Iceman: My Fighting Life Read online

  ICEMAN

  ICEMAN

  MY FIGHTING LIFE

  CHUCK LIDDELL

  WITH CHAD MILLMAN

  DUTTON

  DUTTON

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © 2008 by Chuck Liddell

  All rights reserved

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint:

  Permission to use Dana White’s “Do you want to be a f***ing fighter?” speech from season one of The Ultimate Fighter® television series granted by Mr. Dana White and series copyright holder Ultimate Fighting Productions, LLC.

  Photographs on pp. 2, 111, 113, 138, 145, 157, 159, 185, 188, 192, 204, 211, 212, 214, 226, 232, 245, 246, 262, 268, 274, 277, 287, insert pp. 4, 5, 6, 7, 8: Ultimate Fighting Championship® photographs provided by and licensed from Zuffa, LLC © 2007. All rights reserved.

  Photographs on pp. 23, 50, 53, 56, 195, 237, 280, insert p. 2, bottom; p. 3: courtesy of The Pit.

  Photographs on pp. 5, 8, 12, 14, 15, 17, 21, 25, 30, 31, 37, 42, 72, 74, 90, 104, 249, 251, 293, insert p. 1, p. 2, top: courtesy of the author.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Liddell, Chuck.

  Iceman: my fighting life/by Chuck Liddell with Chad Millman.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1204-2

  1. Liddell, Chuck. 2. Kickboxing. 3. Kickboxing—United States—Biography I. Millman, Chad. II. Title.

  GV1114.65.L53 2008

  796.815—dc22 2007043746

  [B]

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  For Pops, who taught me how to fight and always thought I was the best fighter in the world. And for Trista and Cade, who make me want to be the best dad in the world.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  GET THE F**K UP

  CHAPTER 2

  LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER

  CHAPTER 3

  KNOW YOUR STUFF

  CHAPTER 4

  BE WILLING TO LEARN

  CHAPTER 5

  WHY? ’CAUSE SCREW THEM.

  CHAPTER 6

  DON’T ALWAYS FOLLOW MOM’S ADVICE

  CHAPTER 7

  NO COWERING, NO SCOWLING, JUST STARING

  CHAPTER 8

  PRACTICE WHAT YOU LOVE

  CHAPTER 9

  NEVER UNDERESTIMATE ANYONE

  CHAPTER 10

  BEING MENTALLY TOUGH IS NOT A SOMETIMES THING

  CHAPTER 11

  SIZE DOESN’T MATTER

  CHAPTER 12

  TAKE IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL

  CHAPTER 13

  YOU’RE NEVER TOO TOUGH TO SHOW THE LADIES YOUR SENSITIVE SIDE

  CHAPTER 14

  THE MORE YOU MOVE, THE MORE SOMEONE HAS TO TRY TO KEEP YOU STILL

  CHAPTER 15

  APPRECIATE RISK

  CHAPTER 16

  NEVER LET A LITTLE THING GET IN THE WAY OF MAKING A BIG THING HAPPEN

  CHAPTER 17

  A FIGHT’S A FIGHT, NO MATTER WHERE IT IS

  CHAPTER 18

  BE ABOUT BEING THE BEST

  CHAPTER 19

  TURNS OUT MOJO DON’T PAY THE BILLS

  CHAPTER 20

  IF YOU DON’T FIGHT, YOU DON’T TRULY KNOW IF YOU CAN WIN

  CHAPTER 21

  ALTITUDE TRAINING IS BULL

  CHAPTER 22

  REGULATION IS GOOD

  CHAPTER 23

  WITHOUT ANY SUBSTANCE, YOU CAN NEVER HAVE ANY STYLE

  CHAPTER 24

  TO LEAVE NO DOUBT, YOU’VE GOT TO KNOCK A GUY OUT

  CHAPTER 25

  LOYALTY IS EVERYTHING

  CHAPTER 26

  FORGET PLANS AND EXPECTATIONS

  CHAPTER 27

  LOSING AS A MAN IS BETTER THAN WINNING AS A COWARD

  CHAPTER 28

  YOU CAN WORRY ABOUT LOSING, OR YOU CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT

  CHAPTER 29

  IT NEVER PAYS TO MOUTH OFF

  CHAPTER 30

  NEVER LET ’EM BREATHE

  CHAPTER 31

  IT’S NOT ABOUT STRENGTH, IT’S ABOUT STRENGTH OVER A LONG TIME

  CHAPTER 32

  WHEN YOU GET AN OPPORTUNITY TO HAVE A GOOD TIME, YOU’VE GOT TO TAKE IT

  CHAPTER 33

  WHEN YOU’VE GOT A GUY DAZED, KNOCK HIM OUT

  CHAPTER 34

  PATIENCE DOES PAY OFF

  CHAPTER 35

  HAVING A GOOD CHIN COMES NATURALLY

  CHAPTER 36

  YOU NEED TO BEAT SOMEONE OVER THE HEAD TO GET WHAT YOU WANT

  CHAPTER 37

  WE’RE FIGHTERS. A LOT OF US HAVE ISSUES.

  CHAPTER 38

  SOMEONE UP THERE HAS A GREAT SENSE OF HUMOR

  CHAPTER 39

  IF A GUY SAYS HE’S READY, HE’S READY. WHO AM I TO SHOW MERCY?

  CHAPTER 40

  A MOHAWK ENHANCES YOUR COMMERCIAL APPEAL

  CHAPTER 41

  REVENGE IS PRETTY DARN SWEET

  CHAPTER 42

  YOU CAN’T WAIT TO FINISH A GUY

  CHAPTER 43

  SCREW IT. RETAKE IT.

  CHAPTER 44

  IT’S A PRETTY GREAT LIFE WHEN YOU MAKE IT DOING WHAT YOU LOVE

  CHAPTER 45

  NEVER CHOKE ANYONE OUT UNLESS YOU’RE GETTING PAID FOR IT

  CHAPTER 46

  YOU HAVE TO STAY CHILL WHEN THE LIGHTS ARE BRIGHTEST

  CHAPTER 47

  GET THE F**K BACK UP

  APPENDIX

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ICEMAN

  PROLOGUE

  WHAT’S IT LIKE TO WALK DOWN THE STREET AND have no fear? What’s it like to turn the corner and know I can handle anything that comes my way? What’s it
like to be the guy people are afraid to meet in a dark alley? People ask me those questions more than any others. That’s what happens when you’re six-two, 205 pounds, sport a low-and-tight Mohawk, and have a tattoo etched onto the side of your skull. That’s what happens when you’ve got a rep as the hardest puncher in what is arguably the toughest sport since the 300 were doing battle. People want to know what it’s like to be fearless more than they want to know how much money I make (enough), or how much it hurts to be an ultimate fighter (not much), or would I let my nine-year-old son step into the Octagon when he’s older (sure, if he trained).

  Well, here’s the answer: I have no idea, because I’ve got nothing to compare it to. I’ve never been afraid of a fight. In fact, I like fighting, always have. Not that I’m looking for a brawl every time I hit the bars. I stopped doing reckless stuff like that when I was a teenager. Back then I’d walk into a room trying to figure which guys I was going to end up throwing down with at the end of the night. I didn’t care if I was taking on five other people. I figured, no matter what happened to me, by the time it ended I’d have taken care of at least three or four of them. Ever since my grandpa taught me how to throw a punch, I’ve known how to handle myself in those situations. And having that kind of confidence frees me up to think about something other than “Wow, I can pretty much kick anyone’s ass.” It just doesn’t cross my mind. At least not when I’m walking down the street.

  This is my “don’t mess with me” stance.

  But heading toward the cage, that’s a different story. Then, I never doubt. When I walk out of the tunnel, I can see the lights, hear the music, feel the crowd, but it all begins to close off as I near the cage. By that point I’m thinking, I’ve been training hard, it’s time to focus. I play to the crowd because that is part of the show, but I can’t hear what anyone is saying. Good or bad. All the best MMA (mixed martial artist) fighters feel exactly the same way because most of us were competitive athletes long before joining the UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship). I played football and wrestled at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. Randy Couture was an all-American wrestler at Oklahoma State and was an alternate on three Olympic wrestling teams. The UFC welterweight champ Matt Serra won a Brazilian jujitsu gold medal at the Pan American Games. What we’re doing is sports in its most basic form. We don’t have teammates. It’s a one-on-one battle, with no place to hide. Every man is born with a fight-or-flight instinct, and mine is to fight. It always has been.

  I’ve been in twenty-four professional MMA fights since turning pro in 1998. I’ve won twenty, seven of those by knockout, and lost four, three of those by knockout. That’s a total of less than three matches a year, which usually equals fewer than forty minutes total of actual fight time. Yet for each of those fights I work out twice a day, five times a week, for three straight months (give or take a day here and there to blow off some steam). My trainer at The Pit in San Luis Obispo, John Hackleman, has me throw a 125-pound medicine ball against a wall. I run with a wheelbarrow full of rocks up hills. I do fight drills, fitness drills, and bag work. I spar. I wrestle. I take kicks to the head and knees to the stomach. And that is just for practice. After that kind of effort, if I walk into the cage and don’t think I can whip anyone I’m facing, I’m in the wrong sport.

  I’m pretty sure I made the right choice. And while you’re reading this book, I think you’ll agree. I wrote this because I wanted people to know the guy beneath the Mohawk, to understand why I love stepping into the cage and beating up on people. And while I begin the story with my days growing up in Santa Barbara and end it living the good life as a UFC star in San Luis Obispo, I’m hoping this serves as more than just a year-by-year record of my life story because that’s not all it is to me. I didn’t just wake up one day and decide I could be a UFC champion. I worked toward it every day of my life, even before there was such a thing as the UFC. All I ever wanted to do was make a living fighting. It didn’t have to be professionally. Before becoming a UFC fighter I was working in a dojo and as a bartender. I could have done those two things forever. And if I had written a book about that kind of life, except for the fights themselves, most of it wouldn’t be all that different. Every chapter in this book features a lesson that helped me become who I am in and out of the cage, from the time I learned to box when I was three years old to the days both of my kids were born to the night that Rampage knocked me on my butt. You may finish this book and not remember one detail of my life—although I’m sure you’ll be telling your friends some stories. But at the least, if you rip out the table of contents and carry it with you (after you buy the book), you’ll have the road map that helped me become the light heavyweight titleholder. And the lessons apply whether you’re studying for the SATs, sitting in a cubicle hating your boss, or training to be a UFC fighter.

  Hackleman likes to say that I was nothing but a 220-pound slab of clay who couldn’t fight when he met me. He also tells reporters that before big fights I get really nervous, head to his house, sit on his couch, put my head on his shoulder, and ask him to rub the tattoo on the side of my head until I fall asleep. Only one of those things is true.

  Read this book and you’ll find out.

  CHAPTER 1

  GET THE F**K UP

  IWAS BORN CRIPPLED. AT LEAST THAT’S HOW MY MOM, Charlene, likes to put it. You couldn’t tell at first. I did all the things a baby was supposed to do: roll over, sit up, and crawl. By nine months I was walking—actually running—as fast as I could. I wanted to chase down my older sister, Laura. I fell, I bruised, I cried, then I got back up. But when I was around eighteen months old, my mom noticed that I was falling more than usual, and for no reason at all. Not just when I was running, but when I was standing in the kitchen drinking milk or pulling myself up onto a chair in the living room. My body would just crumple. I looked like a mannequin as my legs folded underneath me and I collapsed to the floor.

  Don’t be deceived by the Mickey Mouse ears. I may have looked harmless, but I wasn’t afraid to take a kid out if I had to.

  My mom wasn’t the kind to coddle her kids. This was a woman who, as the shortest girl in her class, played right guard on the boys’ football team when she was in sixth grade. When she got to high school, her mom made her stop playing sports so she could be more feminine. She grew to be five-eleven, got a job working in the social services office in our hometown of Santa Barbara, and was raising her kids on her own. She still has a sweet voice and a good heart. And she had the perfect attitude for bringing up four kids. No amount of crying seemed to unsettle her. She had her own ideas about parenting, especially single-parenting. Most of all, she wanted her children to be independent because she believed that was the only way they’d be happy. If I whined about being tired and wanting to be carried, she’d tell me how great my legs worked and how strong I was, and bottom line, she wasn’t about to let me waste them by carrying me home. When we were hurt, unless the gash was big enough to see bone or someone took a hammer to one of our heads (which Laura pulled on me twice one afternoon), her response was to wipe it off with a towel and tell us to get up and get back outside. She was—and still is—strong and fierce and determined. And she wanted her kids to be more than that.

  But my frequent spills surprised—and even concerned—her. One afternoon she took me to the doctor, who was concerned enough that he sent me to a specialist. He could tell right away what the problem was: My joints kept slipping out of my sockets. And every time it happened, I flopped to the ground. The doctor told my mom I wasn’t going to grow out of it and suggested I get braces on both legs, which would then be connected at the knee by a steel rod, so the bottom half of my body was stable and the problem would be corrected. It meant I wouldn’t be able to walk for a while and that I’d have to stop doing all the things a rambunctious eighteen-month-old kid likes to do. But when I got the braces off, I’d be fine. My mom hated that idea. She had grown up in the sixties, and while she hadn’t ever lived on a commune, she did think of herself as a modified
hippie. The image of my legs being locked up with braces stuck in her head, and she immediately worried about—her words not mine—my “psychological development.” If I couldn’t walk for a long time, it wouldn’t be long before my six-month-old brother, Sean, passed me by. She knew that wouldn’t sit well.

  So she asked the doctor what else we could do to fix the problem. He laid out a schedule of physical therapy that makes my twice-a-day-five-days-a-week-for-three-straight-months-before-a-fight workout sessions seem like a restless nap. It was even harder for my mom. I was eighteen months old, where did I have to be? But my mom, after nights spent trying to keep infant Sean happy, woke up with me extra early in the morning. Before getting Laura ready for school she contorted and twisted my legs into pretzels. I screamed in agony, and it broke her heart. Then she’d come home from work and do it all again. Basically, she was telling me to get the fuck up. For a year and a half we went through this routine nearly every day. But, by the time I was three, I was falling less and felt sturdier on my feet. I was putting plenty of distance between Sean and me and had no problem keeping up with Laura when we played on the school playground across from our town house.