Iceman Read online

  I could be patient, though. I wasn’t going anywhere. I knew back then that I was going to be fighting in the UFC until they dragged me out of the ring. More than I needed to get a title fight or to be one of Dana’s name brands, I needed to get better as a fighter. That happened every day in training, not just in the Octagon on a Saturday night in Las Vegas. And the trappings that came with celebrity weren’t as important to me as that improvement. It’s a substance-versus-style thing. And I knew that without any substance, you can never have any style. Stuff like that was fine for Tito, but I preferred to come in under the radar, build a fan base and a reputation first, then get what I deserved. The more mature I was as a mixed martial artist, the more I’d be ready to handle being a champion.

  * * *

  HOW TO PROTECT YOURSELF WHEN YOU’RE STANDING UP:

  Elbows in, hands up, chin down.

  HOW TO LOOK MENACING:

  I never had to try to do this. If I’m not smiling, everyone thinks I’m mad at them. But it’s natural; If I look at someone serious, I look mad.

  * * *

  My first fight in 2001 was in Atlantic City at UFC 31 against Kevin Randleman, who was a serious fighter—and not just of the MMA variety. He was an Ohio state champion wrestler in high school, a three-time all-American, three-time Big 10 champ, and two-time NCAA wrestling champ at Ohio State. When he got into MMA in the mid-1990s, he didn’t join the UFC. He went to fight Vale Tudo style in Brazil. He fought in three matches in one night in his first tournament, winning all three, and the tourney. He was built like a tank, and he just beat up on people, making guys submit after landing a barrage of punches. He was great at the kind of no-holds-barred fighting that scared off people like John McCain. He had been a world-class wrestler, and you could do little to him on the mat that he couldn’t find a way to get out of.

  In 1999, three years after beginning his MMA career, Randleman won the UFC heavyweight title only to lose it to Randy Couture a year later. His fight against me, in May of 2001, was his first fight after losing the title. I wanted to fight him. In fact, I had asked Dana if we could set up the match. Randleman was coming down from heavyweight to light heavyweight, and he was a former champ. I may have been winning fights, but I still needed the kind of match in which I could earn my stripes. This one would do it. Going into it, I was a 4–1 underdog.

  If he won, Randleman was in line to take on Tito in a UFC light heavyweight title bout. Everyone knew this. So Dana asked me, if I won, would I be willing to take on Tito for the title, since I would be the top contender? Otherwise they were going to have Randleman fight someone else. I still don’t know why the hell he’d ask me a question like that. What was I doing this for? It wasn’t to keep myself from getting into fights on the street. I was fighting to become a champ. Maybe Tito was already telling Dana we shouldn’t fight because we were friends. Or maybe he was coming up with some other excuse. But whichever the case, Dana felt compelled to ask me because Tito and I used to train together. He wanted to make sure I could fight against a guy who, on the surface, was a friend of mine. I told Dana that fighting Tito wasn’t going to be a problem. At all.

  But a funny thing happened in the Randleman fight. You’d think having lost the title, he would have been raring to go and that I should have been on my guard. But I had studied him pretty well. I had seen him get knocked out and knew, if I could sneak a punch in there, he was susceptible to going down. But I wasn’t concerned about his ground game, either. He had a great résumé and deserved his rep, but the more I watched him, the more I thought I could not only handle myself against him on the ground, but actually score some points. I was always working on the jujitsu, and I knew my ground game was getting better with every fight. I felt I was getting to the point where I could handle almost anything that someone could throw at me.

  I went in for the punch and knocked Randleman out.

  When the fight started, it was a good twenty seconds before either of us made a move. We danced around each other in a circle until we finally locked up and grappled against the side of the Octagon for about forty seconds. Then we pushed off each other and squared up again. I’m not sure how I saw it, but as soon as we both had our feet set, I leaned in with a left hook. I think it was actually the only time that he wasn’t protecting himself. His legs buckled, and as he started to fall, I pounced. I got off two or three punches while he was on his back, then the ref swooped in, pushing me off and calling the fight. Randleman protested afterward that the fight had been stopped too soon, but he didn’t even remember being hit. As Hackleman said, I would have been happy to stand back up and finish it. But it would have ended the same way.

  The whole thing lasted one minute and eighteen seconds. It was stunning to the MMA community not only that I had won, but won by a knockout so early in the fight. At this point, I’d won five straight matches since my lone career loss to Jeremy Horn. Four of those five were by knockout or submission, and one was by decision. I had won with power. I had won on my feet, on the ground, and I had won by endurance. Now it wasn’t just backroom dealings in the UFC that was going to get me a title shot. There were plenty of rumblings among fans, too, that Tito should put his crown on the line against me. But he wasn’t biting. And he didn’t have to, at least not yet. He was on top and had some marquee fights that would be bigger draws. I was a contender, but still an up-and-comer. I could have called him out and pushed for the fight, but that wasn’t my style.

  Instead, I had business to take care of, in and out of the ring. I had another fight against another top-name MMA fighter scheduled for three weeks after Randleman. And I also had to negotiate my new UFC deal with Dana.

  The timing of the Randleman win, my streak of good fights, and my new status as a contender for the title helped put some money in my pocket. My new contract guarantee went like this—$25,000/$25,000 for the first (that’s $25K to fight, another $25K for winning), $30,000/$30,000 for the second, $35,000/$35,000 for the third, $40,000/$40,000 for the fourth, and $45,000/$45,0000 for the fifth. This was big-time money.

  I had already made $20,000 for beating Randleman. And I had another $40,000 on the line ($20K for showing up, $20K for winning) in my fight against Guy Mezger at the end of May. I fought Mezger in a Pride tournament—which is a Japan-based mixed martial arts league—on a one-fight deal. Mezger was a wily fighter. He had had close to forty career fights when we faced off, his first in 1994. He was an MMA pioneer, winning kickboxing titles before moving over to the UFC while it was in its infancy. He had had fights for a title, but could never close the deal. But he did have some big wins, including one against Tito in UFC 13. Late in that match Tito nailed Guy with several knees to the head, and it looked to a lot of people as if Guy had tapped out. But the ref saw it differently. He ruled that Guy was actually blocking the blows to his head with his hand, and when Tito shifted his weight, Guy’s hand naturally fell to the mat. He declared there was no tap, checked both fighters for cuts, then put both men on their feet. The announcers, the fans, and even Tito thought the fight was over. So Tito was loaded to finish the job after the ref restarted the fight. When Tito immediately went in for a takedown, Guy protected himself and instead got Tito in a guillotine choke. That was the fight, Tito submitted.

  Naturally, Tito felt robbed. Tito was yelling and the ending was so controversial, it was a rematch perfect for TV. They battled again in UFC 19. This time Tito dominated, never giving Mezger or the ref any choice about who should be declared the winner. At one point Tito was repeatedly throwing punches at Mezger’s head, and Mezger wasn’t responding or trying to protect himself. Tito was just laughing for the whole crowd to see. When the fight was finally stopped, Tito pulled out his GUY MEZGER IS MY BITCH T-shirt. I’d like to say that Tito is a good guy, and that his stunts are just to draw a little attention to himself, make himself a little more money, and play to the crowd. But even now Dana says the two biggest pains in his ass as UFC president are policing steroid users and dealing with Tito.
Every sport needs a punk you want to root against. And Tito’s ours.

  Ken Shamrock, one of Guy’s mentors, was in his corner that night. Seeing Tito laugh and then put on the T-shirt sent him over the edge. Without even planning it, Dana now had a new grudge match for the future that was going to knock me off to the side: Tito versus his new enemy, Ken Shamrock.

  Mezger was the kind of opponent who fought the way I wanted to fight. His background was similar to mine—he had come from karate and kickboxing—which meant we both wanted to be on our feet and strike. I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of time and energy grappling with someone against the ropes or trying to fight my way off the mat.

  Right away the fight had a quicker pace than the last few I had been in, which were all against jujitsu grapplers. We were kicking low and flowing around the ring looking for openings to hit, not plodding so we could find a way to grab each other’s waist. Early in the fight he connected hard with a left hook. It surprised me, but I was able to shake it off before he could add any kind of combination. Then he actually knocked me down with a kick late in the round. It was only the second time in my career—and the first since my fight with Pele in Brazil—that I had been knocked down.

  Throughout the first round I felt that he was scoring more points, but I was getting in more hits that actually hurt. I could see it in his eyes—after all this time you know when you’re hurting a guy with your punches, and I was definitely beginning to wear on him. This whole fight I felt different from in any of my other fights. My timing finally seemed right and I had completely made the adjustment from kickboxer to mixed martial artist. I knew I was doing well.

  My goal in every fight is to take the guy down, just knock him out. It’s more satisfying than a well-executed submission hold or a kick to the head and definitely better than winning a fight by a decision. It’s the most visceral joy you can get from fighting, and it’s why I was doing it in the streets twenty years ago and why I got into the cage. It’s like hitting the perfect golf shot or making the perfect tackle or hitting a clean line drive in baseball. It just goes, with a little bit of a thud in your hands, a little push back, as if you were breaking through a piece of paper. Then it just gives. You can feel it in your legs, your waist, your torso, and your arms when you connect on the perfect punch, but you barely feel it in your knuckles, where you actually make contact. By then, so much force and power is leaving your body that the guy’s chin or the guy’s cheek is absorbing all of the blow. It’s an incredible sensation. It’s something everyone dreams about doing—just walloping a guy—and so few get to actually do without getting arrested.

  The fight with Mezger was the kind of bout—high energy, a couple of strikers—that ends in a knockout. And it wasn’t going to be me. Late in the second round, I had an opening. As he was backpedaling, I caught him with a combination of three punches to the head and face. He staggered, which gave me an even bigger opening to deliver some punishment. I set up, stepped in with my left foot, and threw a right hand that hit him square on the cheek. His neck gave way and his head bobbed back and then forward as he fell to the ground. It was over. Guy wasn’t just knocked down, he was knocked out, with his left leg twisting at an ugly angle underneath his ass and back.

  I screamed at the top of my lungs, hugged my corner guys, jumped on the turnbuckle, and pointed to the crowd. Winning a fight never gets old. The payoff is never less than what you expect after months of working. And in the euphoria of all that, it’s easy to forget about the guy you just pummeled who’s lying on the mat. For those guys, you never know how bad the damage is, when they’ll recover, when they’ll fight again, or if they’ll fight at all. After that night, Guy Mezger would fight just four more times in his career. It happens to everyone.

  But it wasn’t even close to my time. I felt that I was just getting started. And I celebrated. I had made more money in that month—between the Randleman fight and the Mezger fight—than I had in my entire UFC career combined. Now I had a contract guaranteeing even more than I could fathom getting paid as a fighter. So I splurged. I had been driving a 1988 Ford Ranger that was in bad shape. It was leaking clutch fluid, and I felt that I was replacing the clutch nearly every month. The car was such a beater it was hard just to keep it together, and I was afraid to drive long distances. I took $14,000 in cash and got myself a 1997 Expedition.

  Now I was rolling.

  CHAPTER 24

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

  NEW CONTRACT, NEW CREDIBILITY, NEW CAR. MIDWAY through 2002 I was thirty-two years old and a legitimate pro fighter, making a living at what I did best, probably better than anyone else in the world. I felt that I was peaking, too. The Mezger fight just flowed and gave me a confidence I didn’t have before. I had always felt I could beat anyone in a fight, a knockdown, drag-out brawl. But I was feeling now that I could beat someone in a test of talent. The original intent of the UFC, of all the mixed martial arts competitions, was to find the most skilled fighters in the world, whether it was in wrestling, karate, boxing, jujitsu, or any other form of hand-to-hand combat. While some people thought the UFC had veered off the path and become nothing but a tough-man contest, it was viewed that way less and less now. And I knew I could compete. I was proving time and again in the cage that I was among that top tier of warriors.

  Most athletes, when they reach their midthirties, start to show signs of slowing down. Their reflexes aren’t as quick, their timing suffers, their body takes longer to recover from training, let alone a game or a fight. Boxers especially find themselves in a steep decline. By that point in their careers they’ve probably been fighting for twenty years. Between sparring and actual matches, they’ve taken thousands of blows to the head. Whether they are punch-drunk or not, a lot of them can’t help but have lingering effects from all those shots. But we UFC fighters, despite all the controversy surrounding the brutality of mixed martial arts, seem to get stronger as we get older. For starters, we don’t take countless hits to the head. So many other disciplines are involved in our sport that we spend as much time grappling on the mat and trying to twist each other’s limbs as we do trying to knock each other’s brains out. A boxer probably takes more hits to the head in one round of a twelve-round fight than a UFC fighter will take in three rounds. Which means, despite some of my media appearances (more on that later), our heads are pretty clear as we get older and we can keep fighting longer.

  I’m not trying to keep people from being boxing fans. I loved the sport when I was growing up. Guys like Marvin Hagler and Sugar Ray Leonard were great to watch, but I think the sport has run itself into the ground. There are too many divisions, too many promoters more interested in making a buck than in making a good fight that will keep fans interested. One reason I think the UFC is doing so well is that lots of boxing fans are fed up with the way that sport is run—and the lack of exciting fighters—and are crossing over to watch MMA fights. But you don’t see a lot of our fans getting all that pumped up to watch a boxing match. We’re gaining new combat sport fans and enticing the boxing lovers, while boxing’s followers are getting older or switching over. It doesn’t help their cause that the more well-rounded athletes are going into UFC. People always ask me, who would win a fight between a boxer and an MMA fighter? I’m pretty sure I could handle my own in the ring if all we were allowed to do was box. I am a slugger and I like to land a punch. But if you let an MMA fighter go against a boxer, it’s no contest. MMA fighters have too many skills. Remember UFC 1? The boxer didn’t last long against Royce Gracie.

  Boxing will also always be about speed and strength. A fighter’s ability to strike with power, elude punches, and take advantage of openings quickly are the keys to his success. While some wily guys can last on talent and wits, boxing is a young man’s game. But in the UFC, leverage plays just as important a part of success as punching. Learning jujitsu for me was as much about longevity as it was improving my ground game as I began my career. Randy Couture is a heavyweight
champ at forty-three. And he is not slowing down. That comes from his ability to dominate on the mat. I know I won’t be the most powerful striker in the sport forever, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be able to compete. That’s the beauty of mixed martial arts. Multiple disciplines mean multiple ways for fighters to evolve during their career.

  Winning a fight—there ain’t nothing like it.

  In 2002, however, I was just thinking about beating the crap out of people the best way I knew how, with pure striking power. After the Randleman bout I didn’t get the title fight against Tito because he was going to fight Ken Shamrock. Still, I wanted to stay sharp. I was in too good of a rhythm not to challenge myself against topflight challengers. Even while Dana was telling me I shouldn’t take fights against guys like that in case I slipped up once and lost. Then I’d have to fight my way back into contention for the Ortiz fight. But I fight to prove I’m the best, every time. And that means standing toe-to-toe with the strongest guy willing to challenge me. In UFC 33 in September of 2001, that was Murilo Bustamante, a Brazilian who, naturally, was a jujitsu expert and had been schooled in the Vale Tudo style. Basically that meant he was impossible to hurt and would never tap out. Bustamante was actually a founder of the Brazilian Top Team, which had been established to come up with entirely new styles of fighting in mixed martial arts. Bustamante was at the top of his game when we fought, so much so that four months later he would actually win the UFC’s middleweight title. This is what Dana was warning me against: Why take a fight I didn’t have to? Why risk a loss when a title shot was mine if I was patient and strategic about my choices? Well, because I don’t ever want to waste a fight. It’s an insult to whatever gifts I’m lucky enough to have.