My Fight / Your Fight

by Ronda Rousey

  I glanced at my limp elbow, then back at Bosch with a look that said, “Are you fucking kidding me?” I could not believe she had pulled this shit again. I could not believe she was going to get away with it. I looked back to the referee. Nothing.

  I wanted to scream. But arguing was pointless. A shooting pain quickly brought me back into the moment. I had never forfeited a match in my life, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to quit in the semifinal of the world championship.

  I braced myself. I tensed my left arm and took a deep breath. With my right hand, I grabbed my forearm just below the dislocated elbow and pushed as hard as I could. Pop. The joint snapped back into place. The manipulation hurt like a bitch, but as soon as my elbow was back where it belonged, the sharp pain dulled to a barely tolerable ache.

  I glared across the mat at Bosch. She showed absolutely no remorse, which only made me angrier. Looking straight at her, I shook out my arm, and thought, Fuck you, bitch, I’m going to keep going.

  Bosch scored on me about halfway through a five-minute match, putting me behind. She tried to avoid any contact with me over the next two minutes, hoping to stall long enough to run out the clock. Her plan was working.

  There were thirty seconds left. I said like nineteen million prayers. I looked up toward the rafters and had what felt like an incredibly long conversation with God.

  “Please, God, help me,” I pleaded. “Please help me figure this out, this one match.”

  The clock was ticking down.

  29 seconds. Please God. I went in for a grip.

  28. Please God. Bosch pushed me off.

  27. Please God. I went in to grab her again.

  26. Please God. Bosch moved like she was going to attempt to throw me.

  25. Please God. She did not have a chance in hell of throwing me.

  24. Please God. I made my move. I timed it perfectly.

  23. Please God. I grabbed Bosch, one-handed with the arm of the elbow she had dislocated.

  22. Please God. I turned, the leverage pulling Bosch off the ground and over my head. She went sailing through the air, in front of God and everyone.

  21. Please God. Bam! She landed on the ground on her back for ippon. I had won instantly.

  20. Thank you, God!

  Bosch lay facedown on the mat for a moment, as if she could not believe she had lost.

  The place exploded. The entire arena had been watching our fight, and everyone in the building lost their minds after seeing my David-and-Goliath moment. The whole crowd erupted, cheering for me.

  The applause had nothing to do with who I was or where I was from. In that moment, they didn’t care—they had seen something amazing happen.

  My match against Bosch was the only time I got cheered for in judo. It was the most exciting moment of my judo career, but the elation was short-lived as I tried to block out my throbbing elbow and my focus immediately shifted to the final.

  I faced Gévrise Émane of France in the championship and got called for a bullshit penalty in the first minute, which put me immediately behind. She scored on me a few seconds later with a throw that was questionable at best as far as whether it was a legitimate scoring takedown. I scored on a throw halfway through the match, bringing me within a minor score of tying the match—that is until the referees conferred and reversed the decision giving the score to my opponent. Firmly ahead on points, she spent the rest of the match running from me. She got a stalling penalty with less than a minute to go, then sprinted away from me in the final seconds of the match.

  The world championship had slipped through my fingers. Every time I closed my eyes, even to blink, I saw Émane throwing her arms in the air in jubilation. I had no one to blame but myself. I had let it come down to points. I had failed. It hurt to breathe.

  After the competition had ended for the day, I walked up into the stands where the crowd had been cheering for me so loudly hours before. I had to call my mom back home, but I couldn’t do it yet. Making that call would require finding the strength to say: I lost. My gut twisted. I climbed to the very top of the seats. The arena was nearly empty. I settled myself at the end of a row of seats, up against a corner, pulled my knees up to my chest, and cried harder than I ever had since Dad died.

  A LOSS IS STILL A LOSS, BUT IT’S BETTER TO GO OUT IN FLAMING GLORY

  I’ve always gone for the finish, giving my all until the very end. The idea of losing while playing it safe is appalling to me. I just can’t stand the idea of not leaving everything out there. I would rather take a big risk and throw a Hail Mary, hoping it will work, instead of playing it safe in those last few seconds and losing the decision. I wouldn’t be able to live with the regret that would come from wishing that I’d tried something crazy at the end instead. I don’t gamble on the hope that maybe it could go my way with the judges. I throw everything on the line while it’s still in my hands.

  I will never be OK with losing, but losing in the wrong way, losing with regret, can take your pride away. I’ve never chosen to lose that way.

  After Rio, all of my energies shifted toward Beijing. The Olympics were less than a year away. When I wasn’t training for the Games, I was thinking about them. I knew there wasn’t a single person in my division that I could not beat, but some competitors would be tougher than others. Bosch would be among them. Cuban players always posed a challenge. The Cuban team was deep, so I wouldn’t know who I was facing until their Olympic team was announced, but each one of their girls at seventy kilos was amazing. Collectively, the team was known for diving at your legs repeatedly to attempt a takedown. Their strengths played to my weaknesses. I dedicated myself to eradicating any area of vulnerability.

  From the moment I stepped off the mat in Athens, I had been driven by a singular goal: Win the Olympics. It consumed me.

  A lot had changed since my Olympic debut. Heading into Athens in 2004, I had about four months to prepare mentally and physically. Back then, I was largely unknown on the international scene. I had been considered a dark horse to make the team up until I won the senior nationals that April and I was coming off of knee surgery. By contrast, I spent four years preparing for Beijing. One of the top five in the world in my division, I was no longer under the radar. I had built up an impressive résumé of international wins, compiling a record rivaled by only one other woman in the history of US judo: my mother.

  In 2004, the question people were asking was “Can Ronda win the Olympic Trials?” In 2008, the question became “Can Ronda win the Olympics?” No American woman had even medaled in the Olympics since judo became an official sport in 1992. I was America’s best chance.

  The first thing I noticed when we stepped out of the airport in China was the smog. The air felt thicker as you inhaled it, and at the end of the day, it was as if you could feel an invisible layer of grime on your skin. The heat made it worse.

  Every stadium and every building was state-of-the-art. In Athens, it was obvious they got to a point where they had to cut corners. A dirt patch where a garden would have been. A half-dug trench originally mapped out as an artificial river. The Olympic Village at Beijing was pristine. There wasn’t a flower petal out of place. The athlete dorms were imposing yet inviting high-rises that resembled luxury apartments.

  At times, it seemed almost too perfect, artificial. If you walked through the city and glanced behind large billboards constructed in odd locations, you would catch glimpses of abandoned, trash-filled lots hidden behind brightly decorated facades.

  The Opening Ceremonies were hot and humid, and the US Olympic Committee decided to outfit us in blazers, long-sleeved button-up shirts, pants, newsboy caps, and ascots. When my teammates and I tried to take our scarves off, a Team USA official reprimanded us.

  “Put them back on, Ralph Lauren is watching,” she hissed as if we were small children in trouble.

  “Seriously, though, did he not know that we were going to be wearing these outfits in China in the summer when he designed these?” I asked.


  She shot me a dirty look. I really didn’t care. I wasn’t there to win friends or fashion accolades. I was there to win Olympic gold.

  My opening match I faced a girl from Turkmenistan. I had never heard of her, but that can be dangerous. We stood in line with our coaches and basket holders, and Israel Hernández, the only member of the USA Judo coaching staff that I had any respect for, turned to me.

  “Todo es fé, Ronda.” My Spanish is limited, but I heard him say this a lot: Faith is everything.

  “I know,” I said.

  I threw her in the opening seconds of the match, then pinned her to win by ippon in a little over a minute. I was just getting warmed up.

  Next round, I had Katarzyna Pilocik from Poland. I was not going to let her get in my way.

  Two minutes into the match, she came in for a throw, but quickly dropped to her knees in an effort to prevent me from countering her attack. I saw my opening and jumped on top of her so she was on all fours on the mat with me on her back. I reached down to grab her left arm. Knowing what was coming, she pulled her arm in, clinging to it.

  I rolled, flipping her onto her back. She struggled, trying to get up and break free, but I was not letting go. She turned her torso, so her face was against the mat. She tried to stand up. I shoved my leg across her chest. She twisted, but I held on. She made another attempt to escape, but I pushed her leg out of the way, rolling her again onto her back. Sensing the end was near, she tried to lock her hands together. With one leg across her neck and the other across her chest, I pulled on her left arm. Her hands started to slip apart. I pulled harder. Her hands broke apart. I threw my body backward, her arm between my legs and started to arch my back. She tapped quickly.

  I was headed to the quarterfinal.

  I walked off the mat to check the bracket for my next opponent. The name was written in block lettering: Edith Bosch.

  It had been eleven months since our world championship showdown in Rio.

  And so we meet again, I thought to myself in my best James Bond villain voice.

  The referee had barely finished saying “Hajime” when Bosch grabbed me by the collar and straight up punched me in the face. It stung, but I know how to take a hit. She was pretending like she was going for a grip, but she launched a straight jab at my face. Then she punched me in the face again. And she punched me in the face again. The referees didn’t care. They let it go. She came in again and I grabbed her hand, pushing it away from my head. Our match was under way. Over the next five minutes, I gave it all I had. I went after Bosch relentlessly.

  After a scoreless regulation, we went to golden score, a five-minute overtime where any score wins the match. If no one wins in golden score, it goes to a judges’ decision.

  There was a minute and some change left on the clock. The match was close. And I didn’t trust the referees to give me the fight. In the back of my mind I could hear Mom saying, “If it goes to decision, you deserve to lose because you put it in somebody else’s hands.”

  There was time for one or two more exchanges before time ran out. I went in for an attack. Bosch got away. I went in again, this time attempting a throw.

  Bosch tried to counter.

  We tumbled to the mat.

  The crowd roared. For a moment, I thought it had gone my way. Then the referee called a score for Bosch. We bowed out and turned to walk off the mat. She pumped her fist victoriously. I took a few steps, willing my legs to support my weight. I reached the edge of the mat and paused, not certain I could go on. Israel stretched out his arms. I stepped off the mat and collapsed into him.

  I went back to the warm-up room and sobbed, hot tears running down my face. I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. Then something clicked and I went from devastated to fucking furious. It was as if all the cells in my body had realigned—everything changed.

  I decided I was not leaving that motherfucking arena empty-handed.

  I battled my way back through the repechage bracket. My first opponent was from Algeria. She had lost to Bosch on points in regulation. I wasn’t going to let our match get that far. I threw her in the opening minute, scoring a yuko, which is a partial score. I was ahead, but I wasn’t content. I was out there to win. Thirty seconds later, I took her to the mat and pinned her. She writhed trying to escape, but I had her flat on her back. She kicked her legs a few more times, then she stopped. For the next five seconds, she just lay there pinned, accepting the loss before it was called. Then the referee called it: Ippon. The win did not soothe the pain of losing to Bosch, but it did force me to focus.

  My next match was the semifinal for the bronze medal. I threw this Hungarian chick so hard that I bruised every single knuckle on my hand. I threw her so hard that my mom heard her land from across the arena. I didn’t just want to get an ippon, I wanted her to hurt. I wanted her to hurt as much as losing the gold medal had hurt me.

  Only one more person stood between me and the bronze medal, Germany’s Annett Böhm. Böhm had taken bronze in Athens and unquestionably wanted to medal again. This match was going to end one of two ways: with me on the podium or dead on the mat. Walking on to the floor, I was like an evil robot, programmed to destroy. I locked in on Böhm. The referee said, “Hajime.” Böhm and I were familiar enough with each other from various European and international tournaments and training camps that we didn’t need to go through the get-to-know-you dance that can start off a match. We got right into it.

  Thirty-four seconds into the match, I tossed Böhm over my hip for a yuko. It should have been at least a waza-ari, I was up, but the match was far from over. If there was ever a time to be a points fighter, this was it. There were four minutes and twenty-six seconds standing between me and my medal, and all I needed to do was skip around the mat, making half-ass throw attempts before dropping to my knees. But getting ahead by a small margin and trying to protect that lead is totally against everything that I’ve ever done. I had lost a piece of my soul en route to this medal, but I wasn’t going to sell my soul to get it. For the next four minutes and twenty seconds, I was as relentless and aggressive as I had been in the opening seconds. I held my lead on my terms. Then, with seven seconds left, the referee called for us to break. I glanced at the clock. I did the calculation in my head. If I dropped to my knees and took the penalty, I could run enough time off the clock to guarantee my win. If I engaged, there was a chance that Böhm could catch me with a last-ditch effort. The referee signaled us to resume.

  I ran.

  I may not believe in hiding behind the rules as an entire fight strategy, but I also don’t condone being dumb. With three seconds left, I got called for a stalling penalty. Then time expired.

  The timer buzzed. A wave of joy and relief came over me. I fell to my knees. And suddenly the arena rushed back in. I could hear the crowd roar. A chant of “USA! USA!” rose in the stands from about eleven people, but it was still deafening to me. The arena seemed brighter as if someone had turned up the lights in the venue.

  The referee raised her right hand in my direction. Böhm and I shook hands. As my opponent walked off the mat, I raised my hands victoriously, then bent down and kissed the mat. I ran off the mat and jumped joyously into Israel’s arms.

  I looked to the stands for my mother and found her across the arena waving an American flag. It was so big she could barely hold it open.

  After thirteen years, the American flag that had been placed on Dad’s coffin at his funeral had been unfurled and was fluttering in the arms of my mother.

  My dad had always believed I would shine on the world’s biggest stage. And for one moment, seeing Mom holding that flag, I felt like we were all together.

  I had not won a gold medal, but there was a sense of accomplishment I would have never believed could come from third place. Of all the third-place finishes in my career, the bronze in the Olympics was the only one I took any satisfaction in.

  But still, there was a void. I had not won the gold I had dreamed of.

 
; That Olympic loss still eats at me. It will follow me forever. But, I’m not ashamed of how I lost. I don’t wonder about what I could have done differently. I have no regrets about the match. I had to do a haymaker at the end. I made the right decision. It’s just sometimes even the right decisions don’t work out.

  THIS IS MY SITUATION, BUT THIS ISN’T MY LIFE

  When you’re in the middle of the hustle, there are going to be times when your life is complete shit and you’ve got absolutely nothing to show for the effort you’ve put in. I don’t just mean tough times, but the moments when you have to swallow your pride and check your ego. I’m talking about the kind of times where, if it were happening to someone else, you would silently be thanking God that it wasn’t happening to you. There were times when I knew that I was in a terrible situation, but I also knew that it wouldn’t last forever. Those are the moments when you have to remind yourself that this experience is a defining moment in your life, but you are not defined by it.

  I stood on the medal stand and watched as the American flag was raised into the third-place position. The Olympics were over for me, but I was not over the Olympics.

  The day after I won my medal, I was sitting in my room in the athlete village. It was late morning and I was just sitting on the bed, when my heart started beating fast out of nowhere. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was overcome with guilt and anxiety, but I couldn’t figure out why. I felt like I had done something terrible, but I couldn’t remember what it was. The wave of panic passed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone very wrong, that I was an asshole.

  I got back from Beijing with a bronze medal and no home, no job, no prospects. I quickly learned I had no boyfriend either.

  Bob and I took a break before the Olympics. It was his idea, and came completely out of left field. He said the long-distance thing wasn’t working out and we would pick up where we left off when I moved back to L.A. after the Olympics. I was devastated. When I got back home I called him and he told me he and his girlfriend had been cheering for me. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me.