My Fight / Your Fight (31 page)

Fanboy bloggers, acting as if they were journalists, loved to ask if I would pose in a magazine like
Playboy
and I gave them all the same answer: “No one should be able to see my cash and prizes for five dollars. I don't care how much money they give me.”

I plan to have children someday. I do not want my children or their friends or, God forbid, my grandchildren to search “Ronda Rousey” and be able to find a picture of my vagina on whatever super-advanced version of the Internet we have in twenty years. Simple as that. So I only show in photos what would be revealed if I were in a bikini at the beach.

The morning of the ESPN shoot, I stepped on the scale and was 143. I stepped off. I studied my body in the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door. I wanted to look as fit and athletic as possible, every muscle cut and defined. I felt like the purpose of those photos was to capture the physical epitome of human potential, so that's what I was trying to look like. When I looked in the mirror, I felt pretty epitomized.

The day of the shoot, I drove to a studio in Culver City, California, not far from the house I moved into after signing my Strikeforce deal.

The studio was large and brightly lit with white walls. I was met by a friendly, perhaps-overly-caffeinated production assistant who led me to hair and makeup. I chatted with the hairstylist as he curled my hair into ringlets, which he then ran his fingers through, making them into loose waves.

A camera crew doing a behind-the-scenes video asked me questions.

I stripped down to my underwear and was handed a thick white robe bearing the ESPN logo. I slipped my underwear off underneath it. I danced around a little bit, loosening up. The smooth concrete floor was cold under my bare feet.

One of the assistants on set wrapped my hands in pink hand wraps. It was not the perfectly executed fight-ready wrap job that Edmond did, but it would work for some photographs.

When the time to take the pictures came, the person overseeing the production walked me over to the closed portion of the set. I walked through the door into a small partitioned-off section. The walls and floor were black, lit only by the camera lights and two big pink spotlights. I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the stark contrast from the outer part of the studio.

“OK, close the set,” someone called.

Anyone who was not necessary to the actual picture-taking process walked out. There were probably five people in the room, all women except for a single behind-the-scenes cameraman.

Enjoy yourself, buddy
, I thought.

I was nervous, but excited. I felt comfortable in my skin and confident about my body. I believed what I told the ESPN interviewer: “Skinny girls look good in clothes. But fit chicks look good naked.”

I took a deep breath and accepted that a small roomful of people was going to be seeing me naked.
I'm really going to do this
, I thought. Then I took off my robe.

“Are you ready?” the photographer, a woman, asked me.

“Well, I'm completely naked,” I said. “It's not like I'm going to get any more naked.” She laughed.

The pink lights shined behind me. Someone fired up a smoke machine and translucent white wisps curled around me in the air.

The shoot lasted for about an hour. Occasionally, we would take a break and the hair guy would come in and do a fix here or there. Or the makeup artist would apply a little powder.

In between those moments, the photographer snapped away, giving me commands.

“OK, now jump.”

“Turn a little to the left.”

“Move your hands just a bit.”

“Perfect. Perfect.”

The photographer showed me a few of the shots she had taken on a computer screen.

“Wow,” I said, giggling. “I look good.”

“Amazing,” she said.

“You promise nothing will be shown that wouldn't be shown if I was wearing a swimsuit?” I asked.

The room full of people promised. (Of course, there was a shot or two where I'm pretty sure they interpreted that swimsuit to be a thong bikini.)

Then, one day, a couple of months later in July, ESPN had the issue delivered to my house. I was being followed around by a Showtime camera crew as part of a mini-docuseries to promote my next Strikeforce fight against Sarah Kaufman. The ESPN magazine people and the Showtime producers had coordinated so that the camera crew would be filming me when the magazine arrived.

I had expected I would have to flip through to find my picture, but there I was smiling coyly on the cover. I was speechless. I was surprised, not just by the cover, but by the version of myself staring back at me. I looked beautiful.

For a long time, people shot down my goals as impossible, but I knew it was only because I hadn't given them a reason to agree with me yet. They did not know what I was capable of.

JANUARY 19, 2011

TMZ CAMERAMAN:
When are we going to see women in the UFC, dude?

DANA WHITE:
Never.
(Laughing)
Never.

No one outside of my camp knew it, but I was having issues with my elbows during the lead-up to the Kaufman fight. I had been sparring one day when my left elbow hyperextended. I had never tapped in an armbar in judo competition and I had long ago lost track of how many times my elbows had been dislocated. The recurring joint trauma had loosened my ligaments on both arms.

I just need to pop it back in
, I thought, but the pain persisted.

I can win this fight with one fucking arm
, I told myself.

A few days later, my right elbow started bothering me. I could hardly move either of them. I couldn't even throw a jab.

Well, I guess I'll have to win this fight no-handed
, I thought.

My fight against Sarah Kaufman was set for August 18, 2012. She was a good fighter, coming into our fight 15–1 at a point when I was 4–0. If I hadn't come along, she would have been next in line for Miesha and probably taken the belt.

I entered the fight against Kaufman with the same desire to win that I had carried into the cage against Miesha. But last time, I was a challenger with everything to gain. This fight, I stood to lose it all.

Knowing I was injured, the mood among my team was tenser than usual when we drove to San Diego for the fight. I reveled in the atmosphere. I thrive under pressure and tune out pain.

The night of the fight, Edmond warmed me up in the locker room. We usually hit the mitts just a little bit before going out in to the cage, but this night, we didn't.

“This girl is solid on her feet and she knows how to strike,” Edmond said. “Do your judo. Move that head. Jab the shit out of her. Get that clinch, and that's it. Do this shit.”

Wearing red gloves, I walked out as Joan Jett blasted over the speakers. There was nothing else on the planet at that moment but me and the girl standing across from me in the cage.

I opened with a triple jab, ignoring the pain. She backed up against the cage to defend my first throw attempt. I switched my grip, changed direction, and swept her back. I struck her on the ground to force the reaction I wanted and spun straight into my armbar. She fought hard to keep it, but her arm was mine.

Fifty-four seconds into the fight, she tapped out.

The crowd went wild. Sitting front row and center was Dana White.

He saw how it was in the stadium. He saw how crazy the fans were. He saw how great the fight was live. Then he saw the ratings. The fight drew a peak audience of 676,000 viewers, a twenty-three percent increase from the 431,000 people who tuned in to watch me beat Miesha Tate's ass.

The morning of September 8, 2012, my cell phone rang. The caller ID flashed a familiar name: Dana White.

The UFC president—and face of the UFC—had called me once before, to tell me to check out a commercial Showtime had produced promoting my fight with Tate. I had saved his number in my phone.

“Hey, I'm coming to town for the
Sons of Anarchy
premiere!” Dana said. Dana is the kind of guy who talks in all caps with exclamation points.

“It's a big thing,” he said. “You should come to the premiere with me. It will be good visibility for you.”

His enthusiasm was contagious. All I could think was,
Fuck yeah, I'm coming!
But I must've said something vaguely more becoming because we made plans to meet that night.

I dressed up the best I could and got in my car. The money I was making was enough to fix the windows, but no amount of money could eliminate the smell. I prayed it wouldn't rub off on me. I pulled up to the valet at Dana's hotel and the attendant walked up to my beat-up car, the backseat filled with dirty laundry, a stench emanating through the rolled-down windows. He looked horrified.

“It's better than it used to be,” I wanted to say.

Instead, I gave him a $20 tip, the biggest tip I had ever given anyone, and an apologetic look as he slid into the driver's seat.

From the hotel, Dana's driver took us to Mr. Chow, a restaurant I'd never heard of, likely because it was way outside of my income bracket. It is one of those restaurants where celebrities are always being photographed.

It had been a year and a half since my pro MMA debut. Now here I was, sitting, drinking wine with the president of the UFC.

Dana leaned in, his tone becoming serious.

“There is a specific reason why I brought you to this restaurant,” Dana said. “About a year ago, right outside this restaurant, I told TMZ that women would
never
be in the UFC. I brought you here tonight to tell you that you're going to be the first woman in the UFC.”

It took all of my self-control not to jump up and start dancing my happy dance on my chair. In my mind, there was confetti, a full marching band, and a choir from heaven singing. Still, I tried to play it cool.

“Oh my God, that's amazing,” I said smoothly, though I couldn't shake the grin from my face.

Dana did not make me any grand promises. He told me that women in the Octagon would be an experiment; the success of my first fight would determine the future of the division.

“Thank you so much for taking the chance,” I said. “I promise I will make you look like a genius.”

My smile was so huge that it literally hurt my face.

We toasted, and his friends showed up and we headed over to the premiere in the chauffeured SUV. We were blasting Rage Against the Machine the whole way there, and I felt like I was on top of the world.

We pulled up to the Fox Theater in Westwood. There was a red carpet with a white step-and-repeat backdrop running along one side and a row of photographers on the other. Across the street, behind a metal barricade, fans lined the block, a couple rows deep. Cars were pulling up with celebrities getting out, and the fans were cheering. As I got out all the people started screaming my name. I had walked the red carpet before for events like the
ESPN Magazine
party and the World MMA Awards, but this was my first time getting recognized at a non-sports event. I was shocked by the crowd response. Five minutes later, I was still on the carpet posing for pictures with Dana, then pictures by myself, and waving to fans. I could hear people across the street yelling, “Ronda! Ronda!” I was getting more cheers than even the
Sons of Anarchy
cast. I suppose I should be more modest about it, but I was thinking,
Excellent
(with an evil villain finger tent).
Keep yelling. This is good for me. Yell in front of Dana all you want.

“Have fun tonight,” Dana told me. “Enjoy it. It's your night.”

The after party for the event was held at Gladstones. I hadn't been to the restaurant since I had failed to return with a doctor's note.

As my buzz kicked in, I stood there for a moment, watching the bartenders in their red polo shirts with their forced smiles pouring drinks for the crowd.

That used to be me
, I thought.
And now, I'm going to be in the motherfucking UFC.

It was one of the greatest nights of my life. Good things were happening, but I knew the best was yet to come.

No one had believed the UFC would ever admit women. Not fans. Not other fighters. Not the media. Not my mom. Not the face of the UFC himself.

People told me it would never happen. They told me I was insane.

But you can't let other people affect your belief in yourself. People are going to tell you to be logical and to be reasonable. They're going to say that because no one else has ever done something, that it can't be done. You have to be crazy enough to believe that you are the one person in the history of the world who can create that change or accomplish that dream. Many people are going to doubt you and tell you reasons why you can't and why you shouldn't. You can choose to accept them or reject them.