My Fight / Your Fight (33 page)

When I'm in a fight, I see things and analyze them and react to them. It's not like everything slows down because it's going fast, but time changes. It is like I am processing ten million pieces of information at once and making multiple decisions simultaneously based on that information.

I flashed to Menjivar holding Faber on his back, and I knew I needed to get away from the cage wall.

The easiest thing would have been to lean back and hold her on the cage. It takes a lot of effort to balance somebody in the middle of a cage while they're trying to rip your head off. Your body wants to do what's easiest. My body was telling me, to lie down on the ground, or lean up against the cage. But my head was telling me to stand, balance, and untie her legs, while she was balancing on my back.

I tucked in my chin, cutting off her access to my neck, and defended the choke with my chin. I had to break the grip she had on me with both her hands and feet.

I was still trying to break the grip her legs had on me when she changed her hold on me from a choke into a neck crank. A neck crank is exactly what it sounds like: one person grabs the other and tries to pull the opponent's neck past the point where it's supposed to go. It's the closest you can come to ripping another person's head off with your bare hands.

They don't have neck cranks in judo. I'd never been in one before. I felt myself losing balance, as she was cranking. She was pulling my neck straight up, and the force was making me step back.

I had absolutely no emotion then. It was all one hundred percent making observations and decisions.

Pop. Pop. Pop.
My sinuses popped. It felt like my face was imploding.

I was getting closer to the cage.

My body, her body, and gravity were pushing me back.
No, I have to step forward
, I reminded myself. I moved forward toward the middle of the cage.

Her arms started slipping down over my mouthguard.

My teeth cut halfway through my upper lip.

Carmouche's forearm was beginning to slip; but she's a badass. She cranked harder, forcing my mouth open. My top teeth were jammed against her arm as I felt my jaw dislocate. She didn't care if it forced my top row of teeth deep into her forearm, this was her chance. She cranked harder.

My jaw couldn't give any more. My neck was forced past its range of motion. I was literally on the verge of having my neck snapped in half.

I would rather die or be paralyzed than lose
, I thought to myself.

Because not enough was going on, my sports bra started to shift and my boobs were now in danger of falling out in front of thirteen thousand people in the stands and everyone watching on pay-per-view.

But my mind was prioritizing. It was telling me,
Foot, foot, foot. I still have to balance and get her foot off.

She was cranking my head to the left. I had to throw her off balance. I turned to my left and pushed her foot off to the left. She started to fall and there was a split second of relief where I thought,
Finally, she's off. I can fix my bra now.
I was certain my nipple was about to pop out. However, Carmouche missed the memo that this was a bra-fixing moment and kicked me right in the tit.

I heard the crowd going crazy. I was embarrassed that Carmouche made me look bad. Then I was pissed off that I was made to look bad and that the crowd was cheering about it. I resented them. I could feel my resolve growing with my rage. This girl was not getting off the ground again.

I was standing in her guard (when you are on your back while grappling and your opponent is between your legs) and risked throwing a few punches to her face. She tried to catch me in a heel hook (leg lock). I back-flipped out of it and started punching her repeatedly in the head. Forcing her to protect her face, I pushed her elbow to the other side of my head and moved to mount her. She reacted in a perfect way that allowed me to swing my legs over her torso and go for her right arm. She grabbed on to it with her left hand, and held on for dear life. I pulled, trying to break it free. She clung tighter.

I knew the first five-minute round had to be winding down; there could not be more than seconds until the bell. I took one leg off and reset my position, refusing to give up. I could feel her grip breaking. I tugged harder. Her arms slipped apart. There was no escape. With her arm between my legs, I leaned back and cranked. Realizing there was no escape, she tapped.

Carmouche had lasted four minutes and forty-nine seconds.

I was still—and now, in my mind, officially—the first women's champion in the history of the UFC.

After the fight I realized that I hadn't even entertained the thought of tapping, even though I could feel my jaw dislocating and knew that my neck could break. The thought of giving up never came into my head. When it comes to fighting, there is never anyone who wants to win more than I do.

You will have times where you are behind. It does not matter if you are getting beat for four minutes and fifty-nine seconds of a five-minute round. You fight for that last single second in the round. You are not trying to win five rounds. You are trying to win fifteen hundred seconds.

It has to eat at your soul to know that anyone could best you for even the most infinitesimal fragment of time. It is not just about winning the match. It is about being so completely and thoroughly better than anyone else, that even the smallest error, the smallest fraction of time, the smallest thing that doesn't go your way needs to break your heart. It needs to matter that much to you.

People will mock you when they see that you are emotionally ravaged by caring so much. But it is exactly that passion that separates you from them; it is that passion that makes you the best.

To win, you have to be willing to die. If you are willing to die when you fight, if you are giving absolutely everything you have for every single second you are in there, you are going to separate yourself.

If you win the four minutes and fifty-nine seconds of the round, and at the very last second of the round, the other person just pops you one and the bell rings, you better be pissed that one second of that round escaped you.

It is not about just winning the round. It is not just about winning the fight. It is about winning every single second of your life.

The morning after every fight, I meet up with Dana for brunch. It's a thing we do. The very first time we did that, after my win at UFC 157, he floated the idea of me coaching against my next opponent on a co-ed version of
The Ultimate Fighter
, a reality TV show that's the
Real World
meets
Survivor
, if the contestants on
Survivor
beat each other into submission instead of voting each other off. Each season features two teams of aspiring fighters coached by current UFC fighters. A fighter is eliminated each episode, with the final two facing off in a live event. The winner of the show gets a UFC contract.

The goal for the season Dana was proposing was to basically create an entire women's division from scratch, using the show to familiarize fans with up-and-coming female fighters.

After signing me and Carmouche, the UFC had added Miesha Tate and Cat Zingano. Miesha and Cat were scheduled to face off six weeks later, with the winner of that fight being next in line to fight me. As part of the lead-up to that fight, I and the winner of Tate-Zingano would coach on TUF.

Zingano won by technical knockout. (A TKO is where the fighter isn't actually knocked unconscious, but a referee, the fight doctor, the fighter's corner, even sometimes the fighter, makes the decision that the fighter will end up knocked out if the fight isn't called, so let's avoid that part in an effort to do less physical damage.)

Manny, who had gotten me into MMA in the first place, was a finalist on the show early on. His fight in the finale was the first MMA match I made a point to sit down and watch. I had been living in Boston and was so excited and nervous for my friend that I spent the entire fight running back and forth on the sectional couch. Manny had lost to Nate Diaz, but Manny's performance impressed Dana so much that Manny was also given a UFC contract. I had seen how much impact TUF could have on a fighter's career and understood what a launching point the show could serve as for an entire women's division.

I wanted to leave a bigger mark on the sport than just my name first in the record books. I wanted to build a division that would be able to survive after I leave the sport.

With that goal in mind, I recruited a team of assistant coaches to accompany me, including Edmond, Manny, and Marina, and in July 2013, we were headed to Las Vegas for six weeks to film the show. The pay was not great. We would film thirteen total episodes over six weeks and receive $1,500 a week. My only question about the compensation was: “Are we getting paid the same as the male fighters who have done the show?” I made it very clear: If they're paying me less than the guys, that's messed up. But if this is what everybody gets paid, then this deal just needs to get done. I thought everyone was on the same page.

Three days before filming was scheduled to begin, unbeknownst to me, Darin and my lawyer called the UFC and said, “If Ronda doesn't get twenty thousand dollars an episode, she's not doing the show.”

Dana White does not play these kinds of games.

I had spent the morning running errands in preparation for spending the next month and a half living in Las Vegas. I was just pulling into my garage at the house on Venice Beach that I had just rented when Dana White called. I put the brand-new black BMW X6 M that the UFC had recently gifted me into park. (“I can't have one of my champions driving around in a busted-ass Honda,” Dana had said.)

“Hey, Dana, what's u—”

“What the fuck?” Dana roared. “What the fuck” is how he starts conversations when he's upset. “Twenty thousand dollars a week? Are you fucking serious? I mean you must have lost your goddamn mind.”

I racked my “goddamn mind” trying to figure out what he was referring to. I had absolutely no idea. I was caught totally off guard.

“Your fucking lawyer and your fucking fight manager call me up, telling me twenty thousand a week or Ronda's not doing the show!” Dana laughed in disgust.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “Hold on.”

Dana was too angry to stop.

“Seriously, three fucking days before filming starts?”

“What I told them—” I started, but Dana cut me off.

“No one gets twenty thousand a week!”

“But,” I tried to interject.

“I'll kick you off the fucking show before I pay twenty thousand a week. I should kick you off the show just for asking for twenty thousand a week!”

“I would do this for free,” I said. “I just want to know if the men get paid the same. That is all I asked.”

“If you have questions, you and me should communicate directly,” he said. “You shouldn't send these ass-clowns to go do this kind of stuff.”

“Dana, I'm sorry,” I said.

“I mean what the fuck?” He was still angry.

“Look, I'll get it figured out,” I said. “Please don't kick me off the show.”

“I don't know what I'm going to do,” Dana said. Then he hung up.

A knot twisted in my stomach. I didn't like the uncertainty. It made me anxious. But then my anxiety gave wave to anger. Why would they call Dana and make outrageous financial demands without my permission? What the fuck?

For me, it was never about money. I knew if I followed my passion and did it better than anyone the world had ever seen, the money would come.

Still flustered from my conversation with Dana, I called Darin, and he told me I deserved to make more, that other stars on reality TV made more. I told him I didn't care, that I wasn't a reality TV star and to never pull that shit again.

As he spoke a familiar feeling of betrayal swept over me. Four months before, just two days after I signed a contract with Darin, I learned that, at a restaurant in Vegas, Strikeforce CEO Scott Coker had asked Darin if the rumors circulating about me and Dana were true. Darin laughed. “You know crazy things happen on that plane,” he said. Hearing that my own fight manager had not defended me against such blatantly false and sexist speculation made me feel sick to my stomach. To me, it wasn't a laughing matter. My relationship with Darin had never been the same.

Three days later, I left Mochi with a friend in L.A. and headed to Las Vegas to shoot the show. I had not talked to Dana since that day in the car.

When I got to the gym, a guy from the film crew said, “Just walk around the gym. We're going to get some shots of you checking the place out.”

I walked into the gym, looking around. I looked around the huge open space filled with everything an MMA fighter could ever want for training, a full-sized Octagon in the center of the room.