My Fight / Your Fight

by Ronda Rousey

  Athletes who dope don’t believe in themselves.

  I train to beat anyone. I hold myself to the standard that I need to be good enough to beat people whether or not they’re doping. I would never publicly name an opponent who hasn’t tested positive, but there are opponents who I definitely knew were doping. There are opponents whom I have strongly suspected of doping. There are opponents who have later been popped for doping. Just looking at the prevalence of doping in sports, fighting someone using performance-enhancing drugs is inevitable. It pisses me off. But I have beaten those girls all the same.

  The one thing they couldn’t inject into their asses is belief.

  KNOW WHEN TO MOVE ON

  Taking the next step isn’t always easy. People stay in jobs they’ve outgrown because they’re afraid of having to prove themselves anew. People stay in unhappy relationships because they’re afraid of being alone. Athletes stick with a coach who can’t help them develop further because they are afraid of being tested, of not measuring up to someone else’s standards, because they’re afraid to upset someone they care about. They let fear hold them back.

  If you’re unwilling to leave someplace you’ve outgrown, you will never reach your full potential. To be the best, you have to constantly be challenging yourself, raising the bar, pushing the limits of what you can do. Don’t stand still, leap forward.

  The first time I met Jim Pedro, aka Big Jim, was at the 2003 senior nationals. I was less than a month out from having my ACL repaired and still on crutches. I couldn’t compete, but the tournament was in Las Vegas, a four-hour drive from L.A. We already had a room reservation, and at the very least, I could scope out the women I would be competing against when I returned from my injury.

  But, as I sat on a metal folding chair at the Riviera Hotel, attending the tournament seemed like the worst idea ever. My mom had hoped I would be motivated to get back. But watching girls I knew I could beat battle it out for what should have been my medal was unbearable.

  Tears of anger welled up in my eyes.

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” a gravelly voice asked me.

  I looked up. The man standing next to me looked like a cross between Santa Claus and a guy you’d meet at the Jersey shore. He had curly white hair and a bushy mustache. He was wearing a polo shirt, and a large tuft of chest hair was visible at the neck.

  “I’m supposed to be out there,” I said between sniffles. “I could have won.”

  He looked down at my leg extended in the large black brace.

  “Kinda hard to compete with that thing on ya leg.” He had a thick New England accent.

  I nodded. Then I told him how this was supposed to be my year, how this tournament was supposed to have been my senior-level debut, and how my entire plan had been derailed. Tears were running down my face by the time I finished.

  “Well, the way I see it, you have two choices,” the guy said. “You can sit here and cry about it. That’s one. But if I was you, I’d go to the gym and train and get stronger than a couple of ox. Make it even easier to beat all these girls when you come back. Then when you get better, you can come train with me.”

  I straightened up a bit in my chair. He was right.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Ronda Rousey,” I said.

  He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet ya, Ronda. I’m Jim Pedro, but you can just call me Big Jim.”

  Everyone in judo had heard of his son—Jimmy Pedro, aka Little Jimmy—who had won the world championships in 1999. Big Jim was his coach.

  When I returned from Vegas, I was more driven than ever to get back on the mat. I was going to come back stronger than anyone expected. In my US Open debut, I shocked pretty much everyone except for my mom and myself. I always knew I was going to be the top American athlete in my division. It was simply a matter of time. Now, my time had come.

  Trace Nishiyama, who I’d been training with since I was eleven, is an amazing coach. He was never possessive. Most judo clubs only have practice twice a week. But I needed—and wanted—to practice more, so my mom mapped out what clubs were good and who had practice what nights. Then the two of us would hop in the car, often just as rush hour was beginning, and move through traffic at a crawl so I could train daily. We spent the weekday evenings crisscrossing the L.A. area to practice at various dojos and weekends at tournaments.

  My mom and I spent upwards of thirty hours a week in the car on the way to and from practice. Our conversations often centered on judo, but ranged from insights she saw in watching me train to mental strategy. My favorite stories, however, were the ones from when she was competing, many of which involved much younger and more colorful versions of the coaches I knew.

  Where some coaches feel threatened seeing their athletes train at other clubs, Trace didn’t mind. Trace knew how to do a killer drop shoulder throw and he taught me how to do one, but he also knew there were coaches who knew how to do other moves better than him. He encouraged me to learn from them as well. And I did. But, by the time I was fifteen, it was clear that I needed more than Trace or any other coach in L.A. had to offer. This was a moment my mom had been preparing me for since I began showing an extraordinary combination of promise and drive as a thirteen-year-old kid.

  “At some point, you’ll have to move on,” my mom told me. “That’s a mistake people make. They get comfortable and stay at the same place a long time. But after a while, people run out of what they can teach you. Eventually, you’ll know ninety percent of what a coach can teach you. When that happens, you’re best served going somewhere else. The new coach might not be any better than the one you have, but will be able to teach you something you don’t already know. That’s what it takes to improve. You’ve always got to be looking ahead to that next step.”

  By the time I was sixteen, I was ready to take that next step.

  Just after Thanksgiving in 2003, I walked into the community center where the club was located. As always, the place smelled of delicious Japanese food, coming from the cooking classes happening in one of the rooms adjacent to the gym. I had arrived a little early and the room was still largely empty.

  Trace was setting up the mats. He looked up, surprised to see me. I was never early.

  “Hey, Ronda,” he said.

  I smiled, weakly. “Hey, Trace.”

  “What’s up?” he asked. “Everything OK?”

  I helped him position the blue crash pads.

  My voice choked up, and it all came pouring out. I explained to him that, since the US Open, the whole trajectory of my life felt as if it had accelerated. Things were moving so much faster than I had expected. I told him it had been an honor to be a part of his club for so many years and that I wouldn’t be where I was without him, but that I had reached a point where I needed more. I told him I was going out to Boston in a couple of weeks and that I might end up training at the Pedros’ club. I told Trace I didn’t want him to be upset with me for leaving. By the end of the conversation, I was crying.

  Trace wrapped an arm around me. “You got to go to grow, kid.”

  I felt like a weight had been lifted, like I was a little dove whose cage had been opened to be set free.

  I will always love and appreciate Trace, not just for what he taught me, but also for recognizing when the day came that he couldn’t teach me any more.

  The practice that followed was an emotional one. As I helped put up the mats, I looked around the room at my coaches, my teammates, their parents, their siblings. I was struck by the realization that soon I would walk out of the club doors for the final time and probably never see many of them ever again. I started to cry. The fact that no one asked me why I was crying made it even worse, not because I wanted someone to ask, but because it showed that these people really knew me. I cried all the time—when I got thrown, when I got frustrated at practice, when I opened my judo bag and realized I’d forgotten my belt, when I got cut in front of while in line for the water fountain. Now I was off t
o a new place where they wouldn’t know that I cried all the time and would ask me why I was crying. I would feel pressured to stop crying, which only makes me cry more.

  On the way out to the car, I paused in front of our club trophy case. Several of my medals and trophies were on display. I looked at the Player of the Year trophy awarded to the top athlete from the club. I had won it four years straight. Suddenly, the idea that I would never win it again seemed overwhelming. Everything was going to change. While I knew it was the right decision, while I had my coach’s blessing, while it was the inevitable next step I had been preparing for, it was still hard.

  The next morning, my mom showed me an email that Trace had written to the Pedros. He told them he was entrusting me to their care, that I had tremendous potential, and that they should let him know if I ever needed anything.

  That’s a person who actually cares about you.

  My mom knew about what it took to become a world-class athlete; she knew I needed a new coach who could take me to the next level as an elite international competitor; and she knew that meant I had to leave home, but she left the choice up to me.

  “There isn’t a best coach, there’s a best coach for you,” my mom told me. “You’re not picking your coach to suit your mom or your friends or the people who run USA Judo, you need to pick the coach who is going to be the best person to coach you.” (USA Judo is the sport’s national governing body.)

  She had started sending me to the top clubs around the country for camps and clinics when I was thirteen, so I could check clubs and coaches out with an eye toward the future.

  I ended up with new friends around the country, but none of the clubs I had visited had felt right. I didn’t get that inexplicable, you-know-it-when-you-feel-it feeling.

  In January 2004, I boarded a plane to Boston.

  Beyond our brief meeting at the senior nationals, I didn’t know much about Big Jim. He was known for his expertise when it came to groundwork. In addition to coaching Little Jimmy to a world championship, he had trained half a dozen Olympians and close to one hundred junior and senior national champions. Moreover, my mom approved of him, and my mom’s seal of approval is harder to earn than a Nobel Prize.

  Big Jim is tough. He might be as hairy as a teddy bear, but that’s where any comparisons between him and something cuddly end. He has a booming voice and a furious intensity. He will tell you in no uncertain terms when he thinks you’re doing a shit job. He openly admitted to having slapped a referee. His personality made him a polarizing figure within judo, but no one ever questioned his knowledge and ability as a coach.

  I went out to the Pedros’ club on a trial basis. Walking off the airplane at Logan Airport, I felt a wave of nervous excitement. Big Jim had left an impression on me.

  I was also going to be training with Jimmy Pedro. A month or so after I had met Big Jim, Jimmy came to L.A. to do a clinic. I was coming off my knee surgery, but determined to attend. Jimmy Pedro was one of the most decorated American athletes in judo history and the guy I looked up to as a kid in the sport. I could not wait to meet Jimmy, but was disappointed that my injury limited my ability to participate.

  I spent the day relegated to what I referred to as “Ronda’s Happy Corner of Matwork,” where I grappled the entire time. I couldn’t use my leg at all. As the afternoon session wrapped up, the event organizer made an announcement.

  “Following this session, we ask you all to stay as Jimmy Pedro will be presenting awards,” he said. “These are awards that Jimmy has determined himself. Afterward, Jimmy will be signing autographs.”

  The disappointment I had felt on the way to the clinic returned, only worse.

  “Can we leave?” I asked my mom.

  “I thought you wanted him to sign your belt,” my mom said.

  “I just want to go,” I said.

  “OK,” she shrugged.

  I was hobbling over to get my bag, when Jimmy walked to the front of the room.

  “First of all, thank you so much for coming out here today,” Jimmy said. The room cheered.

  “I was really impressed by everyone,” he continued. “I see a lot of potential when I look around this room.”

  Dozens of kids sitting cross-legged on the mats suddenly straightened up. I felt my eyes start to burn. There were more than one hundred kids from around the L.A. area at the clinic, and I knew I was better at judo than every single one of them. I also knew there was no way I was getting an award.

  “The first award, is one that I hope will soon be near and dear to my heart,” Jimmy said with a smile. “This is the ‘Future Olympic Champion’ award.”

  The room laughed as if Jimmy had told a hilarious joke. A three-time Olympian who had won bronze in 1996, Jimmy was making one final push at an Olympic gold.

  Jimmy called the name of a boy who jumped up, cheering as if he had actually won the Olympics.

  I shoved everything into my bag as fast as I could.

  “The next award I want to give out today is one that is certainly near and dear to my heart—‘Future World Champion,’” Jimmy said.

  At the mention of world champion, the room burst into applause.

  “And the winner is . . .”—Jimmy paused for dramatic effect—“Ronda Rousey.”

  I froze, then dropped my bag. I felt my cheeks flush as every head in the place turned to look at me.

  “Go up there,” my mom urged as the room applauded.

  I limped up to the front of the room to shake Jimmy’s hand. He picked me as future world champion, I thought. Me. I was thrilled and flattered and in disbelief.

  I waited in line to get his autograph after the impromptu ceremony.

  “Ronda Rousey,” he said, grinning when it was my turn to approach the table.

  I still couldn’t believe he knew my name.

  He grabbed one of the photographs provided by the event organizers for him to sign.

  He scribbled out a message with a Sharpie and handed the paper to me. I looked down at the photo in my hands.

  To Ronda, Keep training hard and see you at the top. Jimmy Pedro.

  I read and re-read the words “see you at the top” the entire way home. I was overwhelmed by the idea that he had faith that I had so much potential that someday I would be at the pinnacle of the sport like he was.

  When we got home, I taped the photo on my wall, where I looked at it through the rest of my recovery.

  Now a blast of cold air hit me as I stepped onto the Jetway, pulling me back into the present. But reality seemed surreal. If this worked out, Big Jim was going to be my coach. I would be training with Little Jimmy.

  After two weeks, I called my mom.

  “This is the place,” I said. “Big Jim is the coach.”

  “OK,” my mom said. “We’ll figure something out.”

  FIND FULFILLMENT IN THE SACRIFICES

  People love the idea of winning an Olympic medal or a world title. But what few people realize is that pretty much every second leading up to the actual win is uncomfortable, painful, and impossibly daunting—physically and mentally. Most people focus on the wrong thing: They focus on the result, not the process. The process is the sacrifice; it is all the hard parts—the sweat, the pain, the tears, the losses. You make the sacrifices anyway. You learn to enjoy them, or at least embrace them. In the end, it is the sacrifices that must fulfill you.

  I didn’t want to move away from my family at sixteen. And I certainly didn’t want to move away to some little town along the Massachusetts–New Hampshire border to live with people I didn’t know. But I wanted to win the Olympics one day. I wanted to be the world champion. I wanted to be the best judoka in the world. And I was willing to do whatever it took.

  My mom, Big Jim, and Jimmy decided it would be best if I stayed with Little Jimmy and his family.

  “Ronda’s going to be like your new big sister,” Jimmy’s wife, Marie, said to their three young kids the day I arrived at their house.

  I slept on a futon in
their home office, which should have been a warning that the arrangement wouldn’t last. At first I ate too much food. So my mom paid Jimmy more money for more food, but the situation got worse, not better. The closet where I was keeping all of my things was deemed too disorganized. I left too much water on the floor after I showered. I forgot to put dishes in the sink. I tried my absolute hardest, but it felt like the harder I tried, the more I messed up. I called my mom crying every day.

  The final straw came three weeks later when the son of a family friend of the Pedros asked Jimmy if he could stay at their house for a week while he came to train at the club. The guy, Dick IttyBitty (possibly not his real name), was in his early twenties, and we had met at a camp in Chicago just before I moved to Massachusetts. My mom didn’t like the idea of a twenty-something guy staying at the same house as me. Big Jim also thought it was a bad idea. Still Little Jimmy and Marie were debating whether to let him stay when Marie sent my mom an email asking what she would do.

  My mom typed up her reply: You asked me what I would do. I would never allow it in a million years. It’s a terrible fucking idea. Then my mom hit Send.

  The next night Jimmy, with Marie standing beside him, told me, “It’s just not working out.”

  I stared at them both, speechless and embarrassed. I was a sixteen-year-old kid who just wanted to do judo. I was heartbroken. I had finally found my place, my coach, and now, it was being ripped away from me. I made another tearful phone call to my mom.

  “Don’t worry about it,” my mom said. “We’ll figure something out.”

  Big Jim ended up taking me in. Mom offered to pay for my living expenses, just like she had paid Jimmy, but he refused to accept any money. Big Jim lived in a small house on a lake in the middle of nowhere New Hampshire, right outside the greater Boston area. Living at Big Jim’s was boring as hell. But more than that, it was lonely.

  Big Jim knows more about coaching judo than possibly anyone else in the country, but he’s not exactly the social type and we didn’t have much to say to one another anyway. He was a several-times divorced New England fireman who liked to smoke cigars (or cig-ahs as he called them). He had a permanent tobacco stain in his white mustache. I was a girl who read science fiction and drew pictures in a sketchpad.