Let’s Get It On! (17 page)

I asked him a simple question. “How many times per round have you ended up clinching with an opponent?”

Jimmerson looked confused and said, “I really don’t know.”

“Well, if clinching happens in boxing all the time and it’s not a legal part of the sport, how are you going to keep it from happening when it is legal?” I asked him to indulge me and took him to a back part of the ballroom, where I proceeded to grab his two legs and take him down in just a couple seconds.

Jimmerson looked up at me and said, “Oh my God, he’s going to break my arms and legs, isn’t he?”

“If you get in trouble, all you have to do is tap out. That’s always an option.”

Jimmerson knew he’d be facing Royce in the tournament’s first round because Rorion and Art had predetermined that matchup. They knew a win for Royce would be especially symbolic to a United States crowd who understood boxing.

This was the only time Rorion handpicked an opponent for his brother. Beyond the first round, the matches would be determined by the brackets they were placed in. For the next shows, the UFC would write all of the fighters’ names on a board and assign each one a number. Then they’d pull numbered balls out of a bingo machine in front of all the fighters and assign the matchups in order.

There wasn’t a weigh-in at UFC 1, as there was no weight limit. There was also little paperwork to be submitted and no medical testing required beforehand to verify a fighter’s health other than a blood test and an on-site physical from a doctor who determined whether the fighter was fit enough to enter the cage.

In fact, Colorado had been selected as the site of the event because the state didn’t have a boxing commission at the time, so medical tests and paperwork wouldn’t be required. However, Art didn’t consider that the event was over a mile above sea level and a bitch for any athlete who didn’t have at least a couple weeks to acclimate. This would become an issue in some of the bouts at UFC 1.

At the press conference, there wasn’t much press to speak of at all. The whole event was seen as more of an oddity and was covered as such. Reporters asked the fighters what they expected, but nobody had a definitive answer. Art Davie spoke most of the time, boasting that the promotion had gathered eight of the deadliest martial artists in the world.

Afterward, the fighters gave a quick demonstration on a Thai mitt bag that had been tied to a pillar with a monitor hooked up to it. To prove who had the hardest strike, each fighter took a turn hitting it with his punches or kicks. Ken Shamrock got up there and hit it pretty hard. Another competitor, Gerard Gordeau, kicked it.

I can’t remember who had the highest score. I thought the whole thing was stupid.

Royce must have been thinking the same thing. “That doesn’t say whether you can fight or not,” he said coolly and walked right by it. The day before the show, the rules meeting was a bit intense and kind of funny because there weren’t many rules to speak of other than no biting, eye gouging, or groin strikes, all of which Rorion viewed as dirty tactics. Still, the fear of the unknown gave the fighters plenty to debate about.

The competitors and their entourages congregated in one of the hotel’s conference rooms and tried to hypothesize what would happen, though no one really knew.

Amongst all of the discussion, a real controversy exploded over hand wraps. Zane Frazier, the karate fighter Art and Rorion had scouted themselves, wanted to wrap his hands. Rorion said he could but with the stipulation that the tape had to be one inch from the knuckles. Rorion didn’t want the fighters to be able to construct a wrap that would give them extra padding to shield their hands and add to their power. Rorion was undoubtedly looking out for his little brother Royce.

But the strikers in the room wanted their wraps their way.

Frazier was particularly adamant. “Hey, my hands are how I make my living, and you want me to break them?” He even suggested that Rorion was changing the rules to benefit his brother and make the rest of them look like fools come fight night.

I think Rorion had prepared for this type of reasoning. “Are you telling me that before you get into a street fight, you’re going to go wrap your hands? In the fight I saw that got you here, your hands weren’t wrapped, were they?”

That answer seemed to shut down the argument.

The next commotion was over the forms WOW Promotions and Semaphore Entertainment Group had asked every fighter to sign releasing them of any responsibility if someone got injured or even died. Some of the guys said they wouldn’t sign it.

Teila Tuli, a 410-pound sumo wrestler who’d flown in from Hawaii, was the first one up at the table. The room fell silent for a moment as the Samoan turned to address them. “I’m tired of all this,” he said quite calmly. “If you want to fight, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he dropped his signed form in front of Rorion before walking out the door.

The Gracie brothers gave Tuli a standing ovation.

All of the remaining fighters followed the soft-spoken Hawaiian’s lead and scribbled their names on their papers before handing them in as well. Nobody wanted to be labeled a coward.

On November 12, 1993, the Ultimate Fighting Championship got off to an auspicious start inside the McNichols Sports Arena in Denver, Colorado, when announcer Bill “Superfoot” Wallace goofed and welcomed everyone to the “Ultimate Fighting Challenge” preceded by one of the largest burps ever captured on live TV. Wallace, a well-known kickboxing legend who’d retired undefeated, was flanked in the commentary booth by five-time kickboxing champion Kathy Long and NFL rushing legend Jim Brown.

Jim Brown was an especially familiar face for another reason entirely. I’d been called to his Hollywood Hills residence a few times to quiet down loud parties.

By UFC 6, Brown asked, “Did we know each other before this?”

When I told him how we first met, he couldn’t believe it.

Wallace had taken over play-by-play duties at the last minute when Brown had decided he wanted to fill the color commenting role instead. Unprepared, Wallace mercilessly butchered the names of secondary announcing team members Brian Kilmeade and Rod Machado throughout the night. Wallace also repeatedly made a mistake typical of newcomers to the sport, mispronouncing Royce’s name. The “R” is pronounced as an “H” in Portuguese.

Not only were the names unfamiliar to them, but Wallace, Brown, and Long had little knowledge of the action they were calling and describing to the fans shelling out $14.95 to watch at home. They understood Gracie Jiu-Jitsu least of all.

Kathy Long made one of the sharper comments in the pre-fight banter with Wallace. When asked what her strategy would be, she answered, “I think the best thing to do is to go for something as quick as you can.”

The McNichols Sports Arena was a nicely equipped 17,000-seat venue that housed the Denver Nuggets. This night, the UFC was handing out tickets, and about 5,000 spectators attended.

I didn’t get to escort Royce or be in his corner—Gracies alone would be allowed—but as his training partner, I was given two front-row seats and laminated backstage passes for Elaine and myself. Rorion also gave me the important task of babysitting the gold medal to be awarded to the evening’s winner at the tournament’s conclusion. Helio, sharply dressed in a three-piece suit, sat a few seats down from me to survey the fruits of his early labors.

As the lights finally dimmed and the UFC’s rambling guitar riff theme music was unveiled, everyone in the crowd stood. After his display the night before at the rules meeting, it was fitting that Teila Tuli was the first fighter to come walking out the entrance tunnel.

With the traditional Samoan sarong draping his shoulders and waist, former sumo wrestler Tuli climbed the stage’s steps and entered the Octagon. Tuli, at six feet two and 410 pounds, was the largest and most physically striking of the eight participants, which was one reason why Rorion and Art had scheduled him for the first match.

Next to enter was six-feet-five, 216-pound Dutch savate champion Gerard Gordeau. The art of savate relies heavily on foot strikes and is also referred to as French kickboxing or French footfighting. Gordeau did most of his training as a kickboxer in Holland.

Referee João Alberto Barreto, Rorion’s choice because of his experience overseeing vale tudo fights in Brazil, gave a few brief instructions through a translator—yes, the referee had a translator.

The Octagon door swung closed, the bell rang, and Gordeau and Tuli circled each other for only a few seconds. The heavier man charged at his opponent. Gordeau backpedaled quickly, throwing punches at Tuli’s outstretched arms until the Dutchman’s back brushed the fence and Tuli reached down for his legs. Gordeau simply circled out and Tuli fell forward.

Tuli’s face, now level with Gordeau’s prime weapons, was an easy target. The crowd exploded as Gordeau’s foot cleanly hit it and one of Tuli’s teeth went flying through the chain link. It landed just a few rows away.

“That’s it,” Elaine said, standing. She found her way to the nearest aisle, and I watched her climb the stairs to the upper level and walk right out of the arena.

Me? I thought it was awesome. Everyone had thought Tuli would win, but I’d known the heavy guy wouldn’t be able to take this thing. I was enthralled by what I’d just witnessed, and I sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere. I wanted to see what happened next and who the best was.

Inside the cage, referee Barreto had already made his first mistake of the evening. Under no uncertain terms, Rorion had explained that the fight could be stopped one of two ways: either the fighter tapped out or his corner could throw in the towel. Instead, Baretto himself had stepped in.

Rorion wasn’t pleased. He hung over the cage’s top while Baretto sputtered out his questions in Portugeuse and pointed to Tuli’s bloody face and jack-o’-lantern smile. Rorion instructed Baretto to bring the fighter over to his cornermen, who were standing a few feet away.

Barreto asked, “Is he ready to go?”

One of Tuli’s cornermen opened the door, and the rest poured into the Octagon. A doctor who was called to the cage inspected Tuli and deemed him unfit to continue. Then Tuli’s brother threw in the towel.

In merely twenty-six seconds, by technical knockout, Gordeau had become the winner of the first UFC fight in history. He’d also taken a few souvenirs to remember Tuli by: a broken hand courtesy of Tuli’s concrete head and one of the Hawaiian’s dislodged teeth embedded in the instep of his right foot.

After the first fight, I went to see what Gordeau and Tuli looked like. Backstage, the whole mood had changed. Music wasn’t blaring, and fighters weren’t yelling or hitting their pads or chatting with their cornermen. It was a tomb, and everyone seemed to be thinking,
Oh my God, this is real. That guy’s teeth just got kicked out of his mouth.

It had been the perfect first fight. It hadn’t turned out the way people had thought it would, but it’d sure woken everybody up.

I ran back out to my seat to catch the next fight, which matched Kevin Rosier against Zane “Hand Wrap” Frazier. The usually animated Rosier strode to the cage with his hood pulled over his head, his sweatshirt displaying the fitting words “Train as if your life depends on it. Someday it might.”

Frazier entered the arena, chin raised, eyes focused on the Octagon, with a slightly peppier step. Frazier and his hand wraps were decidedly ready to go.

Rosier, his sweatshirt now gone to reveal his pudgy physique, paced the cage. If this was a battle of the bodies, Rosier had already lost. Luckily for him, it wasn’t.

In Rosier’s prefight video, he’d said his greatest weapon was his overhand right, and that’s what he used to muscle Frazier down to the mat in the first few seconds. But as a kickboxer, Rosier didn’t know how to keep Frazier there, and the two were quickly on their feet again.

Frazier went to work on Rosier and started to beat the piss out of him, landing a nice uppercut and straight right while they clinched and punched. But the altitude wasn’t kind to Frazier, who was also asthmatic, and he started huffing and staggering.

Rosier went in for the kill with frantic haymakers, and Frazier wilted against the fence. When Rosier began stomping Frazier, his cornerman Frank Trejo threw in the towel. Rosier would advance.

Now it was Royce’s turn to be introduced to the world. Of all the fighters’ entrances, his was probably the most organized, and it certainly became the most beloved in those early days. With his brothers standing in front of and behind him in matching blue and white tracksuits, linked with their arms resting on each other’s shoulders, Royce walked the weaving trail to the cage in what would later be dubbed the Gracie Train.

Dressed in the traditional gi, the white jacket and pants uniform many martial artists wear, Royce scaled the steps and walked into the cage while a strong contingent of his family members chanted, “Royce, Royce, Royce . . .”

By the look on his face, I could tell Royce was ready but nervous, which was understandable, but I wasn’t nervous at all. I truly believed in his ability.

Jimmerson, the boxer, entered next, seeming anxious and not at all comfortable with his new surroundings. I immediately realized the quick demo I’d given him a couple days earlier had made a greater impression than I’d thought. On his left hand, Jimmerson wore a red boxing glove. I guess he counted on pounding on Royce while his free hand held him down. In reality, the single glove would be a hindrance.