Let’s Get It On!
Page 29
Back home in the United States, Zuffa was winning some minor battles in its war to legitimize MMA. Around UFC 46 and 47, fan interest seemed to pick up a little with the introduction of the Couture-Liddell rivalry in the light heavyweight division.
The second true rivalry of the Zuffa era had been born out of chance. Couture, coming off two losses in the heavyweight division, had agreed to drop down a weight division and fight Liddell for the interim light heavyweight title after champion Tito Ortiz had turned down the matchup due to an injury. In reality, Ortiz hadn’t wanted to fight Liddell because he’d had a lot of problems sparring with him in the past. So while Ortiz had stayed out of the Octagon tending to injuries, movie roles, and other commitments, Couture had slid into the role as headliner against Liddell at UFC 43.
Most people hadn’t given the nearly forty-year-old Couture a chance against Liddell. I’d known Liddell would have to avoid the clinch, where Couture would surely try to trap him, and I’d thought he would tag Couture before he could get ahold of him. I was wrong. Couture outstruck Liddell and got a third-round stoppage in one of the most surprising fights ever in the UFC.
Their rematch at UFC 52 on April 16, 2005, at the MGM Grand Garden Arena in Las Vegas, was something different. In reaction to their first bout, most people now thought Liddell couldn’t beat Couture, though at this point Liddell had been on one hell of a run and had even taken out Ortiz at UFC 47 along the way. There was a real swing in public opinion for this fight, and the buildup from both appearing as coaches on The Ultimate Fighter made it even more interesting.
Outside our home in Agua Dulce with our English bulldog Tapout
Backstage, Liddell was his usual low-key self, but he was ready to go.
Couture is always easy in the locker room, smiling and joking. He never really shows a chink in the armor if he’s carrying in any problems. This night wasn’t any different.
I left both locker rooms unable to predict anything but that it would be a great fight.
It was. The rematch attracted over 12,000 paying fans for a $2.5 million gate, a record for Zuffa at the time. Liddell had his revenge, tagging Couture when he overcommitted to a punch and lost his balance along the fence. Couture was knocked out for the first time in his career, and I was right there to put a stop to any further beating from Liddell.
No matter who won, it was a great ending to the show. It was now clear that the UFC and the sport were heading into a brighter future.
“Skyscrape,” me, Ron, and the one and only Charles “Mask” Lewis
The actual first row seating at a show in Kuwait with manager extraordinaire Monte Cox
THE ART OF THE CRLL
They say that seeing is believing, but if you believe it, you will see it!
—Charles “Mask” Lewis Jr.
The most difficult thing about being a mixed martial arts referee is striving for that perfect bout where the fighters do everything right and you do everything right in response. It’s no different than sinking a long putt in golf: you’ll hit it now and then but not every time.
This job is all about stopping the fight at just the right second. I always think of a fight as a triangle with its point at the top. I can’t stop the fight on the right side, where the bout hasn’t completely played out and fans might feel it’s early, or the left side, where I’m letting a fighter take more damage than he should.
I aim for just the right point in time and sometimes hit it perfectly. I can’t overemphasize how important that can be in certain fights. A handful of seconds can determine whether a fighter will be able to leave the cage under his own power. I never felt this more than at UFC 64 “Unstoppable” on October 14, 2006, at the Mandalay Bay Events Center in Las Vegas, when middleweight champion and former Ohio math teacher Rich Franklin defended his title against Brazilian striker Anderson Silva.
Zuffa had tried for years to bring Silva into the promotion, and when he had finally signed, the former Chute Boxe fighter had annihilated brawler Chris Leben on his feet in forty-nine seconds in his Octagon debut nearly four months earlier.
We all knew the combination of Silva’s speed and accuracy with punches could make him dangerous, but none of us were quite prepared for the way he would handle Franklin.
When Franklin and Silva clinched, I could see right away that Franklin couldn’t get out of the Brazilian’s plumb, a grip in which Silva locked his hands behind Franklin’s neck to keep him close. Now, this was the champion of the world at the time, so you couldn’t say he hadn’t been taught this. In the heat of the moment, Franklin just didn’t respond with an effective countermove. What he’d been taught and what had worked for him in the past weren’t working against the skill level Silva brought to the cage. I think Franklin thought he would be able to muscle his way out of it, but when he tried to weave his hands inside to replumb and establish the dominant position, Silva’s hold was too tight.
Franklin took some huge knee shots to his midsection while he stood helpless in Silva’s grip. Maybe when you’re watching from the outside, a knee to the body doesn’t seem like a big deal. Trust me, it’s a big deal. It knocks the life right out of you.
Every time Franklin wiggled free from Silva’s grip, Silva would just clamp it back on. After a while, I didn’t even look at Silva; I just kept moving to every angle so I wouldn’t lose sight of Franklin’s face.
They always say a fighter has a puncher’s chance, but in instances like these, it’s just a saying. Now it becomes a matter of when a referee can get the fighter out because he’s overwhelmed and can’t protect himself.
That was my job that night. It just happened that it was for the middleweight championship of the world, and nobody had expected a domination like that. I hit the triangle perfectly that night at that point when Franklin went down from a final knee that crushed his nose into his face. Three minutes into the bout, I called it off. If I’d let it go longer, who knows what else Franklin would have left with besides a broken nose.
The right moment isn’t always so clear, and sometimes I’ve let bouts go longer than I should have. It’s never on purpose; I always worry about a fighter taking too much damage. But it’s never an exact science because no two fights are alike.
A bout I think I let go too long was at UFC 63 “Hughes vs. Penn” on September 23, 2006, at the Honda Center in Anaheim. Rashad Evans took on Jason Lambert, and I read that fight all wrong. I gave Lambert too much credit and Evans not enough.
Evans, the winner of season two of The Ultimate Fighter, mounted Lambert and began throwing down strikes. Lambert was trying to fire back, but he was absorbing too many shots. He got hurt and went out cold before I registered that it was time to step in. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.
As soon as I walked out of that cage, I was thinking about that fight. I constantly dissect fights like this to figure out where I screwed up, where I should have stopped them, and why I didn’t. I never stop thinking about them.
Every time I run into Lambert, I think of this fight. Even though I’ve refereed Lambert in fights where he’s had great victories, none of those come to mind. Rashad Evans does.
I don’t like to see any athlete get hurt or embarrassed in front of his family, friends, and fans because I stopped a bout too early or too late.
When I step into the cage in search of that perfect fight, I always tell myself to be in the moment. I block everything else out. No cameraman tells me where to stand or to get out of the way, though a few brave ones have tried. I stand where I have the optimum vantage point, and no one else determines where that is.
Most people think they could referee as they sit on their couches and are fed multiple camera angles one after the other. But they really have no idea what it’s like to be the person inside the cage with the fighters. Every bout a referee walks into can be the one that goes desperately wrong.
Everyone on the outside—every fan watching in the arena or from home—has an interest in watching the fight, but that’s
as far as it goes. If something goes wrong, they can walk away. They don’t know what it’s like to be the one with two lives in his hands.
I’m always looking for which fighter is starting to win the fight and which one is starting to receive more damage. I’ve learned to stand on the open side of the weaker fighter, where I’ll be able to read them the fastest. I have a signal for doctors when they enter the cage to let them know if I think the fight should be stopped, though it’s always their final decision.
The last thing a referee thinks about in the cage is the fans. If the crowd boos, the crowd boos. Entertaining the audience is not in a referee’s job description, but protecting the fighter is. Everything else is a distraction.
A referee can’t get caught up in the distractions, including his own fears. Am I going to make the right call? Will I screw up? These are valid questions, but they can’t dictate my actions. What I have to do is slow things down. I have criteria to follow, and when the time comes I do what I’m supposed to do.
A referee has to try to be selfless. The media always says a good referee is the one you don’t even notice in the cage. Personally, I don’t care whether I’m on TV or in a ballroom refereeing a match where nobody sees me. As long as it’s a good, competitive fight, I’m happy.
Still, just like the fighters, almost every referee wants to do the big fights. Some beg to be in the main event on TV, but they’re not there for the right reasons. When they finally get that fight and feel the pressure, many of them freeze.
I guess one of the greatest fears a referee can have is looking stupid getting hit or even knocked out in the cage. I’ve never thought about that once in there. In this line of work, you’re going to get hit. All the time, I see referees go in for a stoppage and turn their heads or stick their butts into the fighters and fall on them to avoid getting hit. A referee shouldn’t be concerned about getting hurt. He should be making sure the fighter he’s stopping the bout to protect doesn’t get hit again. If he gets hit in the process, then he’s done the right thing. I know the job I signed up for, and I just try to protect my chin.
I also always tell myself that things won’t go the way I want them to. Weird things can happen in a fight, so I have to be ready for anything. In my eighteen years of officiating, I’ve seen a lot, but I’m positive I still haven’t seen it all. I’ve been in the Octagon when fighters have farted, and I’ve had to keep a straight face. I’ve listened to full-blown conversations between fighters as they beat the piss out of one another. I’ve been there midfight when the arena’s lights have gone out, leaving me in the pitch black with two fighters grappling at my feet. I’ve been there when fighters have accidentally soiled their shorts, but everybody had to keep going.
Being a referee isn’t always fun or comfortable. I’ve had to tell fighters to take a shower before bouts because they smelled so bad I believed they’d have an unfair advantage.
A referee won’t always be popular. Everyone will have an opinion about the job I do, whether good or bad. If I have to make a decision or stop the fight for some reason, half the fans will think I did the right thing and the other will think I sucked. Journalists will sometimes write about me, and I’ll wish that for once in their lives they could really just get a clue or be in a referee’s shoes in that flash of a second in the cage. I’ve had to learn to take critiques in stride. I’ll never make everybody happy.
What makes it all rewarding is the relationships I’ve gained. I don’t know if it’s because the rest of the world has always seemed to be against it, but mixed martial arts has always felt like a family to me. I see the managers, agents, cornermen, cutmen, and fighters at show after show and know we all share a common bond.
I cherish my friendships with people like Monte Cox, still the most understatedly powerful manager and one of the funniest SOBs in the business. I met Cox around UFC 13, when he asked me for an autograph for his son. Cox would go on to manage three UFC champions simultaneously and oversee the careers of some of the most famous fighters from Pat Miletich’s camp, like Matt Hughes and Jens Pulver. I enjoyed talking with Cox about the fighters and potential matchups over our meals at the shows. I didn’t always agree with him, but he has a great knack for telling his funny fighter stories. Cox would do just about anything for his fighters. He’s even let some of them live with him and his family while they’ve gotten their starts.
Cutmen like Leon Tabbs and Jacob “Stitch” Duran, fight coordinator Burt Watson, Nevada State Athletic Commission Representative Colleen Murphy, and others are the real people of the sport, the ones who go above and beyond behind the scenes to make it as great as it is. And then, of course, there are the fighters.
I don’t have a favorite fighter. I like them all. I’m not saying that to be impartial. They’re all different, but they all have the balls to step up and do what others are afraid to. What most people don’t understand is the fear involved with going out there. It’s not so much a fear of the fight but of failure. You’re putting yourself out there for everyone to judge you.
When you’re an NFL player and you go out on the field with the rest of your team, you can hide. There’s a chance you’ll be exposed in that play you don’t get right, but most of the game, you’re shielded among the rest of your team.
In fighting, there’s no hiding. All eyes are on you and your opponent. When you’re out there in the cage, with the lights blaring and the crowd cheering and camera bulbs flashing, it’s incredibly stressful. Fighters are surrounded by all these people—trainers, family members, teammates, cornermen, and fans—expecting so much and judging their skill based on this one fight. “You’re only as good as your last fight,” as the popular saying goes.
It’s how fighters handle the pressure that gives me so much respect for them. It also tells me a lot about who they are. I get to see a lot of this firsthand backstage. Some fighters are laughing and joking as if they’ve almost forgotten they’re about to go out in front of thousands to show what they’ve got. Then there are the ones throwing up, not communicating, or standing still while their minds are going a thousand miles an hour. If I could bet on the sport, I’d be a rich man. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve left the locker rooms knowing exactly which fighter would win.
Not a lot of people can climb into the cage and lay it all on the line. That’s what makes fighters special. They can.
Maybe because of their hazardous choice of occupation, fighters often have great senses of humor. A lot of them are pranksters, which is something I can appreciate, of course. I’ve had some funny moments with fighters over the years, but I think Scott Smith, a middleweight from California who’s fought for both the UFC and Strikeforce, got me the best.
I was making my usual rounds backstage one night when Smith told me he had a problem. I don’t remember if he was fighting or cornering a teammate that night, but he looked concerned, and my natural response was to help him if I could.
“I think I have a hernia,” Smith told me, “but I don’t want to show the doctors.”
With an entire roomful of cornermen standing around, Smith walked me to the side for a little privacy. There, he pulled out the waistline of his pants and motioned for me to take a peek.
“What do you think?” he asked seriously.
I looked down to see he’d positioned one of his testicles to protrude from his shorts at its maximum density.
The room erupted in laughter. I’d fallen right into it, and, yeah, it was a good one.
Sometimes it’s hard for fans to grasp that fighters are people too. Being around them so much, I really get a sense of who they are, especially after watching them grow up in the cage over years of shows. I’m a referee, and I’m impartial when I step into the cage, but I’ve certainly been touched by fighters and others who have traveled through the sport, some right alongside me.
I was deeply affected by the death of former UFC middleweight champion Evan Tanner, who succumbed to heat exposure while in a California desert in Se
ptember of 2008. Elaine and I had both watched the quiet but intellectual Tanner struggle with alcoholism when we’d first met him at UFC 18. Tanner would drink heavily at the after parties, sometimes to the point that he wouldn’t remember what he’d done.
One night, Tanner got especially inebriated, picked up Elaine, put her on his shoulder, and refused to put her down. Then he fell and dropped Elaine on her head. We weren’t sure he remembered it until he brought it up in an interview years later while talking about his alcoholism and how embarrassed he was that he’d done that to her. Tanner apologized to Elaine shortly after that.
Still, Tanner was a self-made fighter and a darn good one at that. A loner by nature, he learned jiu-jitsu by watching videos, before later joining the formidable Team Quest with Randy Couture, Matt Lindland, and Dan Henderson in Oregon. We watched Tanner win the UFC middleweight title against David Terrell at UFC 51 only to lose it four months later. Tanner’s journey to a UFC championship title was unique, which is why I think many people were inspired by him. His first teacher was his VHS player, but that didn’t stop him from becoming a champion.
I was also impacted when Charles Lewis Jr., a clothing entrepreneur of the famous Tapout brand, died in a car accident in 2009. Lewis, known as “Mask” because he always wore colorful superhero-like makeup, championed the sport and preached its merits as he sold his Tapout T-shirts from the trunk of his car in event parking lots.
Lewis was an incredibly giving person and became quite close to my family. My youngest son wore Tapout wristbands for nearly a year straight until we ordered him to take them off because they were so filthy, and I know my daughter had a crush on Lewis for quite some time. I even named one of my English bulldogs Tapout. At events, I always knew when Lewis and the Tapout crew were approaching because he’d yell, “Biiiig Joooohn!” from across the crowded room. It always embarrassed me, but I knew I had a true friend in Lewis.