My Fight / Your Fight (39 page)

Despite the fact that I had kept the fight standing against McMann, I think Davis was also expecting me to rush for the takedown because she's a striker. But this time, instead of charging in right away, for the first time in a fight I feinted, or faked like I was going to throw a punch and then didn't. The goal was to throw her off her game.

I feinted at the beginning, and she reacted. I jabbed twice. She tried to come over and hit me with her right, but she was totally off balance. If she had thrown a pillow at me, it would have had more impact than her punch.

I threw a 1–2 and hopped out of the way. I jabbed again, then got out of the way. I was measuring the distance between her and me. I knew exactly where she was going to be on the receiving end of my punches.

This time, I showed the jab, then came in with an overhand right.

When you hit someone with a knockout punch, it's like you can feel the connection from your knuckle all the way to the ground. With that punch to Davis's face, I was certain my fist had hit the earth. I punched her so hard I broke my hand.

Boom.
That was it. Or at least it could have been.

After I hit her with the overhand right, I already knew she was out. She was asleep. I could have walked away right then.

But the boos from the McMann fight still echoed in ears. When I beat McMann, fight fans had been critical of the TKO call, debating if the referee had called it too fast. This time the referee didn't say anything. The fight was still going.

I clinched Davis and threw a knee, then threw her to the ground. We hit the ground, and I kept throwing punches in rapid-fire succession.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

The referee jumped in. Davis didn't even know where she was.

The entire fight lasted sixteen seconds. It was the second-fastest title fight win in UFC history.

I will never know if Alexis Davis had an answer to my armbar, but she had absolutely no answer when it came to stopping me.

Some lessons have to be experienced to be understood.

After the Davis fight, I had two-for-one surgery, where doctors cleaned up my knee and inserted a pin into my broken right hand. Seven months later, my knee felt better than it ever had and I had developed a badass left hook. I was ready for another fight.

I had been preparing nearly two years to face Cat Zingano.

Our
Ultimate Fighter
fight had fallen through when she injured her knee, but I knew we would face each other one day.

During her recovery, her husband committed suicide, leaving behind Cat and their young son. I knew she was going through the toughest fight in her life. But Dana never wavered in his belief that she deserved a title shot. She was still the No. 1 contender to challenge me for my belt. After a year and a half, Cat returned to the Octagon in late September 2014. Following her comeback win, our fight was slated as the co-main event for UFC 182. We would face each other right after the New Year. But Cat was dealing with a back injury, and a week after the fight announcement, her camp asked for the fight to be moved back. The UFC agreed, rescheduling our bout for February 27, 2015, where I would fight in front of my hometown crowd at L.A.'s Staples Center.

After Cat requested the later date, Dana informed me they had another fighter quietly preparing to face me in case Zingano backed out. I always prepared myself for the fight and not the opponent, but that approach took on an entirely new meaning this time around. Zingano is a left-handed fighter like me. The other girl fights from a right-handed stance.

But Cat came through.

That night in the locker room, Edmond warmed me up.

“This is a historic fight,” he said. He had never said that before, not when I faced Miesha for the Strikeforce title, not when I faced Carmouche for the UFC women's debut. But he was right, something about this night felt different.

Minutes later, I was pounding through the hallway, battle boots on, hoodie up, game face on, born ready. I glared across the cage at Zingano, watching her pace back and forth. The referee called us to the middle.

We touched gloves.

The fight began.

Cat came with a flying knee. I angled left. She missed, grabbing me and trying to throw me. I did a backward cartwheel off my head and spun out. When we landed, I turned Cat, getting on top of her. She sling-shotted her legs away from me and got on all fours, trying to escape. I kept a grip on her left elbow, trying to pull her onto her back so I could mount. I threw one leg over her back and knew the grip on her elbow was slipping. I timed the right moment to let go and pinned her other hand behind my arm instead. Something just felt right. I spun to my left side and threw my other leg across her neck. I pulled her arm straight, then arched my hips. She tapped.

When I'm in the cage, my perception of time shifts. I am processing so many pieces of information it is as if the world around me slows down. But my synapses are firing so rapidly and my muscles are moving so quickly it is as if the world is in hyper-speed. Every second is individual on its own.

In terms of seconds on a clock, my entire fight against Cat Zingano lasted fourteen.

It was the fastest submission in UFC history and the fastest win ever in a UFC title fight.

I jumped up, victoriously. Cat stayed crumpled on the mat.

For the first time in my life, I saw a person on the ground. I recognized the disappointment on her face. It was the same as having-your-heart-pulled-out-of-your-chest-and-crushed-in-front-of-you pain I felt when I lost the Olympics.

For the first time in my career, I knelt down and embraced my opponent.

I felt empathy. The knee injury. The death of someone you love to suicide. Building something up so much, believing that it will solve all of your problems and take away all of your pain. Losing.

I had been there, experiencing that same kind of devastation. The overwhelming numbness. The disbelief.

It felt weird for me to give a shit. Every single fight, I look at that person who lost, I see her devastation, and I think,
She was trying to do the same thing to me
, and I don't really feel that bad.

I felt like I had known from the moment I was born, it wasn't going to go Cat's way. That belt wasn't meant for her, just like an Olympic gold medal wasn't meant for me. But I also knew that the worst moments of my life brought me to the best times. Loss. Heartbreak. Injury. I had come to understand every event was necessary to guide me to where I am today. I hoped the same would be true for Cat.

There is always going to be one more fight where people will say, “You can't walk away. You haven't fought this person.” There is always going to be somebody else. There's no situation that exists where, when the day comes that I want to retire, people aren't going to think that I was a coward for not taking that one last fight.

I'm just going to have to find a way to accept that fact and recognize when it really is time for me to walk away.

After my win over Cat, I sat in the media conference backstage and everyone wanted to know what I was going to do next. I have dominated for so long, and I know no one will ever beat me in the cage. No girl will ever look into my eyes and see the fear I see when I stare across the Octagon at the beginning of a fight. I will never be scared of anyone.

But one thing I am scared of is retirement.

Winning is addictive. The highs are super-high. There's a lot of risk. There's more at stake each time I fight. I get a new fix every time I defend my belt. But, winning will only last for so long.

When I'm finally done fighting, when I walk away from MMA and I don't get that rush anymore, how am I going to deal with it?

My mom always says that when you're younger you love the roller coaster, and when you're older, the merry-go-round starts to seem a little bit nicer. Someday soon, I wouldn't mind a couple of less-risky, slow-burning victories over flaming, white-hot ones. At some point, I'm just going to get too old for the thrill rides.

I'm thinking about what's next. I worry about it a lot. I'm scared of ending up in the same mess I was in after the 2008 Olympics. I'm trying to identify all the mistakes that I made back then, so I don't make them again. Back then, I never even had a Plan B. That's why I'm so into making sure that I have other options, like acting, lined up. Now, I'm thinking about Plan B and C and D.

I also worry that I won't be able to stay away. I will always be a fighter, but I never want to be that person who retires, then comes back because they can't handle retirement. I want my retirement to be fucking final.

My life turned into something much bigger than I thought. While I chased this dream, I was broke. I worried about whether my next parking ticket would leave me short on rent. I worried about filling my gas tank so I could get to my third job. When I finally got into Strikeforce and then the UFC, for the first time, I started thinking about more than just myself. I had created the job I wanted, and I inadvertently created something not just for myself, but for all the other women too.

When I started out in MMA, I wasn't trying to change the world. I was trying to change my life. But, once my life changed, I realized that wasn't enough. Then it became about changing the world.

Once I became the champion, I realized that that is not all there is. I have to think about what's going to satisfy me for my whole life, what's going to sustain me. Even more meaningful than having the title is having a legacy.

I think about Royce Gracie, who was the first UFC champion. The very first time I had ever been to the Staples Center was to attend a UFC on Fox fight. He walked into the arena and sat down in the front row, and there was something about the look of satisfaction he had on his face as he looked around at something he had created.

That's what I want.

Fighting takes a toll. Physically, you can only take so much. Mentally, you can only take so much. I look forward to the day where I can give up my belt, and let two other girls fight for it. Even though I will know that I could beat those girls and take that belt back, I will accept that it's their turn to carry the belt and the title and everything it represents. When that day comes, it will no longer be only my responsibility anymore. When that happens, women's MMA will be self-sustaining. When that happens, I want to be like Royce Gracie, watching the next generation of fighters with a sense of satisfaction. I want to be that dude, front row, introducing my kids to everyone.

That day is somewhere on the horizon, but it's not here yet. I don't feel like women's MMA is ready for me to walk away. I'm not ready either.

Right now, I'm still living from hit to hit.

The fight is over.

I keep going until the referee literally touches me, shakes me, and grabs me to let me know I have won.

I can feel my opponent go limp, whether conscious or not. Every muscle in her body admitting defeat. I don't think she ever believed she could beat me, but she had hope. Now she is left with nothing but throbbing pain and her attempts to comprehend how it all went so wrong for her so fast.