Nick Gullo - Into the Cage: The Rise of UFC Nation

Copyright 2013 by Nick Gullo

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Gullo, Nick

Into the cage : the rise of UFC nation / Nick Gullo ; foreword by Dana White.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-7710-3653-8

1. Mixed martial arts. 2. UFC

(Mixed martial arts event). I. Title.

GV1102.7.M59G85 2013 796.815

C2013-900690-7

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013931566

Fenn/McClelland & Stewart,

a division of Random House of Canada Limited

One Toronto Street

Toronto, Ontario

M5C 2V6

www.randomhouse.ca

v3.1

This year marks the twentieth anniversary of the UFC. Its been thirteen years since we bought the company, and despite all the progress, I never look back and pat myself on the shoulder. Maybe thats why were successful. Lorenzo, Frank, and I know there is so much left to accomplish. Thats what we focus on.

However, when I read this slice of UFC history, and flip through the photos, Im grateful for the fighters and fans who have helped us propel MMA into the fastest-growing sport in the world.

Nick is one of my closest friends. With his unprecedented access hes crafted something truly unique. As he emphasizes throughout this book, the fighters journey is a metaphor for life. We all start at the bottom. We all face adversity. But when we bow our heads and work through the hardships, refuse to surrender despite our doubts, we grow stronger. And growing stronger, we prevail. Thats the journey of a champion.

Enjoy.

Dana White

UFC President

Liz Carmouche, first challenger to the UFC womens bantamweight belt, UFC 157.

I T STARTED WITH A WHISPER . More than ever Im convinced it always starts with a whisper

Walking down the corridor, I hear music echoing through the walls, the crowd chanting, announcers hyping the main cardbut this isnt how or when it started. This is 2008, which is somewhat of a way station in this tale, and where we are is inside a concrete tunnel beneath the MGM Grand Garden Arena in Las Vegas. Cramped quarters. Fluorescent gray light distorts shadows. A metal duct overhead spews cold air, but its no comfort. Im sweating, nervous. Dana White turns and flashes that iconic grin, and for a moment its like old timeslike were teenagers again, ready to knock heads. You cool? he says.

I shrug, trying to play it off, like what waits beyond this tunnel is nothing, just a midday stroll through an empty stadium. Never mind the twelve thousand rabid fans.

No. Im anything but cool. My stomachs rumbling and Ive got this taste on my tongue, like I downed a glass of questionable milk and next Ill vomit in that passing can. But, like, pull it together, dude, because theythe PR lady to my left, the assistant holding a clipboard and a walkie-talkie, the camera guyare all staring, and I know theyre thinking, Who is this guy? If theyre such good friends, where the fuck has he been?

And yeah, theyre right to question. Its been eight years since Dana and I last saw each other.

Eight. Years.

Flip back through the calendar and that lands us premillennium. Since then, the worlds endured hanging chads, planes careening into towers, green missile flares over Iraq, a foreclosure crisis. The last time Dana and I were together was on a return flight to Vegas. Heres the scene unfolding: Im munching pretzels while Dana flips through a mixed martial arts (MMA) magazine. After some turbulence he leans in and whispers something. Whats that? Oh, hes mumbling about MMA, how it could be the next thing. Clouds pass outside the window and Im hardly listening. Ive got pressing concerns, like should I move my young family to the Gulf Coast, swap the Vegas desert for Floridas sandy beaches, abandon friends, and

Im telling you, bro, this could be big, he says.

I glance at the article and give him a curt nod, but I know this wont appease him. Once Dana gets something in his headwhether its a new system for beating the roulette wheel, a hot parlay for Sundays games, or a guy who crossed himforget it, you might as well toe the line. Looks great, I say and turn back to the window.

Im fucking serious, he says.

Yeah, all right, I heard youhuge. It could be huge.

Asshole.

Okay. This clearly wasnt going to end. What do you mean? I say. Like kickboxing? Or those strong-man competitions where they drag logs through the mud?

No, dipshit, a cage, they fight in a cage.

Ohhh, tough-guy matchesdidnt Mr. T win one of those?

Youre a gorilla.

Of course in hindsight, Im the idiot. Hurl the black roses, Ill gather them all. In retrospect, this exchange is akin to Moses preaching from the mount while some fool snickers and polishes the golden calf. But understand, Dana and I were friends, and what did he know about MMA? Back then he was teaching casino executives and their wives to sidestep and throw jabs, paying the family bills as a boxing coach. Yeah, on the side he managed Tito Ortiz, a cage fighter, so there was at least a tacit connection with this new obsessionbut still, to my ears, the phrase MMA elicited two events: first, the legendary 1976 Muhammad Ali versus Antonio Inoki bout, wherein the champ flew to Japan and fought under hybrid rules that allowed kicking but no grappling, jabbing but no flying knees, and resulted in an absolute farce, with Inoki on his back much of the fight, throwing heels and flailing like a tempestuous child, for which Ali suffered blood clots in his leg that threatened amputation and hobbled him for the rest of his career; and second, in 1993, the first Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) on pay-per-view (PPV).

Everyone I knew tuned in to this inaugural UFC event, all of us frothing at the prospect of various disciplines clashing in the ring: kung fu versus boxing versus Krav Maga versus sambo. Mind you, these were the heady days of Mortal Kombat and Virtua Fighter, the arcades packed with kidsno, not just kids, also grown menbattling as Kung Lao, Liu Kang, and Kage-Maru. So after forking over fifty dollars for the PPV, we expected blitzkrieg action. Bruce Lee scissor kicks. Multi-hit combos. Fatalities!

Instead, we endured two hours of mismatched fighters, untrained camerawork, and hairband synth music. Yeah, there were some exciting moments, and yeah, Royce Gracies Brazilian jiu-jitsu was impeccable, and yeah, he dominated all comers, and yeah, yeah, yeah, the core fans mythologize that first event and swear it was the greatest thing since Hagler versus Hearnsbut to my untrained eyes all that mat work was akin to a typical high school wrestling match