up there and hit it pretty hard. Another competitor, Gerard Gordeau, kicked it.

  I can’t remember who had the highest score. I thought the whole thing was stupid.

  Royce must have been thinking the same thing. “That doesn’t say whether you can fight or not,” he said coolly and walked right by it. The day before the show, the rules meeting was a bit intense and kind of funny because there weren’t many rules to speak of other than no biting, eye gouging, or groin strikes, all of which Rorion viewed as dirty tactics. Still, the fear of the unknown gave the fighters plenty to debate about.

  The competitors and their entourages congregated in one of the hotel’s conference rooms and tried to hypothesize what would happen, though no one really knew.

  Amongst all of the discussion, a real controversy exploded over hand wraps. Zane Frazier, the karate fighter Art and Rorion had scouted themselves, wanted to wrap his hands. Rorion said he could but with the stipulation that the tape had to be one inch from the knuckles. Rorion didn’t want the fighters to be able to construct a wrap that would give them extra padding to shield their hands and add to their power. Rorion was undoubtedly looking out for his little brother Royce.

  But the strikers in the room wanted their wraps their way.

  Frazier was particularly adamant. “Hey, my hands are how I make my living, and you want me to break them?” He even suggested that Rorion was changing the rules to benefit his brother and make the rest of them look like fools come fight night.

  I think Rorion had prepared for this type of reasoning. “Are you telling me that before you get into a street fight, you’re going to go wrap your hands? In the fight I saw that got you here, your hands weren’t wrapped, were they?”

  That answer seemed to shut down the argument.

  The next commotion was over the forms WOW Promotions and Semaphore Entertainment Group had asked every fighter to sign releasing them of any responsibility if someone got injured or even died. Some of the guys said they wouldn’t sign it.

  Teila Tuli, a 410-pound sumo wrestler who’d flown in from Hawaii, was the first one up at the table. The room fell silent for a moment as the Samoan turned to address them. “I’m tired of all this,” he said quite calmly. “If you want to fight, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he dropped his signed form in front of Rorion before walking out the door.

  The Gracie brothers gave Tuli a standing ovation.

  All of the remaining fighters followed the soft-spoken Hawaiian’s lead and scribbled their names on their papers before handing them in as well. Nobody wanted to be labeled a coward.

  On November 12, 1993, the Ultimate Fighting Championship got off to an auspicious start inside the McNichols Sports Arena in Denver, Colorado, when announcer Bill “Superfoot” Wallace goofed and welcomed everyone to the “Ultimate Fighting Challenge” preceded by one of the largest burps ever captured on live TV. Wallace, a well-known kickboxing legend who’d retired undefeated, was flanked in the commentary booth by five-time kickboxing champion Kathy Long and NFL rushing legend Jim Brown.

  Jim Brown was an especially familiar face for another reason entirely. I’d been called to his Hollywood Hills residence a few times to quiet down loud parties.

  By UFC 6, Brown asked, “Did we know each other before this?”

  When I told him how we first met, he couldn’t believe it.

  Wallace had taken over play-by-play duties at the last minute when Brown had decided he wanted to fill the color commenting role instead. Unprepared, Wallace mercilessly butchered the names of secondary announcing team members Brian Kilmeade and Rod Machado throughout the night. Wallace also repeatedly made a mistake typical of newcomers to the sport, mispronouncing Royce’s name. The “R” is pronounced as an “H” in Portuguese.

  Not only were the names unfamiliar to them, but Wallace, Brown, and Long had little knowledge of the action they were calling and describing to the fans shelling out $14.95 to watch at home. They understood Gracie Jiu-Jitsu least of all.

  Kathy Long made one of the sharper comments in the pre-fight banter with Wallace. When asked what her strategy would be, she answered, “I think the best thing to do is to go for something as quick as you can.”

  The McNichols Sports Arena was a nicely equipped 17,000-seat venue that housed the Denver Nuggets. This night, the UFC was handing out tickets, and about 5,000 spectators attended.

  I didn’t get to escort Royce or be in his corner—Gracies alone would be allowed—but as his training partner, I was given two front-row seats and laminated backstage passes for Elaine and myself. Rorion also gave me the important task of babysitting the gold medal to be awarded to the evening’s winner at the tournament’s conclusion. Helio, sharply dressed in a three-piece suit, sat a few seats down from me to survey the fruits of his early labors.

  As the lights finally dimmed and the UFC’s rambling guitar riff theme music was unveiled, everyone in the crowd stood. After his display the night before at the rules meeting, it was fitting that Teila Tuli was the first fighter to come walking out the entrance tunnel.

  With the traditional Samoan sarong draping his shoulders and waist, former sumo wrestler Tuli climbed the stage’s steps and entered the Octagon. Tuli, at six feet two and 410 pounds, was the largest and most physically striking of the eight participants, which was one reason why Rorion and Art had scheduled him for the first match.

  Next to enter was six-feet-five, 216-pound Dutch savate champion Gerard Gordeau. The art of savate relies heavily on foot strikes and is also referred to as French kickboxing or French footfighting. Gordeau did most of his training as a kickboxer in Holland.

  Referee João Alberto Barreto, Rorion’s choice because of his experience overseeing vale tudo fights in Brazil, gave a few brief instructions through a translator—yes, the referee had a translator.

  The Octagon door swung closed, the bell rang, and Gordeau and Tuli circled each other for only a few seconds. The heavier man charged at his opponent. Gordeau backpedaled quickly, throwing punches at Tuli’s o
utstretched arms until the Dutchman’s back brushed the fence and Tuli reached down for his legs. Gordeau simply circled out and Tuli fell forward.

  Tuli’s face, now level with Gordeau’s prime weapons, was an easy target. The crowd exploded as Gordeau’s foot cleanly hit it and one of Tuli’s teeth went flying through the chain link. It landed just a few rows away.

  “That’s it,” Elaine said, standing. She found her way to the nearest aisle, and I watched her climb the stairs to the upper level and walk right out of the arena.

  Me? I thought it was awesome. Everyone had thought Tuli would win, but I’d known the heavy guy wouldn’t be able to take this thing. I was enthralled by what I’d just witnessed, and I sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere. I wanted to see what happened next and who the best was.

  Inside the cage, referee Barreto had already made his first mistake of the evening. Under no uncertain terms, Rorion had explained that the fight could be stopped one of two ways: either the fighter tapped out or his corner could throw in the towel. Instead, Baretto himself had stepped in.

  Rorion wasn’t pleased. He hung over the cage’s top while Baretto sputtered out his questions in Portugeuse and pointed to Tuli’s bloody face and jack-o’-lantern smile. Rorion instructed Baretto to bring the fighter over to his cornermen, who were standing a few feet away.

  Barreto asked, “Is he ready to go?”

  One of Tuli’s cornermen opened the door, and the rest poured into the Octagon. A doctor who was called to the cage inspected Tuli and deemed him unfit to continue. Then Tuli’s brother threw in the towel.

  In merely twenty-six seconds, by technical knockout, Gordeau had become the winner of the first UFC fight in history. He’d also taken a few souvenirs to remember Tuli by: a broken hand courtesy of Tuli’s concrete head and one of the Hawaiian’s dislodged teeth embedded in the instep of his right foot.

  After the first fight, I went to see what Gordeau and Tuli looked like. Backstage, the whole mood had changed. Music wasn’t blaring, and fighters weren’t yelling or hitting their pads or chatting with their cornermen. It was a tomb, and everyone seemed to be thinking, Oh my God, this is real. That guy’s teeth just got kicked out of his mouth.