My Fight / Your Fight

by Ronda Rousey

  I stepped on the mat and was only seconds into my first match when I realized, These girls are not any stronger than I am. They were fifteen pounds heavier than the girls I had been fighting, but not any stronger. It was only then that I understood how much I had weakened myself at that lower weight.

  What was more, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I was enjoying myself. I realized that the making weight part of competition had become the whole tournament for me. Once that wasn’t an issue anymore, my focus was just on competing and having fun. I actually had a lot of fun the day I won the Austria World Cup. I had no expectations for myself, or for anybody else. I didn’t feel like I had to live up to anything. I just had to do as well as I could do.

  I used to say all the time, “Changing things is not that easy.”

  But it is just as easy as making up your mind. You can always make a decision. And if that decision doesn’t work, you can make another decision.

  WHEN DO YOU CROSS THE MAGICAL BOUNDARY THAT STOPS YOU FROM DREAMING BIG?

  As kids we’re taught to dream big and to think everything is possible: Win the Olympics. Be president. And then you grow up.

  People talk about how I’m so arrogant. They don’t realize how much work went into getting where I am. I worked so hard to be able to think highly of myself. When people say, “Oh, you’re so cocky. You’re so arrogant,” I feel like they’re telling me that I think too highly of myself. My question for them is: “Who are you to tell me that I need to think less of myself?”

  People want to project their own insecurities on others, but I refuse to allow them to put that on me. Just because you don’t think that you could be the best in the world doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t have the confidence to believe I can do anything.

  When I got back from Vienna, I was happy. I wasn’t starving myself anymore. I was winning tournaments. I had a wonderful boyfriend. I lived in a house with a bunch of people I liked. And while practices were grueling, sometimes they were even fun.

  I looked forward to Thursday practice all week, then when Thursday actually came, I counted the hours down until training. Since retiring from competition, Little Jimmy was around the club less, and on Thursdays, Big Jim worked at the fire station, so Rick Hawn ran the senior practice. One Thursday, Rick suggested we do a round of no gi grappling (matwork without a gi jacket to grip on to) at the end. It was the most fun any of us ever had at practice. From that practice on, we only did no gi grappling on Thursdays. We would get to the gym, Rick would turn on music, and the dozen or so of us at practice that night would just grapple. Big Jim knew we were doing no gi on Thursdays, but a lot of the stuff we were doing translated over to competition, so as long as we were working out, he didn’t care.

  Afterward, we would go to Chili’s. Having just turned twenty-one, I always ordered a strawberry margarita and sipped it slowly, enjoying the sweet cool drink and the camaraderie.

  We had just gotten back from Europe when a guy from Pedros’ invited us over to watch a fight at his house. There had been a big MMA event on Showtime that he had recorded while we were gone. We occasionally all got together to watch fights at people’s houses and just unwind. There was beer and pizza, and I helped myself to a slice. We piled into the living room as the fight was cued up. It had taken place on February 10, the same day I missed weight in Paris. I was not that into MMA, but my judo teammates loved it. It was all guys except for me and my housemate Asma Sharif. We were laughing and relaxed.

  The undercard fights were on. They were fun to watch, but unmemorable. Then Gina Carano and Julie Kedzie entered the cage. I was stunned; I didn’t even know women fought in MMA.

  When the fight came on, the entire room went quiet. I leaned in toward the TV. It was an all-out brawl. The house was going wild. I watched their every move. I kept seeing all the mistakes the girls were making, all their lost opportunities, and I knew, even then, even though I had never done MMA, that I could beat both of them.

  But what stuck with me even more than the girls’ performance that night was the way the guys in my house reacted to it. They were in awe. The girls were beautiful, yes, but the guys didn’t talk about them like they did the ring girls—the girls in bikinis holding up cards that say the round number—who they talked about as if they were strippers. When the guys were talking about the female fighters, they talked about their physical appearance with a level of admiration. The look I saw on their faces was respect. I had never gotten that kind of reaction from these guys, guys whom I trained with and sweated with every single day.

  Gina Carano won the fight in three rounds by unanimous decision and by the end of the fight, every guy in the room was talking about what badasses these girls were. And they were awesome, but I was also convinced that I could beat the crap out of both of them.

  I didn’t dare say that out loud. I knew everyone would laugh at me. So I kept it inside.

  I was training for the Beijing Olympics. I still wasn’t over my loss in Athens, this time I was going to take home the gold. Training was the focus of my every waking moment. So, when thoughts of MMA popped into my head, I just pushed them out.

  Then, one morning in the spring of 2007, I was walking to Home Depot in Wakefield, Massachusetts. Usually I’d grab a ride with Rick, but when our shifts didn’t overlap, I made the mile-and-a-half walk listening to pop music. Trees were starting to sprout leaves, but the New England winter hadn’t fully given way. Even though the sun was out, the air was brisk. I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. I carried the store’s signature bright orange apron in my hand, unwilling to put it on until I absolutely had to. Walking under the I-95 overpass, I bobbed my head to “Peanut Butter Jelly Time.” I envisioned the dancing banana from the YouTube video, and without realizing it I started choreographing my MMA victory dance as “It’s Peanut Butter Jelly Time. Peanut Butter Jelly Time” thumped through my headphones. My celebratory shuffle wasn’t all that different from the banana’s pixelated shimmy. “Where ya at? Where ya at?”

  Cars zoomed above me and I walked faster to the beat. It felt good. In judo, you could never do a victory dance, just a proper little bow. God forbid you do a fist pump after you win. A victory dance would have given the entire arena a coronary. But MMA was different. MMA seemed like the kind of sport that would appreciate a good victory dance.

  I imagined fighting, winning, and being embraced by my cornermen.

  I tried again to push it out of my head. It was a ridiculous fantasy. I redirected my thoughts to something more practical, winning the Olympics. I focused on standing atop the podium, a gold medal around my neck.

  I imagined the American flag being raised, the sound of “The Star Spangled Banner” echoing through the stadium. But as I summoned the sounds of imaginary cymbals smashing out “And the home of the brave,” I couldn’t help but give one shimmy to the sounds of “Where ya at? Where ya at?” actually coming out of my headphones.

  I gave up trying to fight it, and let my mind drift back to standing in the center of the Octagon, my hand raised as the crowd cheered around me. I imagined my teammates watching me on TV, cheering me on through the screen.

  If you can’t dream big, ridiculous dreams, what’s the point in dreaming at all?

  PEOPLE APPRECIATE EXCELLENCE NO MATTER WHO YOU ARE

  I have been booed in thirty countries. I have been booed following UFC victories. I’m more used to being booed by a crowd than I am being cheered. I have never been a fan favorite. Pretty much my entire competitive career has been defined by people hoping to see me lose.

  In the UFC, I’ve embraced the role of the villain. I don’t shy away from controversy. I don’t hold back when it comes to speaking my mind. That doesn’t always endear me to the masses. In a world that loves to root for the underdog, I’m always the favorite—and I always win.

  But there are moments where no matter who you are or what you represent, people will be so impressed by what they see that they will forget everything
else. If the performance is great enough, nothing else matters.

  My mom says that to be the best in the world, you need to be able to beat anyone twice on your worst day. She’s right, of course. But some days you wake up and you just know no one is going to fuck with you. That’s how I woke up in Rio de Janeiro the morning of the 2007 World Championships. I woke up ready to kill somebody.

  We had arrived in Rio a few days before, checking into El Motel—the Brazilian equivalent of Super 8. Some of my teammates were complaining about the rooms, but I didn’t need anything too fancy and, unlike at most tournaments, USA Judo was at least paying for my room.

  The day of competition I got up early so I could take the first shuttle to the weigh-in. I checked myself on my scale: seventy kilos on the dot. I was close, but was going to make weight without issue. On my way down to the lobby, I ran into Valerie Gotay. Valerie was lighter than me and had already fought.

  “Did you hear what happened?” she asked.

  I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Some guy at sixty-six kilos was running last night to make weight and he got stabbed,” she said.

  “Oh shit,” I replied.

  “Speaking of which, I’m heading out,” I said.

  “You know about the scale, right?” she asked.

  My eyes narrowed.

  “No, what?” These words right before a weigh-in are never followed by good news.

  “The ones we have are light,” she said, meaning the US teams’ scales were giving a reading that was less than one’s actual weight. The official scale was .4 kilos heavier, meaning I was nearly a pound overweight. If you step on the scale at the weigh-ins and miss weight, you can’t compete. You don’t get a second chance.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I shouted, throwing my bag on the hallway floor. Several heads in the lobby turned.

  I started to head back to my room.

  “Where are you going?” Valerie asked.

  “To my room!” I shouted over my shoulder. “It looks like I’m running to the weigh-ins, incompetent USA Judo motherfuckers.”

  I stormed into my room and pulled on my plastics, a pair of sweats made out of thin plastic. The suit prevents sweat from evaporating, keeping your body warm and making you sweat more. Then I layered my regular sweats over and pulled up my hood and headed back through the lobby, past the shuttle bus waiting to take the athletes to the weigh-in, and started running the mile to the tournament host hotel for the weigh-in.

  It was September in Rio, and the sun was already beating down. Sweat dripped down my face. I could feel the hot condensation building up on my skin inside my plastics. I was running fast, when it dawned on me this was the exact stretch of road where the sixty-six kilo guy had been stabbed the night before.

  If anyone tries to stab me today, they are gonna die, I thought. I was not in the mood to take shit from anyone.

  I had turned a corner when I saw a sign for the host hotel and a sprawling nine-star resort spread out behind it.

  “No fucking way,” I said out loud.

  This was the hotel where the USA Judo executives had booked themselves. I ran up the long manicured drive to the lobby doors. A burst of cool air hit me in the face as the bellman pulled the door open. The weigh-in room was not yet open, but there was a scale in a room across the lobby where athletes could check their weight. I walked in and pulled off my sweats and wet plastics. I stepped on the scale. 70.2.

  I growled. There is no worse physical sensation than putting on plastics again after you have already sweated in them. It is like pulling on a wet garbage bag, only it’s not dripping with water, it’s dripping with sweat and it sticks to your skin. I pulled my sweats over my plastics, headed back outside into the beating hot tropical sun and ran down Shank Road again, then I stormed back inside.

  As I walked back through the lobby, I saw the Japanese girl in my division coming out of the elevator. The Japanese team was staying here at the Hotel Deluxe Riviera Ritz. She was walking with two coaches, who had undoubtedly watched hours of her opponents’ footage, which they were likely discussing with her at that exact moment. She was wearing her sponsored designer sweats with her matching sponsored designer bag. But what pushed me over the fucking edge was that she was carrying a little tea kettle with a matching sponsored designer tea kettle warmer slipped over it.

  I about lost my mind.

  USA Judo had barely provided us matching sweats, so I sure as shit didn’t have a matching tea kettle warmer, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have it with me because it would have been back at El Motel and I would have to run back along Shank Road to go get the goddamn thing. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up as every muscle in my body tensed. I caught myself grinding my teeth. My fists were balled up so tightly that my nails were digging into my palms.

  You’re my first match, I said to her in my head. I’ll deal with you then.

  At the unofficial scale, I peeled off my plastics for a second time: seventy kilos. Now I had to go weigh in across the lobby. I looked at my pile of sweats on the floor. There was no way I was putting them back on. I wrapped myself in a towel and marched into the lobby. It was filled with athletes, tournament officials, coaches, referees, a few tourists. All heads turned as I passed by. I held my towel with one hand and looked straight ahead. If I could have walked through there with my middle finger up in the air and not have risked getting in trouble for violating some tournament rules of conduct, I would have.

  I walked into the room where the official weigh-ins were underway. Because it was the world championships, the organizers had everyone lined up. I was near the end of the line. I stared down each girl who walked by on her way out the door after making weight, making a mental note to destroy her when the tournament began. Finally, it was my turn. I weighed in, got some water, took the shuttle back to the hotel to get my things for the tournament and got ready to make these bitches pay.

  A favorite joke in judo circles is the Americans always have the worst draw, because it’s better to have an easy fight first and get warmed up. People always laugh when an American draws a Japanese in the first round. Judo started in Japan, and the Japanese take judo very seriously. It is not that hard to be the best in the United States in judo. To be the best in Japan, you have to be solid. Japan almost always dominates. The draw is posted at the coaches’ meeting the night before the tournament starts. Some people will map out their entire potential pool. I just took it one match at a time, never looking ahead to see who I might face.

  “Gonna have to beat ’em all anyway,” I figured.

  My match against the Japanese girl was early, so the stadium was only about a quarter filled. Still, I could hear the Japanese cheering section in full effect. Their cheer coordinator shouted something out, and as always, the Japanese fans returned the cheer. I never let the crowd impact me, but the crowd often influences the referees. I always made a point to gauge the atmosphere in order to know what the referees might be thinking, then I tuned the noise out.

  I stared across the mat at her.

  Fuck your tea kettle warmer, I thought.

  I made the match a brawl, which is the worst possible matchup for a Japanese fighter. They’re very traditional and focused on proper technique. I was hustling on the ground, spinning her off balance, throwing her all over the place.

  I wiped the mat with her, throwing her twice and winning by a waza-ari (half-point) and a yuko (roughly a quarter-point). She was scoreless.

  Next, I had Ylenia Scapin, a two-time Olympic medalist from Italy. We had never met before, so I didn’t know what to expect. The second you grab someone you feel the strength on them; it was immediately apparent that she was the strongest chick I had ever faced. Strong fighters present a different set of challenges. It’s much harder to break grips against them. Their defense is a lot better.

  Offensively, I wasn’t really scared of Scapin, but she was harder to grip with and harder to throw. Being strong
doesn’t necessarily make an opponent more threatening, but it makes them more difficult to control.

  I threw her for a waza-ari in the first minute of the match. She couldn’t score on me either.

  Then, I had Mayra Aguiar from Brazil, the hometown favorite in the quarterfinal. The arena had been steadily filling up and was now closing in on three-quarters full. In contrast to the Japanese fans with their cheer coordinator, the Brazilian fans were the complete opposite. Unadulterated pandemonium. The Brazilians were the craziest, most passionate crowd I had ever experienced. They were blaring blow horns and flying flags. One section was covered by a massive Brazilian flag the fans were holding up.

  They booed me as I walked onto the mat, chanting “You’re gonna die” in Portuguese. I noted the noise, assessing the impact it might have on the referees. I was going to have to win more definitively. Up against the roar of the crowd, I took her to the mat and pinned her for ippon with thirty seconds left on the clock. The Brazilian fans booed me viciously as I walked off the mat.

  I had made it to the semifinal. It would be a matchup between me and Edith Bosch, the reigning world champion. She was a six-foot Dutch chick with an eight-pack. I looked like a hobbit next to her.

  Bosch and I had fought for the first time at the German Open a month earlier. I was declared the winner of the match when she was disqualified for doing an illegal armbar on me. She had dislocated my elbow in the process.

  If I had a nemesis during my time competing at seventy kilos, it was Edith Bosch. You know how in movies where the hero fights off like five guys and is taunting “Is that all you got?” then turns around to find himself eyeball to belly button with a giant? Edith Bosch is that giant.

  I knew Bosch would be happy with the matchup. She thought she got an easy draw. I wanted to make sure this would be the last time she was ever glad about having to face me.

  The referee said, “Hajime” (begin). And what does Bosch do? The exact same move that got her disqualified in Germany again. And again, she dislocated my elbow. Only this time, the referee didn’t see it.