Miletich Patrick Jay - Blood in the cage: mixed martial arts, Pat Miletich, and the furious rise of the UFC

Copyright 2009 by L. Jon Wertheim

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Wertheim, L. Jon.
Blood in the cage : mixed martial arts, Pat Miletich, and the furious rise of the UFC / L. Jon Wertheim.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-618-98261-5
1. Mixed martial arts. 2. Miletich, Patrick Jay, 1968 3. Martial artistsUnited StatesBiography. 4. UFC (Mixed martial arts event) I. Title.
GV 1102.7.M59 W 47 2009
796.815dc22 2008036764

e ISBN 978-0-547-34722-6
v2.0215

F OR E UGENE M. W AITH

A GENTLEMAN
A SCHOLAR
A REAL MAN
19122007

It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.

T HEODORE R OOSEVELT,
Citizenship in a Republic speech, 1910

There is always danger, and I should try not to defend it now, only to tell honestly the things I have found true about it. To do this I must be altogether frank, or try to be, and if those who read this decide with disgust that it is written by someone who lacks their fineness of feeling, I can only plead that this may be true. But whoever reads this can only truly make a judgment when he has seen the things that are spoken of and knows truly what their reactions to them would be.

ERNEST HEMINGWAY,Death in the Afternoon

Lemme bust your nose.

The cocked fist was a few inches from my face, close enough so that I could see bruised knuckles and fine hairs. Small white bones and squiggly cables of veins protruded from skin pulled tight. Study a fist up closethis ball of fury with its uneven shape and unlikely anglesand its easy to see why it has caused so much damage over the centuries. Fortunately, this particular fist unballed and dropped when I reasserted my position: no, thanks, I did not want my nose broken.

Early in this project, during the first of what would be many of my visits to Pat Miletichs training gym in Iowa, I spoke with Jens Lil Evil Pulver. A charismatic, slightly mischievous, professional mixed-martial-arts fighter, Pulver was curious about my intentions. We spoke a bit. I explained that my goal was to write a book that tried to make some sense of the mixed-martial-arts phenomenon. At one point he turned and asked, When was the last time youve been in a fight?

Twenty years ago, maybe? I said, unsure. Eighth grade? That wasnt even really a fight.

Had I claimed to have been wearing fishnet stockings underneath my jeans, it would have been received with the same mix of shock and disbelief. No, seriously, Pulver said.

Seriously.

How can you write about mixed martial arts when youve never been in a real fight?

I started to explain that participation wasnt essential, that people could be movie critics even if they had never been actors or directors or... He cut me off.

Lemme bust your nose, Pulver suggested, no trace of kidding on his face. Suddenly, one fist was cocked. With his other hand he reached for a clump of paper towels. Your eyesll water but you wont bleed that much. And I can reset it, real easy.

Maybe he was joking. I wasnt sure. Nah, thats okay, I said.

Come on, Ill just crack it a little, he said. Then youll have more appreciation for what we go through. And your friendsll be impressed.

Its no big deal, another fighter added. Ive had my nose busted a bunch of times and look how pretty I still am.

I declined again, disappointing the small crowd of fighters that had gathered around.

If you change your mind, Pulver said, let me know.

If I had lingering doubts that he would follow through, they were extinguished when I returned to Miletichs fighting gym later that night. By the time I had arrived, a few minutes into a typical sparring session, blood was skidding down Mark Holatas face, cabernet-colored at first, then flaming red, and then nearly pink as it traveled south and mixed with his sweat. Bruises expanded under his eyes. A red ring, not unlike one of Saturns, had already formed inside his left eye. Scrapes mottled his cheeks and chin.

But the real stab of pain came from the heckling. The first rule of this fight club is that you can talk about this fight club. Every movement is fair game for discussion and commentary and critique. And on this evening the serenade was deafening. Finish the round, pussy! yelled one of the regular fighters, looking over at the carnage as he pounded rhythmically on a speed bag. Finish the round!

Pick up your mouthpiece! a second fighter bellowed.

Show that you want to be here, screamed a third. Show us some balls, big boy!

Holata did all of the above. And still the ass-kicking continued. The sound of a leather glove colliding with his kidney echoed through the room, the popping thwaaaackk resembling the sound from a shotgun barrel. Scissoring kicks to his calf made a mockery of his pads, causing him to teeter and drop like a felled redwood. Slowly, gamely, he rose, only to encounter a knee to the nose that unleashed another stream of blood. Another knee to the gut had him doubled over.

It wasnt the pain. Hell, the hurt hadnt registered, at least not yet. It was probably just the spike of adrenaline, but he was feeling weirdly disconnected from his body. No, his real undoing was the fatigue. Holata had figured that he was in decent physical shape. But he was accustomed to training for three-minute rounds, not the five-minute rounds they were now making him fightparticularly not in a room with the thermostat dialed up to 100 degrees, the heat meant to simulate extreme conditions. He was used to taking a few blows, but back home hed always landed the majority of the shots. Above all, hed always fought opponents who were equally tired. Here, he kept fighting but his counterparts kept rotating in and out every few minutes. They were fresh. He was sucking air as if it were the most precious commodity on earth. It was all, he assumed correctly, part of the hazing ritual.

Holatas body resembled a lowercase r, his legs stable but his thick torso curled in a semicircle with his head below his shoulders. UUHHHhhhhhrrrrgggg he whimpered meekly. The sound soon died. Even the groaning required reserves of energy he no longer had. Slowly and methodically, his sparring partner leaned in. He was a big blond kid, with a stubbly face and an abundance of tats, named Ben Rothwell.

While Holata hadnt spoken to Rothwell yet, hed overheard his strong midwestern accent and the playful lilt of his voice and took him to be a good guy. Now, Holata hoped to hell that Rothwell was nearing to offer a show of mercy, maybe a welcome-to-the-club knock of the gloves or a pat on the back that implied the message You okay man? Youre one tough motherfucker.

Holata wasnt quite so lucky. Smiling, Rothwell reached around and starched him with a stiff right jab. The blow knocked out Holatas mouthpiece onto the sweat-saturated mat. Urrrgggg he moaned again, more meekly than before. Mike Tyson once remarked that boxing is a hurt business. Watching Holata struggle, it was clear that boxing didnt have a monopoly. This sportmixed martial arts, or MMA is a hurt business. The real hurt business.