My Fight / Your Fight
Page 29
I clinched Davis and threw a knee, then threw her to the ground. We hit the ground, and I kept throwing punches in rapid-fire succession.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
The referee jumped in. Davis didn’t even know where she was.
The entire fight lasted sixteen seconds. It was the second-fastest title fight win in UFC history.
I will never know if Alexis Davis had an answer to my armbar, but she had absolutely no answer when it came to stopping me.
I HAVE BEEN THERE
Some lessons have to be experienced to be understood.
After the Davis fight, I had two-for-one surgery, where doctors cleaned up my knee and inserted a pin into my broken right hand. Seven months later, my knee felt better than it ever had and I had developed a badass left hook. I was ready for another fight.
I had been preparing nearly two years to face Cat Zingano.
Our Ultimate Fighter fight had fallen through when she injured her knee, but I knew we would face each other one day.
During her recovery, her husband committed suicide, leaving behind Cat and their young son. I knew she was going through the toughest fight in her life. But Dana never wavered in his belief that she deserved a title shot. She was still the No. 1 contender to challenge me for my belt. After a year and a half, Cat returned to the Octagon in late September 2014. Following her comeback win, our fight was slated as the co-main event for UFC 182. We would face each other right after the New Year. But Cat was dealing with a back injury, and a week after the fight announcement, her camp asked for the fight to be moved back. The UFC agreed, rescheduling our bout for February 27, 2015, where I would fight in front of my hometown crowd at L.A.’s Staples Center.
After Cat requested the later date, Dana informed me they had another fighter quietly preparing to face me in case Zingano backed out. I always prepared myself for the fight and not the opponent, but that approach took on an entirely new meaning this time around. Zingano is a left-handed fighter like me. The other girl fights from a right-handed stance.
But Cat came through.
That night in the locker room, Edmond warmed me up.
“This is a historic fight,” he said. He had never said that before, not when I faced Miesha for the Strikeforce title, not when I faced Carmouche for the UFC women’s debut. But he was right, something about this night felt different.
Minutes later, I was pounding through the hallway, battle boots on, hoodie up, game face on, born ready. I glared across the cage at Zingano, watching her pace back and forth. The referee called us to the middle.
We touched gloves.
The fight began.
Cat came with a flying knee. I angled left. She missed, grabbing me and trying to throw me. I did a backward cartwheel off my head and spun out. When we landed, I turned Cat, getting on top of her. She sling-shotted her legs away from me and got on all fours, trying to escape. I kept a grip on her left elbow, trying to pull her onto her back so I could mount. I threw one leg over her back and knew the grip on her elbow was slipping. I timed the right moment to let go and pinned her other hand behind my arm instead. Something just felt right. I spun to my left side and threw my other leg across her neck. I pulled her arm straight, then arched my hips. She tapped.
When I’m in the cage, my perception of time shifts. I am processing so many pieces of information it is as if the world around me slows down. But my synapses are firing so rapidly and my muscles are moving so quickly it is as if the world is in hyper-speed. Every second is individual on its own.
In terms of seconds on a clock, my entire fight against Cat Zingano lasted fourteen.
It was the fastest submission in UFC history and the fastest win ever in a UFC title fight.
I jumped up, victoriously. Cat stayed crumpled on the mat.
For the first time in my life, I saw a person on the ground. I recognized the disappointment on her face. It was the same as having-your-heart-pulled-out-of-your-chest-and-crushed-in-front-of-you pain I felt when I lost the Olympics.
For the first time in my career, I knelt down and embraced my opponent.
I felt empathy. The knee injury. The death of someone you love to suicide. Building something up so much, believing that it will solve all of your problems and take away all of your pain. Losing.
I had been there, experiencing that same kind of devastation. The overwhelming numbness. The disbelief.
It felt weird for me to give a shit. Every single fight, I look at that person who lost, I see her devastation, and I think, She was trying to do the same thing to me, and I don’t really feel that bad.
I felt like I had known from the moment I was born, it wasn’t going to go Cat’s way. That belt wasn’t meant for her, just like an Olympic gold medal wasn’t meant for me. But I also knew that the worst moments of my life brought me to the best times. Loss. Heartbreak. Injury. I had come to understand every event was necessary to guide me to where I am today. I hoped the same would be true for Cat.
THE HARDEST PART IS KNOWING WHEN TO WALK AWAY
There is always going to be one more fight where people will say, “You can’t walk away. You haven’t fought this person.” There is always going to be somebody else. There’s no situation that exists where, when the day comes that I want to retire, people aren’t going to think that I was a coward for not taking that one last fight.
I’m just going to have to find a way to accept that fact and recognize when it really is time for me to walk away.
After my win over Cat, I sat in the media conference backstage and everyone wanted to know what I was going to do next. I have dominated for so long, and I know no one will ever beat me in the cage. No girl will ever look into my eyes and see the fear I see when I stare across the Octagon at the beginning of a fight. I will never be scared of anyone.
But one thing I am scared of is retirement.
Winning is addictive. The highs are super-high. There’s a lot of risk. There’s more at stake each time I fight. I get a new fix every time I defend my belt. But, winning will only last for so long.
When I’m finally done fighting, when I walk away from MMA and I don’t get that rush anymore, how am I going to deal with it?
My mom always says that when you’re younger you love the roller coaster, and when you’re older, the merry-go-round starts to seem a little bit nicer. Someday soon, I wouldn’t mind a couple of less-risky, slow-burning victories over flaming, white-hot ones. At some point, I’m just going to get too old for the thrill rides.
I’m thinking about what’s next. I worry about it a lot. I’m scared of ending up in the same mess I was in after the 2008 Olympics. I’m trying to identify all the mistakes that I made back then, so I don’t make them again. Back then, I never even had a Plan B. That’s why I’m so into making sure that I have other options, like acting, lined up. Now, I’m thinking about Plan B and C and D.
I also worry that I won’t be able to stay away. I will always be a fighter, but I never want to be that person who retires, then comes back because they can’t handle retirement. I want my retirement to be fucking final.
My life turned into something much bigger than I thought. While I chased this dream, I was broke. I worried about whether my next parking ticket would leave me short on rent. I worried about filling my gas tank so I could get to my third job. When I finally got into Strikeforce and then the UFC, for the first time, I started thinking about more than just myself. I had created the job I wanted, and I inadvertently created something not just for myself, but for all the other women too.
When I started out in MMA, I wasn’t trying to change the world. I was trying to change my life. But, once my life changed, I realized that wasn’t enough. Then it became about changing the world.
Once I became the champion, I realized that that is not all there is. I have to think about what’s going to satisfy me for my whole life, what’s going to sustain me. Even more meaningful than having the title is having a leg
acy.
I think about Royce Gracie, who was the first UFC champion. The very first time I had ever been to the Staples Center was to attend a UFC on Fox fight. He walked into the arena and sat down in the front row, and there was something about the look of satisfaction he had on his face as he looked around at something he had created.
That’s what I want.
Fighting takes a toll. Physically, you can only take so much. Mentally, you can only take so much. I look forward to the day where I can give up my belt, and let two other girls fight for it. Even though I will know that I could beat those girls and take that belt back, I will accept that it’s their turn to carry the belt and the title and everything it represents. When that day comes, it will no longer be only my responsibility anymore. When that happens, women’s MMA will be self-sustaining. When that happens, I want to be like Royce Gracie, watching the next generation of fighters with a sense of satisfaction. I want to be that dude, front row, introducing my kids to everyone.
That day is somewhere on the horizon, but it’s not here yet. I don’t feel like women’s MMA is ready for me to walk away. I’m not ready either.
Right now, I’m still living from hit to hit.
WINNING
The fight is over.
I keep going until the referee literally touches me, shakes me, and grabs me to let me know I have won.
I can feel my opponent go limp, whether conscious or not. Every muscle in her body admitting defeat. I don’t think she ever believed she could beat me, but she had hope. Now she is left with nothing but throbbing pain and her attempts to comprehend how it all went so wrong for her so fast.
I blink. I always blink.
The experience is not quite like coming up from underwater, although the sound of the crowd seems like that. It is not like emerging from a dark room, but the lights of the arena feel like that.
You go from having on super blinders with no peripheral vision and earplugs into seeing and hearing everything all at once. It is as overstimulating as an experience can be.
I am flooded with relief. Then joy. It is hard to digest it all at once.
Relieved and happy, the crowd is at full volume, and the lights are at full brightness with the spotlight shining in my face. Every muscle in my body—which seconds ago had been engaged, ready to act at any second in hand-to-hand combat—is relaxed. All of these emotions I’ve been blocking out are rushing in, and so many things are going on in my head all at once.
It’s hard to snap back, to return to reality.
It is supposed to be my moment. It is my moment. But I am not sure how present I am in that moment. I find these moments to be my most unintelligible.
A microphone is thrust in front of me, and I open my mouth to speak. It is hard to communicate in this environment. I listen to the question. I let my lips form a response, hoping that my brain will catch up later. I acknowledge my opponent, appreciate the crowd, give them a little showmanship, and try to be a little theatrical. I have no idea how the words all come out since they seem to fall out of my mouth in an incoherent jumble.
As I walk away, through the crowd with my arms around my family, back into the tunnel, after all of these fights, the feeling is always the same. There is a sense of accomplishment. There is a sense of fulfillment. I feel safe.
Above all, there is the indisputable knowledge that I am the greatest in my role in the history of the world.
THANK YOU . . .
To Mom, for everything you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught us and for letting us co-opt some of your brilliant mom-isms for this book; to Jennifer, for always keeping it real; to Julia, for being Julia; to Dennis, for taking us in and feeling like he got the good end of the deal; to Eric, for being an amazingly supportive husband and bearing with us through this chaos; to Eva, Emilia and Calum, you are the future; to Edmond, my kyank, mentor, partner, teacher and friend; to Dana White, Lorenzo Fertitta, and Frank Fertitta, for taking the risk; to my agent, Brad Slater of William Morris Endeavor, for always believing in me; to Marina, my reality check; to Jessamyn, my favorite hug; to Shayna, Vegeta to my Goku; to Jessica Lee Colgan, you are a Godsend; to my team—Justin Flores, Martin Berberyan, Manny Gamburyan, Gene LeBell, Rener and Ryron Gracie—for (literally and figuratively) being in my corner; to Mike Dolce; to Eric Williams;
To my judo coaches Tony Mojica, Blinky Elizalde, Trace Nishiyama, Big Jim Pedro, and Israel Hernández; to my early MMA coaches Leo Frincu and Gokor Chivichyan;
To my sparring partners; to everyone at GFC, Hayastan, SK Golden Boys, Lonsdale Boxing and Gracie Academy; to Lillie McNulty and her family; to Wetzel Parker, a friend indeed; to Dianna Linden, my healer; to Dr. Thomas Knapp; to Dr. Jake Flores; to Erin Malone at WME; to our amazing editor Alexis Gargagliano; to our publisher Judith Regan and the entire team at Regan Arts; to everyone deserving but not listed here;
To my fans, you all kick ass;
And to every asshole who motivates me to succeed out of spite.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Ronda Rousey is the UFC’s undefeated women’s bantamweight champion and an Olympic medalist in judo. Arguably the most dominant athlete in UFC history, Rousey is responsible for the inclusion of women in the Octagon. She has taken Hollywood with her signature force, landing roles in major films and exploding onto the scene with the drive, commitment, and command that have made her a champion.
Maria Burns Ortiz is a journalist who has written for numerous publications including ESPN.com, Fox News Latino, and the Associated Press, and was named the National Association of Hispanic Journalists’ Emerging Journalist of the Year. She is also Ronda Rousey’s sister. She lives with her husband and their three amazing kids.
65 Bleecker Street
New York, NY 10012
Copyright © 2015 by Ronda Rousey
Names and identifying details of some of the people and places portrayed in this book have been changed.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Regan Arts Subsidiary Rights Department, 65 Bleecker Street, New York, NY 10012.
First Regan Arts hardcover edition, May 2015
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015930623
ISBN 978-1-941393-26-0
eISBN 978-1-941393-85-7
Jacket design by Richard Ljoenes
Jacket art and interior photographs by Eric Williams
Interior design by Nancy Singer