by Ronda Rousey
I’m not undefeated because I had the perfect circumstances leading up to every fight. I’m undefeated because, regardless of circumstances, I still win.
I had made the jump to the professional ranks, but aside from my record being reset to 0–0, not much had changed. I was still working three jobs. I was still living in a rundown place I found on Craigslist (although I was now renting a room in a house on the verge of being condemned). And fights still kept falling through.
Darin lined up my professional debut against a fighter named Ediane Gomes. As part of the deal, he was paying for her flight (which is not standard for a low-level pro bout). It was scheduled for March 27, 2011, at a country club in nearby Tarzana. Each fighter would make four hundred dollars for showing up, with the winner getting double.
I pulled up all the information and videos I could find of her previous fights. She had a record of 6–1 and was creaming people. She’ll do, I thought.
The way my fights kept falling through, Edmond had been working with me more regularly, but we were focusing on building up my skills as opposed to preparing for any single opponent.
“It doesn’t matter who you’re fighting,” Edmond told me. “It doesn’t matter if they give you one day’s notice, you’re going to win.”
I nodded in agreement.
The week of the fight, I allowed myself to believe it was really going to happen. I could not wait.
“What do you want your walkout song to be?” Darin asked me a few days before the fight.
“‘Sex and Violence’ by The Exploited,” I replied. The song consisted of the words sex and violence repeated over and over.
Two days before the fight, I was lying in my room thinking about how I was going to destroy this girl when I heard a commotion in the living room. Mochi had been playing with my roommate’s dog. Now they were fighting.
Porkchop, a sixty-pound pitbull, was on his back and Mochi, who had grown to eighty pounds, had him by the neck. Mochi looked like she was going to kill him. Without thinking, I gave Mochi a swift kick in the ribs. She jumped back, leaving Porkchop flailing about. Still in fight mode, he bit me twice—once on the foot and once in the shin. I felt his sharp teeth break through my skin and sink into my muscle.
Before my body even registered the pain, I began to worry about what the injury would mean for the fight.
I collapsed on the living room floor and pulled off my sock. There was a hole in the arch of my foot. Flesh was hanging off the base of my toes. A split second later, blood filled the holes and started gushing onto the carpet. I grabbed my cell phone off the floor where it had fallen during the chaos and dialed Darin’s number. I needed to go a doctor and I needed for nobody to know about it.
As I waited for Darin to find me a doctor, I pulled myself up off the living room floor. My foot was swelling up. I hopped into the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood droplets. There wasn’t any ice, but there were several open packages of frozen vegetables. I hopped to the bathroom and wrapped the bags of vegetables around my foot with an Ace bandage.
In the living room, my phone rang. I hopped back to answer it, frozen peas and carrots spilling out behind me.
“Get a pencil,” Darin said.
He had a friend who was a fancy plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills who was willing to see me off-the-record.
I called DPCG. “I need you,” I said.
“I’m on my way,” he told me before I could even explain the situation.
I had moved to the kitchen, because it would be easier to clean blood off the tile.
Fifteen minutes later, I heard DPCG rush into the house.
“Where are you?” he called.
“Follow the blood and carrots!” I shouted.
He came into the kitchen, a look of concern on his face. Without saying anything, he scooped me up and carried me to his car.
I put my foot up on the dashboard and stared at the blood that was seeping through the bandage. DPCG had one hand on the steering wheel as I squeezed his other hand. Tears ran down my cheeks.
“It’s going to be OK,” he said.
The spa-like waiting room was filled with wealthy women seeking Botox and boob jobs. They all turned to stare, but the woman behind the reception desk looked completely unfazed.
DPCG took me into the exam room. The doctor looked at the blood-soaked bandage and thawed vegetables.
“Do you mind if I take this off?” he asked.
He unwrapped the bandage, “Wow, this looks pretty bad. You’re definitely going to need stitches.”
I started to sob. I was terrified I would not be able to compete.
No, I thought. I am not going down like this.
I wiped away the tears and looked at the doctor. “The only thing I need to know is will I permanently hurt myself if I fight on this?”
He paused, taken slightly aback. “Well, no. I mean, you’ll rip the stitches, and it’ll take longer to heal, but you’re not going to do any permanent damage.”
I took a deep breath and said, “OK, then, sew me up.”
He looked at me, uncertain as to whether he should be impressed or have me committed, then slowly said, “I can do that, but you’re going to burst your stitches open in the first round. You’ll bleed all over everywhere and everyone’s going to know.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just have to win faster than that.”
He took out a kit to sew me up. He picked up the needle.
“Do you want the stitch knot from the outside?” he asked. “If I stitch it from the inside, it won’t scar so badly. But if I stitch it from the outside, it’ll be stronger.”
“Fuck the scar,” I said. “Do the one that’s stronger.”
The doctor finished stitching me up. There were three stitches on the side arch of my foot, six over the top.
“That’s the best I can do,” he said, looking at his work. “But you better win fast.”
“I will,” I promised.
DPCG carried me back out to the car.
The next morning, my foot was throbbing even worse. I had iced it overnight and took Advil and the antibiotics the doctor prescribed, but it had swollen up considerably. Still, I had no doubt in my mind that I was going to beat this girl. The real challenge was going to be getting through the weigh-in and the medical check. If you have stitches, they won’t let you fight.
It took nearly all of my energy not to limp into the building for the weigh-in.
The doctor performed a cursory exam.
“Hop on one foot,” he said.
I hopped on my right leg.
“Now the other.”
I shifted all my weight to my left foot and hopped with a stoic face. I could feel the stitches bulge under the weight.
“Everything looks good,” the doctor said.
You have no idea, I thought. Now, we just had to weigh in.
Then the athletic commission representative dropped a bomb on me.
“Shorts or underwear only,” an official announced. “So shirts, shoes, socks, they all need to come off.”
No socks? My pulse spiked.
The only thing racing faster than my heart was my mind.
Then I had an idea.
Here’s the thing about making weight. If you’re comfortably within your weight, you might weigh in wearing underwear or fight shorts. But if you’re close, you can weigh in naked. When that happens, members of your team hold towels around you so that you’re not giving the public a free show.
“I think I drank too much water,” I announced loudly so anyone in the general vicinity could hear.
“I’m paranoid that I’m not going to make weight,” I told Darin. “I’m going to weigh in naked.”
“What?” he asked me as if I had lost my mind. “Why? It doesn’t matter. She’s overweight. You don’t need to.” My opponent had shown up overweight and had been upfront about it. I had been starving myself to make 145 pounds.
“I’m getting naked,” I blurted out.
I started ripping off my clothes while my team rushed to find towels to hold up in front of me. Everyone was confused and scrambling, and in the pandemonium, no one noticed that I had jumped on the scale with my back to the room and took off my socks last. I weighed in at 145.5, three and a half pounds lighter than the other girl, and while everyone was busy trying to figure out why I had suddenly decided I needed to weigh in naked, I put on my socks before anyone noticed my mangled foot. By the time I’d pulled on my underwear, I knew I’d be fighting the next evening.
On fight night, I slipped an ankle sleeve upside down over my foot to cover the stitches. My foot hurt so badly that I was limited in my warm-up.
“You better make this quick,” Edmond said.
“I know,” I said.
“You’re crazy,” he told me.
I just smiled. He was probably right.
I watched as Gomes walked into the cage, the hip-hop beat of her walkout song blaring through the venue. She danced around the cage.
You won’t be dancing when I’m done with you, I thought.
The drumbeat of “Sex and Violence” came over the speakers. I marched out, the pain in my foot suddenly irrelevant.
The referee clapped his hands and the bell rang.
I came forward with a jab and a left hook and we clinched. I tried to throw her forward, but she resisted. I instinctively changed direction and swept her left foot with a kouchi-gari judo throw. As the stitches on the arch of my foot collided with her heel, signals of pain flared. I ignored them. She hit the ground and I mounted her immediately. I punched her in the face several times; the blows focused less on inflicting damage and more on forcing her to react. She turned to her side: There it was! I spun into my favorite juji gatame armbar, and she tapped. The bell had barely stopped ringing. The entire fight lasted twenty-five seconds.
I raised my hands above my head. I had won. For a split second, it felt amazing.
The joy of that first pro victory was slightly tempered by the pain receptors kicking back in, my brain letting me know that my foot hurt like a motherfucker.
I was 1–0, and I was impatient. A week after my win, I took nail clippers and cut the stitches out of my foot. The doctor had been right; the scar was noticeable. I thought it looked badass. I was ready for another fight.
Darin told me he had one lined up in Calgary against a fighter named Charmaine Tweet. She would only take the fight at 150 pounds, but I was desperate for an opponent. We booked our plane tickets. I was going back to Canada. But from the beginning, the match was jinxed. When I told Edmond the date, he furrowed his brow; his son was due right around then. Then, two weeks before the fight, I was at Rite Aid with Jennifer when Darin called.
“I’ve got some news,” he said. “Strikeforce called. They want to sign you to a fight.”
Strikeforce was the highest level professional MMA organization that had a women’s division. They wanted me to fight Sarah D’Alelio because Gina Carano, who was slated to be making a comeback after two years away, had pulled out with a medical issue.
I was getting the call-up from the minor leagues to the big time. Strikeforce fights paid a lot more money than the small shows. This meant I could quit my three jobs and finally make ends meet by fighting.
I felt like the heavens had opened up and angels were singing. The biggest smile spread across my face. I actually squealed in delight, moving my feet up and down in what was a publicly acceptable happy dance.
“What is it?” Jen whispered.
“The only thing is the fight is scheduled for June 18,” Darin said.
I paused.
“The fight in Canada is the night before,” I said.
“But don’t worry about it. We’ll get you out of it.”
I hugged Jennifer, who is not the hugging type.
“Jen, I’m in Strikeforce,” I said.
“Great,” Jen said in a voice that conveyed if she ever got overly excited about anything, this would be that kind of thing. “I don’t know what that means, but congratulations.”
I started putting random things in my shopping basket. An electric toothbrush. Expensive whitening toothpaste. Eyeliner. Nail polish. I didn’t even know how to put nail polish on, but I threw it in with everything else. I grabbed the nice, soft toilet paper. I was going to have the money to afford a few luxuries.
We checked out and were in the parking lot when Darin called me back.
“I’ve got some bad news,” Darin said. “She’s not going to let you out of the fight.”
My heart sank. I felt completely deflated. Jen and I got into the car, and as I looked behind me to pull out, I saw the white Rite Aid bag on the backseat. “Fuck, I can’t afford any of this shit,” I realized out loud.
I was still upset the next day at practice when Edmond pulled me aside.
“Ronda, you got to calm down,” he said. “Strikeforce wanted you. You beat this girl, and I promise you, they’re going to want you again. No need to get upset about it. Who else are they going to pick in Strikeforce? All you need is two to three fights. You’re the best fighter they know. You’re still going to get a call. I promise you, after this fight, you’ll be in Strikeforce.”
For the next two weeks, I trained with a singular focus: making Charmaine Tweet pay.
Darin, Edmond, and I were scheduled on the first flight to Calgary on June 16. The day before we flew out, I got a call from Edmond. His wife was in labor.
“I’m still coming,” he said. “I’m just going to change my flight and meet up with you guys there.”
“Congratulations,” I told him.
“Thank you,” he said.
The next morning, Darin picked me up at dawn and we headed to the airport. We were in line waiting when I looked at the time.
“We’re super early.” I was used to cutting it close when it came to flights.
“Well, we’re only going to Canada, but it’s still an international flight,” Darin said.
The line started to move, but every single muscle in my body froze.
“Do you need your passport to go to Canada?” I asked quietly.
Darin turned to me.
“What?”
“Do you need your passport to go to Canada?”
“Yes. Why? Did you forget it at your house?”
I frantically tried to picture where in my house my passport was.
When was the last time I needed my passport? I asked myself.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“My passport is at the Brazilian consulate,” I admitted. I had left it there to get a visa ahead of the judo tournament I never attended in Brazil. I racked my brain; had it been a year ago?
We stepped out of line. Darin looked at his watch. The Brazilian consulate wasn’t even open yet. He got on his phone. I just stood there, not knowing what else I could do.
“Someone is going to meet us at the Brazilian consulate and open it up for us,” Darin said. He had talked to the promoter as well. They said I could weigh in at the hotel whenever we arrived. Then he got us on a later flight, and we jumped in the car and rushed to the consulate. When we arrived forty-five minutes later, a staffer was waiting for us. He handed me my passport.
“You have great timing,” he said. “We only hold passports for a year. We were about to send it out to you this week and it would have been in the mail.”
I couldn’t help but think that the timing could have been a little better.
Passport in hand, Darin and I rushed back to the airport. We were going to be cutting it close if we wanted to make our flight.
Standing in the security line, I heard a familiar voice say, “Heeeeey you guys.”
It was Edmond, still wobbly from a night out celebrating his son’s birth and surprised to see us.
Thirty minutes later, the three of us were packed into a row in coach, me in the middle. Edmond passed out right away. I could smell the alcohol oozing out of his pores.
The next
day, we arrived at the casino where the fight was being held. They had a craps table in the back. The warm-up mats were so dirty that Edmond had to find towels to rub down the noticeable layer of grime. Even so, when we got up after grappling, we had dirt all over our skin.
“Make this fight fast,” Edmond said. “This place is disgusting. I want to get out of here.”
I beat her by an armbar in forty-nine seconds to improve to 2–0. Afterward, as she was walking back to her corner, I got in her face and shouted, “You should have let me go to Strikeforce, you stupid fucking bitch!”
It wasn’t my fastest finish, but it was my biggest payout so far. I earned $1,000.
After the fight, we headed back to the hotel so I could take a much-needed shower. I had just finished getting dressed when Edmond knocked on my door. I opened the door and Edmond came inside the small entry hall leading into my room.
“I have something to tell you,” Edmond said.
“What?” I asked.
“Strikeforce called: You’re in Strikeforce.”
“Oh my God!” I shouted. I started jumping up and down. I did a happy dance.
“I told you it was going to happen,” he said.
Edmond looked me over. I was wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He was wearing his immaculately ironed shirt, his nice shoes, expensive jeans, and a Gucci belt.
“Now listen, you’re going to be out in front of the camera a lot and people are going to see you,” he said. “There are things we have to do a bit different.”
He pointed to my outfit.
“No more baggy clothes like that,” he said. “I know you’re a fighter and you don’t care, but let’s forget about the fighting for just one minute. Let’s get a little bit image going on. Forget about looking fancy when you can’t fight for shit, but you can fight.
“Things are going to change and you need to start thinking about that. I’m guiding you like I would to my sister. I’m not telling you these things about your appearance so you feel bad about it. I just want the best for you. You deserve it.”