After about a month and a half, I fought an informal boxing match down at the local bar’s Friday Night Fights. One could drop in around eight p.m. and sign up to fight. They asked me if I’d fight a 220-pound guy, and I looked at the guy and said yeah, because he looked big and soft and had been drinking. Three one-minute rounds, fun for all, headgear and gloves. Tim and Tony were there and cornered me enthusiastically, but the guy was a spaz and came out swinging and I stood there and flailed away with him; he caught me and I caught him, but my punches were straighter. Tim between rounds said, “Now you see why a spaz is hard to fight,” and it’s true; very unconventional fighters can pose problems to amateurs like me—you get sucked into their spazzy world. “Don’t trade, jab,” said Tim (meaning don’t stand there and trade punch for punch with him, but work the jab instead). I started doing that the second round, and the guy quickly ran out of steam and waved me off.
Later that night, as my nose swelled again, I realized I still had no head movement. I’m not seeing the punches coming, and I’m leaving my head still. I sat next to a cute twenty-year-old student chiropractor who wasn’t listening and said, “I don’t think I have the violence in me for this.”
But in a sense, I was kidding myself. I knew that I would probably fall into the trap of humanity: naked rage fueled by self-preservation and ego, the opposite of empathy, closing oneself off to the pain of another.
The following Wednesday night I stayed away from the heavyweights and sparred the little guys and did much, much better. Because I’m tall, I would always stand with the heavyweights, but they all outweighed me by thirty or forty pounds. So instead I sparred with lighter guys and towered over them, but, hey, that made my life easy. I could survive; my nose didn’t bleed. I started keeping people on the end of my jab, where Pat wanted me to, too far away to hit me back.
Afterward, after eight three-minute rounds, we jumped rope, and I felt a little bit like I belonged, like I could stay there and train forever.
Two guys from Team Miletich were fighting in the next UFC in Las Vegas, Robbie Lawler and Tim Sylvia. Tim was making his big comeback after being stripped of the title for testing positive for steroids, and Robbie was a heavy favorite.
I flew into an overcast Vegas on a Thursday afternoon and went to the hotel and found the guys. We took the long walk down to the Events Center. People would first stop Tim, and then they’d grab Matt and Robbie as they recognized them. All of Team MFS navigated their minor celebrity with natural, unforced grace, shaking hands and taking pictures and enjoying themselves without getting too slowed down or frustrated.
The weigh-in was crowded, several hundred people around, and the ring girls and the announcer, Michael Buffer, and some rowdy fans. Over the P.A. I heard that Tim was not going to fight. He had trace elements of banned substances in his system and his most recent test hadn’t come back yet, so the Nevada Gaming Commission wouldn’t let him step on the scale. No scale means no fight. My mouth hung open. I had planned on shadowing Tim for the night, but now that was out. Luckily, I still had Robbie Lawler, a welterweight (170 pounds) contender and one of Pat’s prodigies, twenty-two years old, explosive, heavy-handed, and a heavy favorite (5–2) over Nick Diaz. Robbie was a UFC fan favorite, because he threw bombs—heavy, knockout punches—which makes fights exciting. Robbie looked good at the weigh-in, muscular and heavier than his taller and slimmer opponent.
Tim was disappointed about not being able to fight but not crushed. I asked him if he was coming out for a few beers and he shook his head, “I’m in great shape. Why would I come drinking now?” He’d be able to fight again in two months. In a way, it was as though he hadn’t quite accepted the fact that he wasn’t fighting, or his body hadn’t. His body and spirit had been bent toward that fight for so long that it would take them some time to disengage, even if his mind acceped it. Tim is intelligent and remarkably sensitive—not that he cries at sad movies, but he is aware of his surroundings and the people around him and how they are feeling. During training he can be a bully and will punish you if you stand up to him, but outside of the gym he’s friendly and open.
As for his steroid use, he must have gotten some bad advice. In his statement to the press, he said he wanted to look better on TV, and I believe him; it’s the kind of thing that would secretly bother him. The night after the weigh-in, the night of the fight, his test results came back negative, but it was too late.
Afterward I found Pat and the boys and we jumped in an SUV limo to go to break Robbie’s weigh-in fast at Olive Garden, creeping through Vegas rush hour. Any UFC fight fan would have given his arm to ride in that limo, with Pat Miletich, Jeremy Horn, Matt Hughes, Tony Fryklund, and Robbie Lawler. It was fun being with those guys and seeing them recognized for the stars they are, by fans in the know. In Vegas, around fight night, they were mobbed for autographs and photos just about everywhere, and they dealt with it well, smiling and shaking hands and taking photos. Their patience seemed endless, and they had fun with it. A drunk kid accosted Pat and said, “I’m coming to live and train in Iowa with you guys. I’ve got twenty grand and six months.” Pat laughed and said to him, “Make sure you buy a round-trip ticket ’cause you won’t make it through two training sessions,” and burst out laughing, with the kid as much as at him.
Dinner was lively, everyone talking and laughing; ribald and blasé humor abounded. The guys were laid back and friendly and willing to be entertained; they asked me about firefighting, and everyone weighed in on movies and girls, occasionally breaking into extremely technical and detailed discussions of fights that had happened here, or in Japan, or in Korea. Except for the scar tissue, they could have been mistaken for slightly dangerous frat boys on a break, but there was an air of professionalism that would make you question that conclusion. You could see people trying to figure them out, slightly wary of their confidence and roughness. In the limo, someone farted, and there was much yelling and hallooing and covering of faces with shirts, gasping theatrically out of open windows at the gritty Vegas air. It was that kind of night.
Robbie was probably the quietest, and not just because he had a fight, but because that’s the way he is; he’s not a loud talker. He’s solid and dark—he looks Filipino but is only half. He was relaxed and happy there among his friends and brothers. Team MFS is like a band of brothers with Pat as a sort of father/uncle/eldest brother who is expected to know everything—a role Pat occasionally resists, as he just wants to be a kid sometimes.
Matt Hughes, on my right, was well known and a six-time UFC welterweight champ, an Iowa farm boy who struck me as the most professional and relaxed of anyone there. He seemed unflappable and confident. Sure, he’s lost fights, you could hear him say, but that stuff happens. He’s still one of the toughest guys in the world.
Jeremy Horn, across the table and recommending the Tuscan sausage soup, was perhaps the most interesting of Pat’s boys, because of his record (something like 112–6, an unreal number of fights) and his poise. He fights all the time, every month, anywhere against anybody. He’ll fight at 205 pounds or 185, although 185 is a little more natural for him. Most guys who fight at 205 walk around at 230; Jeremy probably walks around at 210. His ground game is considered one of the best in the world; he’s fought the best fighters and beaten some of them, and I’ve watched him spar and bang with Tim without any problem. What’s so funny is that he is the most unassuming and normal-looking guy in the crowd. If you ran into him at a bar, you wouldn’t look at him twice; he looks as if he could be selling Bibles or running for student council. Yet listening to people talk around the gym, most are more afraid of him than anyone else, and most people say he’s the best guy they’ve ever rolled with.
I kept maintaining to anyone who would listen that this sport is being marketed wrong. They try to spectacle it up, make it like pro wrestling with smoke and fireworks, when really they should be emphasizing the technical aspects of it. The blood will sell itself; everyone knows how rough it is. What should be sold is the technical side. It’s perceived as a pro wrestling type of thing, when in reality it is a very serious, technical sport. It can be hard to watch because the ground fighting can be slow and methodical, each man extremely careful, as any tiny slipup can mean the fight; it’s similar to how cautious heavyweight boxers can get with their constant clinching, because any punch can be a KO.
The bloody part is incidental; you have to look at it as a part of a greater whole. Noses and lips bleed when they get hit; it’s not a big deal. The guy on the bottom getting pounded and getting bloody isn’t necessarily in a great amount