My Fight / Your Fight (29 page)

“Tap! Tap! Tap!” she started yelling as she fell to the ground, holding one arm out to keep herself from face-planting into the ground.

I knew she did not have a hand to tap and that when her hand hit the ground to catch herself, all of the weight from the fall would go through her elbow and obliterate the joint. To save her arm, I let my legs fall off as we hit the ground, but I held my position. She still didn't have a free hand to tap.

“She's trying to tap,” I told the referee.

The referee called the fight.

“I didn't tap! I didn't tap!” she shouted to the referee.

The entire fight had lasted twenty-five seconds.

I jumped up, pumping my hands in the air. She went back to her corner, protesting. The crowd booed.

I looked in her direction.

“You want to go again?” I yelled in front of the crowd. “Come on, let's go again.”

But once a fight is called, it's over. The referee brought us to the center of the ring.

“The winner, by way of submission, Rowdy Ronda Rousey,” the announcer declared as the referee raised my hand. The boos grew louder. Interviewed post-fight, she would admit to crying out, which by the rules qualifies as a “verbal tapout.”

D'Alelio and I shared a post-fight loose hug.

“Don't listen to them,” she said in my ear.

Though I appreciated the sentiment, my elation was tempered, not by the boos raining down around me—I had been booed all over the world—but because people were questioning my win. I didn't want anyone to ever question me in the cage ever again.

“She tapped,” I said to Edmond as we walked out of the arena.

“Of course, she tapped,” Edmond said. “Every person in this goddamn arena knows she tapped even if some people are acting like she didn't.”

“From this day on, I'm just going to break everybody's fucking arm,” I said.

Before I left the venue, they gave me my check. It was eight thousand dollars, but it felt like a million.

“Now, I can pay you,” I told Edmond. The standard is for a fighter to give ten percent of their winnings to the head trainer.

“Ronda, you deserve way more money,” Edmond said. “A fighter like you, you deserve a million dollars to fight.”

“You really think so?” I asked.

“Absolutely.”

“I can't wait to pay you that ten percent when I make millions,” I said.

“Yeah, me too,” Edmond said. “Because let's be serious, I am not going to take anything out of that check. You keep it.”

My eyes widened.

“Are you serious?”

“Of course, I'm serious,” Edmond said. “You keep that. I don't need that money. You fight for a living. I understand what fighting for a living is. I fought myself. Just keep doing your thing. Now, you make a million . . .”

I gave Edmond a huge hug.

I'd made it into the top ranks. Now I set my sights on a championship.

Then, one day, Miesha Tate mentioned me on Twitter.

A fan asked Miesha if she would ever fight me. She included me in her response: “Sure! Why not!” (Note to Miesha: Proper punctuation in the second sentence should actually be a question mark.)

I had never heard of her, but I clicked on to her page to check her out. Turned out she was the Strikeforce women's champion at 135 pounds. I had been considering dropping down to 135 and was on the record saying I planned to be the 135-pound (bantamweight) and 145-pound (featherweight) champ simultaneously. When the champ at 135 pounds said she was down to fight me, I decided the time had come to make the move. As I saw it, two people stood between me and a bantamweight title fight: my upcoming opponent, Julia Budd, and the No. 2 fighter at 135, Sarah Kaufman. I was going to take them both out.

Budd loomed over me at weigh-ins. She had a height advantage, but I didn't care. I was still pissed off about my last victory being questioned. I was going to make an example out of this chick.

I walked out to Rage Against the Machine again, a different song, but it still didn't feel quite right.

As soon as the referee said “Fight!” I jabbed in to close the distance and pushed her back to the cage. We clinched, and I could feel she was slick with lotion. I went to throw her forward, but she was so slippery, I knew if I fully committed, I'd lose my grip. I switched direction and swept her backward.

Once I had her on the ground, all I had to do was punch and herd her into the position I wanted to set up my favorite armbar. As soon as I broke her grip and pulled her arm straight, she bridged and flipped over trying to escape. We were facedown, and I could feel her elbow joint popping, but I was not going to make the mistake of leaving any question like I had last time. I flipped her back over so the referee could see the damage. I kept cranking on her elbow, leaning back until it popped. She tried to keep going, but gave up a few seconds later. The announcer compared the appearance of Budd's badly dislocated elbow to a flamingo knee.

The fight had taken thirty-nine seconds.

In judo, I had been conditioned to be humble after victory, to be respectful of a challenger who puts up a good fight, not to celebrate after injuring an opponent. I tried to contain my elation. When I saw her rise from the mat, I allowed myself to smile and relish the victory. But my night was not yet done.

Mauro Ranallo, the Showtime broadcaster, asked me about my plans to move to 135 pounds after the fight.

I glanced over at Edmond. My corner knew about my plan.

I looked straight into the camera. I had thought about this moment.

“If Sarah Kaufman is next in line, please, Strikeforce, let me get a crack at her first. I really want to have a title fight against Miesha Tate, and I don't want to take a risk on her losing. Please give me a crack at Sarah Kaufman first, then Miesha Tate. I swear I'll put on a good show.”

It was the first ever nationally televised women's callout. No woman fighter in MMA had ever really called anyone out in such a public setting. It was both a plea and a performance. It was my first attempt at being an entertainer.

Backstage, Strikeforce matchmaker Sean Shelby approached me.

“You're not going to have to fight Kaufman first,” he said. “We're just going to give you Miesha right away.”

“Awesome,” I said.

I was thrilled. Miesha was not. She did not want to fight me, and she argued with Sean Shelby about it, but the decision had been made.

I didn't know much about Miesha Tate. I just wanted to fight her because she was the champion, so I assumed she could fight. I knew there were people who thought she was reasonably good-looking and I was reasonably good-looking. I figured that would help draw interest in the fight. I knew the fight would sell. And I knew I could beat her.

The fight game is not just about the fight. It's about the show. The athleticism is an integral part of the show, but that alone is not enough to keep people coming back. People watch fighters, but they remember characters. You have to keep them excited. You have to make them intrigued. You have to captivate them.

Two weeks later, Miesha and I made a joint appearance on the “MMA Hour” podcast to debate whether I deserved to get a title shot at her immediately or eventually.

Now, I come from a family of smart, quick-witted women. When we were younger, my sisters and I engaged in a fair amount of “verbal sparring.” You had to be quick with your response or you would get put in your place. My sister Jennifer can smack you so hard with a comeback that you will need to sit down. My sister Maria has this ability to remember everything, from what she had for lunch in preschool to a random magazine article she read five years ago. She will cite five rapid-fire, airtight examples, then call you out with, “Give me a specific example.” My mom has the ability to, without raising her voice, shift her tone to send a shiver down her enemies' backs. There was no opportunity in our house for “Yeah, yeah, but, but.” The conversation would have moved ten steps past you at that point, and you would have to admit defeat. I had been training in this arena even longer than I had been training in judo.

In interviews she had given, Miesha had already shown that she was underestimating my abilities inside the cage. I was fairly certain she was underestimating me outside it as well.

I wanted to be ready to tear down any potential argument she could conceive of. I wanted to be ready to rip apart arguments that she hadn't even thought up yet. I wanted to back her into a corner so she had no choice but to fight me, and I wanted her to see how superior I was to her in every aspect of the fight game, in and outside of the cage.

I did the exact same thing I would do ahead of a fight: I prepared.

In the days leading up to the podcast, I spent every waking minute either fight-training or debate-training. Between practices and before going to bed, I read every article I could find on her. I scoured her social media. I watched interviews she gave. I jotted down every point Miesha had made, every argument against me she had already tried, and arguments against me that she hadn't even conceived of yet. I took notes that I typed up on a friend's computer. During breaks at practice, I would pull out the cheat sheet containing both points of view. I handed it to one of the guys at the gym.

“Say something and I'll refute it,” I said.

I practiced defending against her points. I practiced arguing her points. Regardless of which side of the argument I was on, I would win. By the time I was done, I was better at arguing her side than she was.

At Edmond's urging, I had gone to the Third Street Promenade to buy some new clothes for the upcoming media appearances. It was almost Thanksgiving and the outdoor shopping mall was already decorated for Christmas.

I'll actually have money to buy my family Christmas presents this year
, I realized. I was window-shopping when I realized I'd lost track of time and wouldn't be able to make it home to do the call-in. I picked a spot on the sidewalk outside of Urban Outfitters. It would have to do.

My phone rang. I felt a surge of adrenaline. I was ready to give a verbal beat down.

When the show started, Miesha took the first shot, “What happens when she gets a failed armbar and someone ends up on top pounding her face in?” she asked. “Is she going to tap out or quit? We don't know. We haven't seen that yet. I think it's kind of silly to put her in with me, because that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to take it to her.”

Her logic seemed to be that because I had been so dominant, because no one had lasted even a single minute in the cage with me, I hadn't proven myself. She was grasping at straws.

I realized that I would be better served by selling the fight than defending myself. I talked about money. I talked about interest. I talked about putting on a show. It wasn't just about me and Miesha. It was about everything I had envisioned when people told me no one would ever care about women's MMA.

Miesha just wanted to talk about me. I dodged every jab she threw my way, replying with a power punch.

You should be more humble as a fighter, she said.

Fighters who lack humility get paid just the same, I pointed out.

I hadn't proven myself, she said.

I named other successful fighters who had made a rapid ascent.

You're just thinking about yourself, she said.

It's a professional sport, I explained to her, with emphasis on the professional. If she wanted it to be about ideals, I suggested she forgo the money and try out for the Olympics.

“What happens if I go out there and I just cream you?” she asked.

“That's a risk I'm willing to take,” I said. “You should be willing to take some risks too.”

“I'm willing,” Miesha said.

Interest grew exponentially. Articles about our fight were everywhere. Fans were taking sides. Interest in a women's fight, in any Strikeforce fight, had never been higher. I responded to every single interview request, scheduling and squeezing them in between training sessions and taking calls early in the morning or late at night.

The next weekend I drove out to Las Vegas for the World MMA Awards, to party with some fighters I knew and to catch a UFC fight at the Palms. We were a few rows back from the cage, and I was several drinks into embracing the “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” mantra, when Frank and Lorenzo Fertitta and Dana White, the three most powerful men in the sport of MMA, walked into the arena. The Fertitta brothers own a combined eighty-one percent of Zuffa, the parent organization of the UFC, MMA's premier organization. Dana White is the UFC's president. Zuffa owned Strikeforce.

As if someone poked me with a cattle prod, a jolt ran through my body. I sat straight up with a smile. My inner voice was screaming at full volume, “Hold it together, woman.”

They walked right by us and Dana stopped and introduced himself.

“You're Ronda Rousey,” he said.

My jaw nearly hit the ground.

“Hi,” I said.

“Great to meet you,” he said.

Then someone a few seats over called him, and Dana moved on.

Two days later, I was pulling out of the parking lot at the Palms when Joan Jett came on the radio.

“I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation . . .” The lyrics struck a chord with my soul.

I had found my new walkout song.

Aristotle said, “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence then is not an act, but a habit.” Winning is a habit, and so is losing.

You can get into the habit of going into a tournament, a meeting, or an audition telling yourself: This is just for practice. If I fail, I can always try again later. If you go in with your excuses already laid out for you, it's hard to shake that mindset when “later” finally comes.

Or you can go into every endeavor with the attitude that you are going to knock this one out of the park. You can tell yourself: I am bringing my A-game because that is the only grade of game that I have. I am here to win, and you can come along for the ride or you can get the hell out of the way.