My Fight / Your Fight

by Ronda Rousey

  We went to Trader Joe’s and brought home food that he would cook. We took Mochi and Roxie to dog parks around the city, then home where the two of them would lie on the floor, exhausted. But mostly we would shut ourselves away in his little room, which we referred to as “the cave,” and lie in bed and talk. We discussed bands and movies. We had a similar sense of humor and we would laugh for hours. We talked about our lives. He told me about his son. I told him about losing my dad. He told me about his recovery from heroin addiction, five years clean. I confided in him about the devastation I had felt after losing the Olympics. With him, I felt understood.

  One day, I woke up next to DPCG, looked into the brown eyes that I had grown to love and realized I simply could not bear to leave his side. I called the bar and told them I was sick. Gladstones’ policy was that if you called in sick on the weekend, you needed a doctor’s note to return. When I returned without a note, I was told I could not work again until I had one. I never went back.

  I had spent the last year searching for something that would make me happy, and maybe I had finally found it. With DPCG, days would go by, weeks would go by, and we would be so happy we wouldn’t even notice. We tuned out everything else.

  RELATIONSHIPS THAT ARE EASILY RUINED WERE NEVER WORTH MUCH

  I expect that if someone is overseeing such an invaluable and important part of my life as my career, they should give a damn about me.

  You need a coach who actually cares about you and not just about their own statistics. Many people find a coach who’s great at their job but doesn’t care about them as a person. When people who don’t care about you make decisions that impact your life, those decisions generally end up being bad ones.

  The longer you’re in a relationship, with a coach or anyone, really, the harder it becomes to walk away. A lot of people stay places too long because they don’t want to have those difficult conversations or risk ruining relationships. But if the people around you aren’t willing to accept what is best for you, your relationship with them wasn’t as meaningful as you thought. A relationship worth anything will endure the process.

  I decided I would make a comeback in judo, but on my terms. I had told everyone I was only taking a year off, and that year was up. I hadn’t worried about losing my job at Gladstones, because I would be returning to judo. Funding as a judo athlete could even allow me to train MMA.

  For four months, I traveled extensively as part of my judo comeback. During a trip to Japan, I was sitting in the athlete dorms at a training facility when it hit me: I was miserable, and I was going to be miserable doing this every day of my life for the next three years until the Olympics. I thought back to winning the bronze medal and how fleeting the happiness that had accompanied it was. I didn’t believe that a gold medal was going to make me much happier. I didn’t want to be miserable anymore. I cut my trip to Japan short and returned home.

  When I got home, I wrote up this crazy training schedule totally unique to MMA or judo that would allow me to change around what I was doing every day. It was on two-week cycles, so I would make sure to hit all the disciplines, but I would be able to have options to change things up. For example, in any given fourteen-day span, I would have to do eight judo practices, four boxing practices, four grappling practices, two strength and conditioning sessions, and a couple wildcard workouts, which could be anything from running sand dunes to surfing. If I didn’t feel like going to judo one day, I could go do something else. If I felt like surfing, I could go surfing. It didn’t matter if I went to judo eight days in a row or every other day as long as I got in the required number of workouts in the cycle. For the first time in my life, how I trained was up to me.

  After taking a year away, I had changed. I had spent all this time just living for me, trying to figure things out on my own. I was the one making the choices, not always great choices, but my own choices. And now, I was choosing for things not to go back to the way they always had been.

  In May 2010, I flew to Myrtle Beach for the senior nationals for judo. It was the first time I’d competed in a major tournament since the Olympics, but there was no question I was going to win. Everyone was excited for my comeback, believing it marked my return for the 2012 Olympics.

  Little Jimmy and I were standing on the warm-up mat next to each other. He had helped train me since I was a sixteen-year-old kid. I had looked up to him most of my life: as a sports idol, as an Olympic teammate, and as a coach. Now, at twenty-three, I wanted Jimmy to train me for MMA.

  I told him about my plan to transition to MMA. He was really quiet. I plowed ahead with the little speech I had rehearsed.

  “USA Judo will benefit way more from someone from judo like me becoming a world champion in MMA and proving that it’s a legitimate martial art for self-defense,” I said. “That would get more attention for the sport of judo than anything else, including me winning an Olympic gold medal.”

  Jimmy narrowed his eyes, nodding his head. I knew I was talking fast, but I didn’t want my voice—or my confidence—to waver. I told him I didn’t want to move back to Boston. I told him I wanted to follow my own training schedule.

  “I want to do judo, but I also want to do MMA,” I told him.

  When I finished, Jimmy looked at me, as if deciding between rage and hysterical laughter. “What do you want me to say to that? That I support your decision? Because I don’t. You want me to tell you that I’ll help you with this ridiculous plan? I won’t. You’re wasting your talent. If you don’t want to do judo, don’t do judo. Quit wasting everyone’s time. But unless you are one hundred percent devoted to this sport, you will not be getting any judo funding. I will make sure of that.

  “Good luck to you,” he said in a condescending tone. “You’re going to need it because this plan of yours is never going to work.” Then he turned his back on me and walked away. Jimmy had just brushed me off like I was nothing.

  Stunned, I watched him go. Then a little bubble of rage formed at the edge of my brain, but, before it could boil up it was replaced with resolve. You are going to rue the day we had this conversation. I’m going to be the one athlete you regret losing for the rest of your life.

  I was ready to walk away from Jimmy, but not judo, not yet. I traveled to Tunisia for the Tunisia Grand Prix in May. I won my first match by ippon, but lost my second match. I came home, planning to head to a tournament in Brazil. I dropped my passport off at the Brazilian consulate to get my visa, but as I was driving away I realized I was already dreading going to the tournament. By the time I got home, I had made the decision to cancel my trip.

  My relationship with judo, like my relationship with Little Jimmy, had come to an end.

  SOMEONE HAS TO BE THE BEST IN THE WORLD. WHY NOT YOU?

  “Someone has to be the best in the world. Why not you?”

  My mom asked me a variation of this question every day.

  “Why not you?” she said. “Seriously, why not you? Somebody has to do it. They’re handing out Olympic medals. They’re literally handing them out. Why don’t you go get one?”

  Her question was not rhetorical. She knew what it took to be the best in the world. She had been a world champion. Being the best in the world is not easy, but it is completely achievable—if you are willing to put in the effort. My mom taught me to expect that I could be the best.

  “Damn, Ronda, if you did MMA, you would beat all of these chicks out there,” Manny said. We were sitting on the mat, taking a break during grappling practice.

  Among the guys at the gym, my skills earned me respect. I wasn’t just good for a girl, I was better than almost anyone in the gym. He was saying aloud what I had known since I had watched Gina Carano and Julie Kedzie’s fight years earlier. Having people around me acknowledge this fact broke open a dam that I hadn’t even known existed.

  “You know, I think you’re right.” I eased into the conversation as if the idea had never crossed my mind. “I think I can beat these other girls.”

  “
No question,” Manny said.

  I asked a few other guys from practice who happened to be standing around. It was unanimous: No girl would stand a chance against me in MMA.

  Soon, I started asking, “Do you think I should fight? Do you think I should really do it?”

  Everyone said, “No.” Everyone thought that I could do it, but no one thought that I should. They all thought it was a dead end. They didn’t think that winning anything in MMA would ever be worthwhile for a girl. The respect for women’s MMA wasn’t there and a career in women’s MMA wasn’t there.

  “Why would you want to do it anyway?” Manny asked me. “You know you’re the best in the world, and proving it will gain you nothing.”

  He was right and wrong. I knew I was the best in the world and I understood that I wouldn’t be able to make a living out of being the best until the MMA world changed radically. Where we disagreed was that I thought I could change the entire MMA world, and he didn’t believe it could be changed.

  “Somebody can do this,” I said. “You can’t tell me it’s not possible. Who on the fucking entire planet earth is more qualified than I am?”

  Manny shrugged.

  The next step was to get some fights. I needed a fight manager. I asked the head coach at Hayastan, Gokor Chivichyan, if he knew any fight managers, and he recommended Darin Harvey, who rented a small office space at Hayastan, where he tried to pick up fighters to represent. Darin was just some guy in his forties who came from a rich family, did some martial arts as a hobby, and decided he wanted to get into sports management. He claimed to be involved in the success of fighters like former UFC heavyweight champion Bas Rutten. I asked Darin if he would be interested in being my fight manager and he said he would.

  The pieces were falling into place, but there was still one thing I had to do: tell my mom. For a few weeks, I danced around the subject, trying to work up the nerve. But I was resolved to tell her about my plan. I wanted her blessing. I didn’t want to run away and do something she didn’t approve of again. I had worked so hard to fix our relationship, I didn’t want to take any steps back.

  A few days later, I made my move.

  My mom was sitting on the living room couch. I positioned myself seven feet away, close to the kitchen. That was the maximum distance I could put between us while maintaining visual contact. As I stood between the kitchen table and the oven, I realized that she was between me and the apartment’s only exit if things went really wrong.

  For a few seconds, we just faced each other. Then I looked away. She didn’t know what I was going to say, but she knew she was going to disapprove. I shifted from foot to foot, waiting for her to break the ice, but my mom wasn’t going to make it easy.

  “Mom,” I said, then paused.

  “No,” she said.

  “But I haven’t even said anything yet,” I said.

  “I know, but clearly it’s going to be something I’m against,” she said.

  How does she do that?

  I realized I was holding my breath and let myself inhale.

  “Mom, I know this doesn’t sound like the greatest idea. But you’re always asking me about my plans for the future. I think I have it figured out, although I know you’re going to be against it. I really want to give this MMA thing a try. And if it doesn’t work out after a year, I’ll go join the Coast Guard or go to college or whatever you want. But I feel like I have a real shot at making something out of this. And if I fail, then I’m completely content to say you were right and go be a responsible adult. Just give me a year.”

  My mom said nothing. She sat there for a moment. Her face wasn’t angry; it was unreadable.

  “It’s the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard in my entire life,” she said, repeating herself for emphasis. “The stupidest fucking idea I’ve heard in my entire life.”

  She spoke in a cool voice that was far worse than if she were screaming at me.

  “And when I say the stupidest fucking idea that’s saying something, because you have had some really dumb ideas,” she added.

  “But, Mom, it’s my dream,” I said. “I—”

  She cut me off. “We have seen you through two Olympics. I kept my part of the deal. I did whatever I could to support you. Everyone in our family made sacrifices for you for over eight years. Now, it is time to buckle down and get a job and be a grown-up. It is not time for ‘I have a dream to do MMA.’

  “I am not going to be one of these parents who has a thirty-year-old kid living in their house and eating their food, because you have a dream. I have a dream too. My dream is to retire someday, and I am an old woman. I’m not going to be supporting an able-bodied adult. It’s a stupid idea. You should go to college and get a real job and quit all this stupid shit.”

  She paused for air. I opened my mouth to respond, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Not to mention the fact that this is exceptionally stupid because there really is no such thing as professional women’s MMA,” she said. “Yes, I know there are guys who make a living as a professional fighter, but all of them are in the UFC, and last I checked, they don’t have women fighting in the UFC, nor have I heard of any plans to have women fighting in the UFC.”

  “I’m not asking for financial support,” I said. “I just want your blessing to give this a try.”

  “Well, you’re not going to get it,” my mom said. “But I’m sure you will pursue this ridiculous fantasy anyway, because you have already proven that you don’t give a damn about my approval.”

  I didn’t speak to my mom for two weeks. She left me a few messages, but I avoided her calls.

  I checked my voicemail.

  “Ronda, this is your mother. I know you are intentionally not answering my calls. If you are hoping that I’ve changed my mind and no longer think this MMA thing is a stupid idea, I have not. Call me back anyway.”

  Waiting her out was not going to work. I invited her to dinner with Darin and Leo Frincu, my strength and conditioning trainer, to prove to her that my MMA ambitions were more than a pipe dream.

  We met at the Enterprise Fish Company. Darin, Leo, and I sat at our table waiting.

  “It’s really an honor to meet you,” Darin said when Mom arrived. “Ronda has said so many great things about you.”

  “I bet.”

  Darin gave me a smile that said, “Don’t worry, I’m just warming up.” I gave him a look that said, “You don’t know my mother.”

  “Ronda has the potential to be a star,” Darin forged ahead. Mom rolled her eyes.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked.

  “I’m skeptical,” she said, her voice tight.

  The waitress arrived to take our order. All conversation at the table stopped abruptly. While my mom looked at the menu, I shot Leo a pleading look from across the table.

  “Ronda is an incredible athlete,” Leo jumped in, as soon as our server had walked away. “She’s one of the best athletes I’ve ever worked with, and we’ve only scratched the surface. She has amazing potential.

  “I know what it takes to be the best in a sport,” he added. “I was world champion in wrestling.”

  “You were?” A flicker of respect crossed my mom’s face.

  “Yeah, 1994, I competed for Romania.”

  My mom nodded.

  “She hasn’t even reached her peak,” Leo said. “She’s still young. Ronda is just coming into her prime. She could be the best in the world.”

  “I don’t disagree with you,” my mom said. “But my question is, ‘Yeah, and then what?’ From what I can tell, there isn’t any market for women MMA fighters. Am I wrong?”

  Leo hesitated. Darin jumped in.

  “Not yet, but we’re going to change that,” Darin said. “Ronda is going to be huge. We’re going to get her some fights, and then really, from there, the pieces are just going to fall into place. I have a really great feeling. There’s just so much energy around her.”

  “I’m a statistician, so I operate based
on facts and data instead of energy. I hope you’ll understand why I’m skeptical,” my mom said.

  “Completely.” Darin nodded a bit too emphatically.

  The waitress brought our entrees. Mom grilled Darin about his qualifications, his fighters, his experience.

  He didn’t help his case and my mom hummed dismissively as he rambled. He tried to name-drop some reality TV stars and a few other D-list names. He was sinking fast.

  “But those people aren’t fighters,” my mom pointed out.

  “Uh, well, no.”

  “So you understand why I’m skeptical?” she asked once more.

  “I do,” Darin sputtered. “But we have a plan. We have it all mapped out. It’s not going to happen overnight. But I think in four years, if she has the right kind of support…”

  He paused and looked at my mom, apparently expecting her to jump in and offer that support. My mom looked at him with a combination of disgust and disbelief.

  “Oh wait, are you saying that we should financially support her?” my mom asked with a laugh.

  “I can support myself,” I interjected.

  “I’m putting a lot of money into her career,” Darin said.

  “That’s great,” my mom said, condescendingly.

  I wanted to slip under the table, and run as far from the restaurant as possible.

  “I’m not arguing Ronda’s ability as an athlete,” my mom said. “I am questioning the whole ‘She’s going to be a star and make lots of money,’ when as far as I can tell, there’s not a real demand for women MMA fighters.”

  Darin was silent.

  “So you understand why I’m skeptical?” my mom asked yet again.

  Darin nodded.

  “And what do you get out of all this?” my mom asked him.