My Fight / Your Fight (36 page)

We met in the middle and traded boxing blows. I landed everything. She never got off a clean shot. I dragged her to the ground, but she popped up. I shoved her against the cage and started throwing knees to the body. I manhandled her to the other side of the cage. She pushed me off, and for the first time in my MMA career, I threw a kick.

She kicked back at me, but I caught her leg, threw it skyward, and she landed hard on her ass. I went in to punch her and she desperately grabbed for my legs. I tripped and pulled her into my guard. As she tried to defend against my armbar, I threw punches at her face and elbows to her head. I simultaneously worked to set up a choke with my legs as I struggled with her for her arm.

Pushing up with her legs, Miesha stood up and we were back on our feet. Miesha's nose was bleeding. We again traded punches in the middle of the cage. Sick of that shit, I threw her back on the mat. Miesha tried to get on top of me, and I pushed her off with my legs. She bent toward me, and I somersaulted backward over my shoulder and onto my feet, jabbing her face on the way up. She dived at my legs, and I easily reversed attack, throwing her over my hip. We grappled a few more seconds, then were on our feet again. She came in to throw me, and I stepped out of it. I pushed her against the cage. Then I heard the wood clapper signal ten seconds left. I threw a few final punches until the air horn blew.

I won the first round decisively. There wasn't a single second of that round where I wasn't in complete control. She walked back to her corner bloodied.

Edmond came in with the stool and a bottle of water. I sat on my stool, for the first time ever, hardly breaking a sweat and took a sip of water.

“You're doing great,” Edmond said. “Just keep it up.”

I nodded.

“Oh, and Ronda,” he said, as he picked up the stool to exit the cage. “Don't throw any kicks.”

The beginning of the second round was a big, new experience because I had never been in the second round in an MMA fight. I looked across the cage and I could see Miesha's satisfaction with getting to the second round. It was oozing off of her. I was pissed off that that girl was fucking happy. She came into the second round smirking. And I swore to myself that this fucking bitch would not come into the next round smiling. I was going to take that fucking big smile off her face.

I tossed her to the ground at the beginning of the round, and she lay on her back like an overturned turtle, kicking her legs in the air in an attempt to keep me away.
Oh you wanna kick?
I thought.
Fuck you, bitch.
I threw the last kick of my entire MMA career right back at her.

She got up and I threw her hard, slamming her flat on her back for what would have been a judo ippon and let her up. This ass-whupping was not yet over. A few seconds later, I had her up against the cage. She could do nothing against me. I kept throwing blows, then pulled her away from the chain link of the cage. I threw her to the ground with another hip throw. I wrapped my left arm around hers, using my shoulder to block her from clasping her hands together. With my right hand, I punched her in the face. She arched her back and kicked her legs up, wrapping them around my neck. Pushing with all her strength, she slipped her arm away, trying to roll me in the process. But I had her on her back and moved over to a mount (when you are sitting on top of your opponent while grappling), fully on top of her while she lay on the ground. She wriggled underneath me while I punched her over and over in the head. All she could do was hold on to her arm. I had her flat on her back and was sitting on her stomach.
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.
I threw a flurry of punches straight to her face. All of the rage I had built up was being unleashed. I got her in an armbar, but I didn't have it quite right. She escaped the armbar, but there was no escape from me. I locked her head with my legs and punched her ribs. I kept pounding her until the horn sounded at the end of the round. When we broke to return to our corners, her face was swollen and dripping blood.

She lasted through the second round, but the smile was gone. I had dominated her for another five minutes. Edmond and Rener Gracie walked into the ring. Edmond set down my stool and gave me a drink of water. Rener put a bag of ice on the back of my neck to help cool me down.

Coming out of the second round and heading into the third, I felt different. After the second round, I was confident but in unfamiliar territory. By the third round, I was settled in. I felt like I could fight a hundred rounds. I knew I had won the first two overwhelmingly. And I wasn't feeling tired. I was certain I could go the distance with maximum intensity and focus if the fight lasted all five rounds.

I'm here for five
, I told myself.

But we were never going to get that far.

Miesha was getting tired. I had been beating the shit out of her. She was going to revert to what was comfortable for her, which was to come out swinging wide or try to shoot for my legs and the takedown.

“She's going to come in, put her head down, and swing wide,” Edmond said. “Come in tight and narrow and throw straight.”

I repeated his instructions in my head, anticipating her next moves and planning my own.

We stood up for the third. She looked bloodied, battered, and beaten.

I came out with a straight 1–2 (a jab followed by a cross, or a bigger power punch that can inflict damage) and knocked her out on her feet. She didn't fall but staggered backward. I came in with another jab and kept coming in after that. She fell against the cage.

I pressed her on the fence and heard her breathing. It was wheezing and rattled. She was breathing out like she was deflating with her breaths.

I knew that she wasn't there. She was out on her feet. She never knew what happened to her in the third round. She was broken down, and it was time to go in and finish. I wanted to break her standing, so she'd be easier to submit on the ground. I went in for one last throw and we tumbled to the mat. Less than a minute into the round, I flipped her onto her back and grabbed her left arm. She had no strength left to fight. I took her arm, and with one leg across her chest and the other behind her neck, I leaned back and arched my hips. She didn't know exactly where she was. She didn't know exactly what was happening, but she knew that she was in an armbar, and it was time to give up.

People learn to tap quickly after you've destroyed one of their arms before.

Afterward, there were people who thought she challenged me in that fight, because it went into the third round. But I had dragged that fight out intentionally, wanting to punish Miesha for as long as I possibly could. When I had thoroughly defeated her, when I had crushed her all the way down to the bottom of her soul, then I went for the armbar.

Miesha was beat and exhausted. I had never felt better in my life.

After all that had gone down between us, after all the shit she instigated on TUF, Miesha got to her feet and extended her hand. I viewed her gesture as merely an effort to save face in front of the crowd. Taking her hand before receiving an apology for everything she had done would disrespect everyone I cared about whom she had wronged. I stared at her blue glove for a second.

My handshake is more than just for show
, I thought. It was not an issue of sportsmanship. It was an issue of principle.

I turned away, relishing the win. As boos rained down, I walked toward the only thing that mattered: the embrace of my family.

Ahead of the fight, the UFC had approached me about taking another fight less than two months later—assuming, as we all did, that I would beat Miesha. It would mark the quickest turnaround for a champion to successfully defend the title in the organization's history.

I had agreed.

Never hope for mistakes from your opponents. Assume they are perfectly prepared. Assume they make weight. Assume they never get tired. Assume all their reactions will be the correct ones. Expect that they will have their eyes open, ready to take advantage of any mistakes that you make.

All of my opponents hope that when we face each other, I will do something wrong that they will be able to capitalize on. I assume that the most perfect version of my opponent that has ever existed is going to be in front of me when we meet. I expect that she will not make a single error, and so I will have to lead her into a trap, where the correct reaction is exactly what I am waiting to capitalize on.

I never allow any opponent to come out better than I expect her to. That's why my fights end so dominantly.

The movies, the money, the fame, the recognition, all of it comes from me staying a champion, not from having been the champion. I could lose every single thing that I have worked for every single time that I get in the Octagon. That's why I train harder every time. Every fight, I have even more on the line. Every fight, I seek to challenge myself a little more. That's why I accepted the fight against Sara McMann.

I had been out of the cage for ten months between my fight with Carmouche and my fight with Tate, and the time away took its toll. I felt just a little bit slower, my timing not as sharp, the cage a tiny bit more unfamiliar. I didn't need to be perfect to beat Miesha Tate, but I expect perfection of myself.

Like everything else that comes with fighting, or success in general, most people have no idea what goes into getting to that moment in the spotlight. For me, it starts six weeks out. Fight Night comes after the preparations are done. The moment that everyone sees is merely the finale of the six-week camp that ensures I am at my absolute peak when I walk into the cage.

The day after my fight with Tate, I asked Marina about the commotion in my suite before the fight. She recounted what she had seen: Darin had come into the room, reeking of booze, wearing the same clothes as the previous night, and tried to start a fistfight. That was the final straw. A few days later, I texted Darin. “We have a lot of things to discuss,” I wrote. Darin replied that he was out of town. Edmond said he would handle the situation, and I turned my attention back to what really mattered.

With the McMann fight only weeks away, we went straight into camp. I loved it. I felt like we hadn't had our best camp possible ahead of UFC 168 and now we had an opportunity to do it all over.

Camp is a countdown, a doomsday clock for my opponent. From the first day of camp until the announcer declares “And still champion, Rowdy Ronda Rousey,” every second of my life is focused on fighting. I pick up my training. I follow my diet.

I approach each camp the exact same way, no matter who my opponent is. If I'm at my best, it doesn't matter who is across the cage from me on fight night.

Week 6

Starting in Week 6, I start imagining every imaginable way I will win the fight. By the time it gets to Fight Night, I have played out thousands of ways I could win in my head.

The first week of camp I get my heaviest. I try to put on weight in the form of muscle. Even when I'm training, I don't lift weights or do a bunch of bench presses. But during the first week of camp, I shadowbox with one or two pound weights. My body is really well conditioned, and I put on muscle so fast that by the end of the week, I look jacked.

On Monday evenings, now through the end of camp, I swim. It brings me back to the youth club swimming I did as a kid, when my dad declared I'd be a champion. The quiet time in the pool gives me time to think by myself and keeps my shoulders loose and flexible for boxing.

Week 6 is the only week of camp where I don't strictly follow a diet. I still eat healthy stuff, but I eat a lot of food. In the morning, I have a breakfast bowl.

BREAKFAST BOWL (FROM MY MIKE DOLCE MEAL PLAN)

2 tbsp oat bran (dry measure)

2 tbsp chia seeds

2 tbsp hemp seeds

¹
/
₂
cup blueberries

4 chopped strawberries

¹
/
₄
cup raisins

1 tbsp almond butter

1 tbsp agave

Cinnamon (to taste)

Boil one cup of water and combine with bran, berries, and raisins. Mix in seeds and cinnamon. Add agave and almond butter. (You can add a little more water if it seems too thick.)

If I'm in camp, I might sub the agave for Stevia or I might take the almond butter out.

Even when I'm not in camp, I crave that bowl every morning. It is part of my daily process. On the rare occasion when I'm out of an ingredient and I can't make one exactly right, it feels like my universe is wrong.

Aside from breakfast, it's pretty much my Armenian barbecue week. Armenian barbecue is basically beef, chicken, rice, and vegetables, but mostly meat. It's heavy, hearty, healthy stuff. And there's borsch. Lots of borsch, which is cabbage beet soup that tastes like angel bathwater.