My Fight / Your Fight
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I was excited and flattered, but more than anything, I was hungry.
“OK, Edmond,” I said. “I will do that. I will fight perfect and I will dress perfect and I will do whatever else you ask, but can we start after dinner?”
My life was going to radically change. I was going to be able to quit all of my other jobs and support myself as a fighter. I was going to prove all of the people who said I shouldn’t be a fighter wrong. I was going to have enough money to fix my car windows and maybe even the air-conditioning. I might even be able to afford to move to a nicer place.
I could have done without the stitches, the false alarm, the forgotten passport, and the dirty casino. But those bumps, like all obstacles in life, forced me to adjust. I learned I could fight through anything. I learned how badly I wanted this dream and how much it hurt to have it so close and then ripped away. The experiences made me want to succeed even more and made me even more driven. The lead-up to my first professional fights might not have gone perfectly according to my plan, but, in the end, everything worked out perfectly. That’s all you can ask for.
IF IT WAS EASY, EVERYONE WOULD DO IT
People are always looking for the secret to success. There isn’t a secret. Success is the result of hard work, busting your ass every day for years on end without cutting corners or taking shortcuts. It was Michelangelo who said, “If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn’t seem so wonderful at all.”
It is not hard to figure out what goes into being successful, but it’s also not easy to do.
DPCG and I broke up several times. The day he stole my car was the lowest point, but he was still struggling with his addiction. We would break up, but it always felt like the universe kept pulling us back together.
Twice, we broke up, and a few days later, I would be stopped at a light and see him in my rearview mirror. He shrugged his shoulders or shook his head, as if to say, “What are the odds of seeing you here?” We pulled over and laughed about it, and realizing how much we missed each other, we would kiss and cry and make up.
However, the relationship had changed. I was transforming and that was the one thing that really pulled us apart. Not the MMA itself, but that I got to the point where I wanted more. I was getting more and more motivated every day. I was on a mission to take over the world.
He didn’t have the same drive. And though DPCG believed in me and supported my MMA dream when everyone else was rolling their eyes at the idea, he was also insecure about it.
One night, practice at Hayastan ran late.
“Hey, girl, where you been?” he asked casually as I walked in the door.
“Practice,” I said. I was exhausted, sore, and wanted nothing more than a shower before falling into bed. But first, I leaned in to give him a kiss. He pulled back.
“You smell like some dude’s cologne,” he said. It wasn’t an outright accusation.
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head and smiled apologetically. “Nothing.”
“The Armenian guys I was training with douse themselves in cologne after practice and hug me as I walk out the door,” I said, defensively.
“They’re hugging you,” he said. His eyebrows furrowed slightly.
“They’re my friends. I’ve known them forever. They’re Armenian. Armenians are very affectionate. I can’t just tell everyone to fuck off and run out the door after practice.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Now, I’m going to take a shower.”
As I started to undress, DPCG wrapped his arms around my waist from behind. I leaned back as he nuzzled his face into my neck. Suddenly, he pulled back.
“Is that a hickey?” he asked. His tone was accusatory.
“Wha—What the what?” I stumbled over the words. I looked in the mirror.
“That’s a mark from where someone was trying to choke me,” I said, pointing to my neck. “And that one there, and that one there too.”
“It looks like a hickey,” he said.
“Well, it’s not,” I told him. “I’ve spent most of my life covered in bruises and marks. I don’t even notice them. It’s nothing to get worked up about. It’s just normal.”
But he wasn’t a fighter, so he didn’t see it that way. He wanted to support me, but the more driven I became, the more threatened he felt in our relationship. He didn’t have a job he liked. He hadn’t found something he was passionate about. He was resigned to accept his situation, whereas I was obsessed with elevating mine.
When we met, he was perfect for me. We were two people content not to aspire toward anything. But then I changed.
We broke up for the final time shortly after I had gone pro. We had been through so much after two years together. He really was one of my best friends. I knew it was different this time, because it wasn’t dramatic. There was no animosity. I didn’t cry hysterically. It wasn’t like we were having an argument. It was more like we were really saying goodbye. And we just talked, tears trickling down our faces until we fell asleep.
He woke up before me, and slipped out without waking me. On my door, he left a message in dry-erase marker. It read: I love you, girl. Don’t ever forget, you are my heart.
I never wiped it off.
THE ONLY POWER PEOPLE HAVE OVER YOU IS THE POWER YOU GIVE THEM
In judo, so many people care about rank and what degree black belt they are. I have never gotten caught up in that. Rank is based solely on a board of people getting together and saying, “Oh, you deserve to be such-and-such a rank.” Once you give them the power to tell you you’re great, you’ve also given them the power to tell you you’re unworthy. Once you start caring about people’s opinions of you, you give up control.
It’s the same reason I don’t get caught up in being the crowd favorite when I fight. It’s why I don’t read things that are written about me. One of the greatest days of my life was when I came to understand that other people’s approval and my happiness were not related.
My first Strikeforce fight was scheduled for August 12, 2011, and I would be facing Sarah D’Alelio after all.
Ahead of the D’Alelio bout, I had a camp for the first time—camp is tailoring your workout schedule so that you are at your absolute physical and mental peak when you step into the ring. The emphasis was still on building up my skills, but we started preparing specifically for D’Alelio.
I quit all my jobs and we did a four-week camp. Though we didn’t have the money to bring in top-notch sparring partners, I’d never had such focused training leading up to competition.
On Monday of the week of the fight, I got a call from Darin.
“The folks at Showtime called,” he said. Strikeforce had a national broadcast deal with the cable network. “It’s about your walkout song.”
“Same one, ‘Sex and Violence,’ ” I said.
“That’s the thing, they have an issue with the words,” Darin said.
“Wait, which word? Sex or violence? Because that’s literally the entire song, just a guy going ‘sex and violence, sex and violence.’ ”
“Actually, both,” Darin said.
I laughed. “But literally, isn’t that what they’re selling?” I asked. “Why do people watch women’s fights? Sex appeal and physical violence.”
“I don’t know,” Darin said, slightly exasperated. “You just need to choose another song.”
“Fine, just pick something from Rage Against the Machine,” I said.
Two days before the fight, we drove to Vegas. I rode with Darin. Edmond and a few other guys from GFC came. We met at the club and caravanned out through the desert. We could have flown to Vegas, but I liked making the drive.
From the moment we arrived and checked into the Palms—where the fight was being held—it was clear I had reached the next level. Everything just ran smoother. It was more professional. The organizers knew who you were and where you needed to be when. The venue was bigger. The fi
ghters higher caliber.
We had a warm-up room, not a random area cordoned off, but a room to put our stuff in and to warm up with my trainers. There were people who kept me updated on when I was going to fight and showed me where to go. I felt right at home.
I walked out to Rage Against the Machine. The song didn’t feel quite right.
I stepped inside the cage. The referee sent us to our corners, then told us, “Bring it on!” I jabbed to close the space for a clinch. D’Alelio threw a straight right and missed. I took a grip that only a judoka would know. It was a grip for one of my favorite judo throws, sumi gaeshi, where you pull your opponent to the ground on top of you and throw her over. I instinctively jumped into the throw, but because there was no gi to grab on to, I started to lose my grip. Midair I changed the technique to an armbar and started cranking on her arm while she was still falling.
“Tap! Tap! Tap!” she started yelling as she fell to the ground, holding one arm out to keep herself from face-planting into the ground.
I knew she did not have a hand to tap and that when her hand hit the ground to catch herself, all of the weight from the fall would go through her elbow and obliterate the joint. To save her arm, I let my legs fall off as we hit the ground, but I held my position. She still didn’t have a free hand to tap.
“She’s trying to tap,” I told the referee.
The referee called the fight.
“I didn’t tap! I didn’t tap!” she shouted to the referee.
The entire fight had lasted twenty-five seconds.
I jumped up, pumping my hands in the air. She went back to her corner, protesting. The crowd booed.
I looked in her direction.
“You want to go again?” I yelled in front of the crowd. “Come on, let’s go again.”
But once a fight is called, it’s over. The referee brought us to the center of the ring.
“The winner, by way of submission, Rowdy Ronda Rousey,” the announcer declared as the referee raised my hand. The boos grew louder. Interviewed post-fight, she would admit to crying out, which by the rules qualifies as a “verbal tapout.”
D’Alelio and I shared a post-fight loose hug.
“Don’t listen to them,” she said in my ear.
Though I appreciated the sentiment, my elation was tempered, not by the boos raining down around me—I had been booed all over the world—but because people were questioning my win. I didn’t want anyone to ever question me in the cage ever again.
“She tapped,” I said to Edmond as we walked out of the arena.
“Of course, she tapped,” Edmond said. “Every person in this goddamn arena knows she tapped even if some people are acting like she didn’t.”
“From this day on, I’m just going to break everybody’s fucking arm,” I said.
Before I left the venue, they gave me my check. It was eight thousand dollars, but it felt like a million.
“Now, I can pay you,” I told Edmond. The standard is for a fighter to give ten percent of their winnings to the head trainer.
“Ronda, you deserve way more money,” Edmond said. “A fighter like you, you deserve a million dollars to fight.”
“You really think so?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
“I can’t wait to pay you that ten percent when I make millions,” I said.
“Yeah, me too,” Edmond said. “Because let’s be serious, I am not going to take anything out of that check. You keep it.”
My eyes widened.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course, I’m serious,” Edmond said. “You keep that. I don’t need that money. You fight for a living. I understand what fighting for a living is. I fought myself. Just keep doing your thing. Now, you make a million . . .”
I gave Edmond a huge hug.
I’d made it into the top ranks. Now I set my sights on a championship.
Then, one day, Miesha Tate mentioned me on Twitter.
A fan asked Miesha if she would ever fight me. She included me in her response: “Sure! Why not!” (Note to Miesha: Proper punctuation in the second sentence should actually be a question mark.)
I had never heard of her, but I clicked on to her page to check her out. Turned out she was the Strikeforce women’s champion at 135 pounds. I had been considering dropping down to 135 and was on the record saying I planned to be the 135-pound (bantamweight) and 145-pound (featherweight) champ simultaneously. When the champ at 135 pounds said she was down to fight me, I decided the time had come to make the move. As I saw it, two people stood between me and a bantamweight title fight: my upcoming opponent, Julia Budd, and the No. 2 fighter at 135, Sarah Kaufman. I was going to take them both out.
Budd loomed over me at weigh-ins. She had a height advantage, but I didn’t care. I was still pissed off about my last victory being questioned. I was going to make an example out of this chick.
I walked out to Rage Against the Machine again, a different song, but it still didn’t feel quite right.
As soon as the referee said “Fight!” I jabbed in to close the distance and pushed her back to the cage. We clinched, and I could feel she was slick with lotion. I went to throw her forward, but she was so slippery, I knew if I fully committed, I’d lose my grip. I switched direction and swept her backward.
Once I had her on the ground, all I had to do was punch and herd her into the position I wanted to set up my favorite armbar. As soon as I broke her grip and pulled her arm straight, she bridged and flipped over trying to escape. We were facedown, and I could feel her elbow joint popping, but I was not going to make the mistake of leaving any question like I had last time. I flipped her back over so the referee could see the damage. I kept cranking on her elbow, leaning back until it popped. She tried to keep going, but gave up a few seconds later. The announcer compared the appearance of Budd’s badly dislocated elbow to a flamingo knee.
The fight had taken thirty-nine seconds.
In judo, I had been conditioned to be humble after victory, to be respectful of a challenger who puts up a good fight, not to celebrate after injuring an opponent. I tried to contain my elation. When I saw her rise from the mat, I allowed myself to smile and relish the victory. But my night was not yet done.
Mauro Ranallo, the Showtime broadcaster, asked me about my plans to move to 135 pounds after the fight.
I glanced over at Edmond. My corner knew about my plan.
I looked straight into the camera. I had thought about this moment.
“If Sarah Kaufman is next in line, please, Strikeforce, let me get a crack at her first. I really want to have a title fight against Miesha Tate, and I don’t want to take a risk on her losing. Please give me a crack at Sarah Kaufman first, then Miesha Tate. I swear I’ll put on a good show.”
It was the first ever nationally televised women’s callout. No woman fighter in MMA had ever really called anyone out in such a public setting. It was both a plea and a performance. It was my first attempt at being an entertainer.
Backstage, Strikeforce matchmaker Sean Shelby approached me.
“You’re not going to have to fight Kaufman first,” he said. “We’re just going to give you Miesha right away.”
“Awesome,” I said.
I was thrilled. Miesha was not. She did not want to fight me, and she argued with Sean Shelby about it, but the decision had been made.
I didn’t know much about Miesha Tate. I just wanted to fight her because she was the champion, so I assumed she could fight. I knew there were people who thought she was reasonably good-looking and I was reasonably good-looking. I figured that would help draw interest in the fight. I knew the fight would sell. And I knew I could beat her.
The fight game is not just about the fight. It’s about the show. The athleticism is an integral part of the show, but that alone is not enough to keep people coming back. People watch fighters, but they remember characters. You have to keep them excited. You have to make them intrigued. You have to captivate them.
&nb
sp; Two weeks later, Miesha and I made a joint appearance on the “MMA Hour” podcast to debate whether I deserved to get a title shot at her immediately or eventually.
Now, I come from a family of smart, quick-witted women. When we were younger, my sisters and I engaged in a fair amount of “verbal sparring.” You had to be quick with your response or you would get put in your place. My sister Jennifer can smack you so hard with a comeback that you will need to sit down. My sister Maria has this ability to remember everything, from what she had for lunch in preschool to a random magazine article she read five years ago. She will cite five rapid-fire, airtight examples, then call you out with, “Give me a specific example.” My mom has the ability to, without raising her voice, shift her tone to send a shiver down her enemies’ backs. There was no opportunity in our house for “Yeah, yeah, but, but.” The conversation would have moved ten steps past you at that point, and you would have to admit defeat. I had been training in this arena even longer than I had been training in judo.
In interviews she had given, Miesha had already shown that she was underestimating my abilities inside the cage. I was fairly certain she was underestimating me outside it as well.
I wanted to be ready to tear down any potential argument she could conceive of. I wanted to be ready to rip apart arguments that she hadn’t even thought up yet. I wanted to back her into a corner so she had no choice but to fight me, and I wanted her to see how superior I was to her in every aspect of the fight game, in and outside of the cage.
I did the exact same thing I would do ahead of a fight: I prepared.
In the days leading up to the podcast, I spent every waking minute either fight-training or debate-training. Between practices and before going to bed, I read every article I could find on her. I scoured her social media. I watched interviews she gave. I jotted down every point Miesha had made, every argument against me she had already tried, and arguments against me that she hadn’t even conceived of yet. I took notes that I typed up on a friend’s computer. During breaks at practice, I would pull out the cheat sheet containing both points of view. I handed it to one of the guys at the gym.