Let’s Get It On! (26 page)

Senator John McCain remained staunchly opposed to the UFC, which he described as “human cockfighting,” and he became its most outspoken opponent. McCain had a sizable pulpit from which to spread his message, and he urged his senatorial peers to protect the people in their states from this “reprehensible” sideshow. A majority of them took him at his word, too, without investigating the UFC on their own.

McCain had an added motivation to see the UFC banished. He was not only a huge boxing fan; his wife was tied to one of the country’s largest distributors of Anheuser-Busch, producer of Budweiser beer, a major sponsor in boxing at the time.

Though he’d sat at events where boxers had taken massive punishment and later died from it and hadn’t said a word about that, McCain hit the airwaves condemning the UFC as brutal and barbaric. He also claimed there was no referee involved in UFC fights, which upset me, not because he hadn’t seen
me
—and you’d have to be blind to miss me—but because it implied he’d never truly watched a UFC fight. Either that or he needed a new optometrist.

If I had to pinpoint when McCain’s political pressuring began to affect the promotion, I’d say it was during the final days before UFC 8 “David vs. Goliath,” which was held on February 16, 1996, in the Ruben Rodriguez Coliseum in Bayamón, Puerto Rico.

McCain was meticulous and hadn’t forgotten the United States territory when he’d sent out his UFC hate mail. Puerto Rico actually had an athletic commission, but it had no purview over the UFC. The events weren’t quite boxing or wrestling, and the commission had no regulations for martial arts. So at the time SEG made inquiries to host UFC 8 there, the commission told the promotion they wouldn’t get involved with the event at all if it came.

When I arrived, though, it was a different story. Meyrowitz and Elaine said the commission, possibly spurred on from some last-minute phone calls from a certain senator, was having a change of heart. As fight week counted down, Meyrowitz hired a big-time Puerto Rican lawyer because it looked as if we’d have to take our battle to the courts.

When the commission opted to file an injunction against the event, SEG’s lawyer got the case moved to federal court, the promotion’s only chance to get a halt put on the stop order in time to put on the event.

Three days before UFC 8, I was sitting in Puerto Rico’s federal court, preparing to defend the UFC. I’d already had some experience explaining the events to government officials. Whenever the UFC came rolling into a new town, the local police department usually sent a supervisor or watch commander to speak to SEG. At UFC 6 in Wyoming, I’d been elected to be the promotion’s representative.

The officers had been worried there’d be rowdy fights in the crowd ignited by what was happening in the cage. Since I was an officer, SEG thought I’d be able speak their language and smooth things over.

“Look, it’s not like that,” I’d said. “The fans have a legitimate interest in the fighters, who are all disciplined martial artists.” I’d managed to get them out the door by promising no laws would be broken in hosting the fights.

In Puerto Rico’s federal court, the district argued that UFC 8 was illegal and since it didn’t fall within the commission’s jurisdiction, it shouldn’t be allowed.

I had to sit there in the stand, questioned by both the defense and the prosecution, and explain what the UFC was. “These are all of the same sports you see in the Olympics—boxing, judo, tae kwon do, amateur wrestling. We’re just combining them.”

We presented the best case we could, and then all we could do was wait.

Killing time back at the hotel, UFC announcer Jeff Blatnick and I sat around discussing the name “No Holds Barred.” We thought it had a negative and misleading connotation, so we started brainstorming a new name for the sport. I’d used the term “mixed martial arts” on that LAPD permit form I’d filled out to work at UFC 2, so I threw that name into the hat. I was told later that the same term had been used in Japan for the sport, but this is the way we came up with it here in the United States.

Commentator Jeff Blatnick, who made sure the name “mixed martial arts” caught on, always found time to roll and learn with me at events.

Jeff began referring to the sport as “mixed martial arts,” or “MMA,” on the broadcasts a couple of shows afterward, though “Ultimate Fighting” continued to be used as well. Blatnick should get the credit for popularizing the term “MMA” in the United States. It was his insistence on using it during the UFC broadcasts that finally made it catch on.

The morning of UFC 8, we got word that the courts had thrown out the injunction and we’d be allowed to hold the show that night, which was a good thing because it was sold out. About 7,000 fans packed into the sweltering, poorly ventilated venue.

I met Bruce Buffer, brother to the famous boxing announcer Michael, for the first time here. He was managing one of the fighters, Scott Ferrozzo, and convinced Meyrowitz to let him announce the only nontelevised alternate bout that night between Sam Adkins and Keith Mielke. Buffer would come back and announce the entire UFC 10 event. Except for a couple of shows here and there, he hasn’t left the Octagon since.

Don Frye and Gary Goodridge also made their auspicious Octagon debuts that evening.

In a quarterfinal bout, Goodridge, a Canadian Kuk Sool Won practitioner and former arm wrestling world champion, used his own arms and legs to trap both of Paul Herrera’s arms into a crucifix position on the ground when Herrera attempted a fireman’s throw. With Herrera’s arms tied up, he was unable to cover up and defend himself. Goodridge bashed in Herrera’s left temple with his right elbow. The bout lasted merely thirteen seconds before I jumped in to save Herrera, now unconscious, but I’m sure no fighter ever forgot that attempting a fireman’s throw on your opponent could end badly.

I learned a valuable lesson from this fight, too, which was to not anticipate a fight’s outcome too far ahead. I’d known Herrera was a decent wrestler at the University of Nebraska, and I’d doubted Goodridge’s credentials beyond his arm wrestling. This had led me to believe Herrera would control Goodridge on the ground. As soon as I saw Herrera shoot for a single leg, I had it in my head that he’d get the takedown. I casually moved myself around the fighters to a position I felt they were heading, which was a big mistake. I wasn’t near enough when Goodridge started dropping heavy elbows, and I was slow to react. I’d never do that again.

In the finals, Goodridge shed his black gi and met former Oklahoma State wrestler Don Frye, who’d gotten into the event through his old friend Dan Severn. Frye was memorable not only for his bushy
Magnum, P.I.
mustache but because he was as tough as leather in the cage and as funny as hell out of it. Goodridge made a good go at it, but Frye gained superior position to rain down punches and get the stoppage.

I wouldn’t say this was the most memorable fight for me at UFC 8, though. That one happened outside the cage.

Tank Abbott, who’d become a star overnight for the promotion, was flown down to Puerto Rico to sit cageside at the event. Following his brutal knockout of John Matua at UFC 6, Abbott had been met with an eruption of cheers when he’d attended UFC 7. The UFC had then set Abbott up in a cop versus criminal match against UFC 3 winner Steve Jennum at Ultimate Ultimate, which Abbott won before getting mauled by eventual winner Dan Severn in the tournament’s next round. Even with his landslide loss to Severn, fans were really into this guy, which automatically made him Bob Meyrowitz’s golden child.

Sitting cageside, knocking back one vodka after another at UFC 8, Abbott recognized somebody sitting on the other side of the cage. His name was Allan Goes, a Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt under Carlson Gracie, and he rubbed Abbott the wrong way.

Despite all his guff about not needing martial arts training, Abbott knew the deal. He’d sought out some ground instruction at a school that Goes had been working at in Orange County, California, a few months earlier. Goes had rolled with Abbott at the school and tapped him out a few times, which was to be expected. But then, Goes did what many fighters consider disrespectful: he told people about it.

When Abbott spotted Goes across the cage, he was like a bull seeing red.

Elaine had noticed Abbott eyeballing Goes all night and told me. I hadn’t thought it was that big of a deal, but Elaine knew what was coming when she saw Abbott rise, take out his false teeth, hand them to his girlfriend, and start making his way in Goes’ direction. Goes saw Abbott and began moving toward him as well. The two freight trains came at each other head-on.

Luckily, Joe Hamilton, the second referee, and I were standing on the Octagon’s apron during a break between fights. Joe jumped down and grabbed Abbott as they connected and spun around, while I reached for Goes and yanked him away.

“I’m going to kill you,” Abbott said, as we tore the fighters as far apart as we could.

After the legal battle we’d gone through just to get the show started, this was not the event to have a brawl break out in the crowd, especially not between two fighters.

Thinking the drama had passed, I went back into the cage to referee the superfight that night between Ken Shamrock and Kimo Leopoldo. But the real fireworks were happening backstage.

When Abbott had lost his composure cageside, Elaine had gone to his girlfriend and asked why she’d kept egging Abbott on to fight Goes. Now Abbott’s girlfriend was telling her boyfriend Elaine had gotten in her face.

Abbott, inebriated on alcohol and bad intentions, approached my wife and threatened to kill her.

Once I’d finished my refereeing duties and Elaine told me what had happened backstage, I dropped everything and went looking for Abbott. Ken Shamrock’s crew, who loved Elaine, also joined me.

I found Abbott’s manager, Dave Thomas, who apologized profusely for what Abbott had done. Everybody knew what had happened; word had spread that quickly.

I searched the hotel and anywhere else I could think of to find Abbott, but he’d flown the coop. We don’t even know if he made his flight the next morning.

“We have a problem,” I told Meyrowitz at the after party. “Your boy threatened my wife, and I’m not going to put up with that. Either he’s gone or I’m gone. It’s up to you. I don’t care.” Of course, I think I said it with a few more expletives included.

Meyrowitz tried to settle me down.

“Trust me, I’ve settled down. It’s your choice, Bob.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

But threatening Elaine was the tip of the iceberg. That was the one thing that put me over the edge, but what really bothered me was that SEG loved what Abbott represented. He was marketed as this average tough guy taking out all these trained martial arts practitioners, but I didn’t buy into it. It’s not that I didn’t like Abbott. I did, and I thought he was smart. He was doing a great job of orchestrating his persona, but he wasn’t what people thought. He had tried to train but never had the determination to put in the true effort needed to make himself better. As soon as he got with someone in the gym who could outbox him or toss him around, he would bolt. To me, that wasn’t the spirit in which the UFC had been created.

SEG loved him because of the way Abbott represented that everyday man, but I looked at it a different way. To me, he wasn’t good for the sport. He wasn’t a true martial artist, and he went against everything we were trying to say the UFC was. His behavior played into everything our detractors were saying about us.

I knew Abbott was a big star for the UFC, but he’d threatened my wife. I wouldn’t go to the shows anymore if Abbott was there. A few days later, Meyrowitz called to say he’d suspend Abbott from the show, so I agreed to stay on board. Abbott sat out UFC 9 and 10, events I knew SEG had wanted him to fight in.

In the meantime, David Isaacs, another SEG executive, continued to call Elaine to try to smooth things over. Isaacs said he’d spoken with Abbott, who’d voiced his deep regret. I told Elaine to do what she wanted to.

Finally, Elaine received a letter, supposedly from Abbott, expressing his remorse. I knew the letter wasn’t from Abbott and suspected David Isaacs had written it himself. Still, Elaine decided we should all move on, and Abbott returned to the Octagon at UFC 11.

Abbott’s antics aside, Meyrowitz had looked at the UFC 8 court debacle as a victory. That worried me. Meyrowitz felt so good about his legal coup in Puerto Rico that when New York cable providers became the first to pull the UFC from programming, he took out an ad in the
New York Times
that said: “Mad that you can’t get your UFC? Call this number and complain.” Below was the home phone number of the executive responsible. It may have been funny to him at the time, but it would come back to bite us in the ass down the line.