The Laws of the Ring (12 page)

Other fighters—lesser fighters—were getting far more opportunities because they were bigger, but in his weight class, Joseph was just wrecking people at
145
. Nobody wanted anything to do with him. The guys they put in against him at local contests had no chance. He won his first seven fights after he moved to Sacramento and began training with us, but he was frustrated by his inability to get a title shot, even in the lesser shows like
Gladiator Challenge
and
King of the Cage.

Finally, Joseph's frustration boiled over.

“This is bullshit!” he said as he stormed into my office one day.

I was taken aback. “Dude—what's going on?”

“Dustin Akbari is getting six grand for his next fight and it's only his second fight. I've won seven straight since turning pro, and I can't make anything. I can't even get a title fight. When's my chance going to come?”

Joseph was angry, and he had a right to be. For some reason, Jason Georgianna, the guy he had knocked out in his previous fight, was getting a title shot as a fill-in at the Palace Fighting Championships at the Tachi Palace Casino. It wasn't fair, but the system at the time—if you could call it a system—wasn't engineered to be fair. The Indian casinos ran organizations that were both unorganized and unpredictable, which easily led to frustration and confusion. Matchups, even championship matchups, were often made for political reasons, and sometimes, seemingly, for no discernible reason whatsoever. Additionally, the people running the big shows, where real money was paid, didn't think smaller fighters could carry a card. They thought people wanted to see bigger men with the prospect of bigger knockouts. Because of this, they didn't put as much thought into the smaller weight classes.

“Joseph, I hear you, but you've got to be patient in this business,” I said, trying to calm him down. “You're doing everything the right way. Your chance is going to come.”

“I've
been
patient,” he shot back. “I'm running out of patience.”

Now, what I'm about to tell you sounds fictional, but I swear to you it is true. As Joseph was standing in my office raging about the unfairness of it all, I received an e-mail. It caught my eye in the middle of Joseph's diatribe because his name was in the subject line.

I read the message and attempted to follow Joseph's tirade at the same time, but gradually the e-mail stole all of my attention. It was from a promoter offering Joseph the opportunity to fight Kid Yamamoto, who was a national superstar in Japan and in MMA circles around the United States. The payday: thirty thousand dollars!

I held my hand up to get him to stop talking and smiled wide. His look indicated he thought I was mocking him.

“Dude, how'd you like to fight Kid Yamamoto in Japan?”

“Shut the fuck up, man. Don't mess with me like that.”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself, dude.” Then I angled the monitor so he could read what I had just read.

Curiosity got the better of Joseph. He leaned in close to the screen and read the e-mail. He looked at me, and then read it again. It was like an electrical current ran through him and I could feel the energy coming off him. He was shocked, looking around wondering what to say next.

“Should I do it?” he asked. “Should I do it?”

I laughed.
Should he do it?
I find when faced with a big moment, everybody experiences a brief feeling of indecision. It's the feeling I got when I drove into the parking lot of the Colusa Casino the first time for the Jay Valencia fight. It's linked with the ideas of passion and purpose, because the humility that drives you to work so hard for something you want is the same humility that makes you slightly skeptical when the goal is actually reached. Of course, Joseph knew he should take the fight, but it was inevitable that he would experience a moment of disbelief when it finally happened.

I practically leaped out from behind the desk. “Yeah, you should do it! And do you know why?” I didn't wait for an answer. “Because you're going to
fuck
—
him
—
up
.”

A month later, the guy with the hoopty Lincoln—complete with a bouncing hula chick on the dash—–who had taken a flier on a trip to Sacramento to meet a guy he'd seen on a fighting documentary, was sitting next to me on a flight to Japan to compete in one of the MMA's biggest stages against one of the most successful lightweight fighters in the sport.

But when we got to Japan, we found out that Kid Yamamoto had been suspended for the fight. We never got a clear answer why—the reason was “undisclosed”—but the promotion, Dream, replaced him with another, lesser Japanese fighter. This took a little luster off the fight, since Yamamoto was a big deal and a win over him would have given Joseph a direct path to one of the top five spots in the featherweight rankings. In short, Joseph ended up fighting a guy named Junya Kudo, and he absolutely wrecked him, submitting Kudo in the first round.

We were both a little disappointed that Yamamoto was replaced; his status in the game would have gone a long way toward fast-tracking Joseph's reputation. But the win in Japan did earn Joseph a spot on the television show
Inside MMA,
on which I stirred up some controversy when I said, “This is my guy and he's the best one thirty-five fighter in the world.”

That may not sound like much, but in the MMA world, ego is everything, and star bantamweight Miguel Torres's enthusiastic camp saw it as a sign of disrespect toward
their
fighter. Whatever. I was entitled to my opinion and my opinion turned out to be justified.

See, the biggest game changer from the fight in Japan was that the people who ran World Extreme Cagefighting (WEC) immediately saw Joseph's potential and signed him to a contract, and after a string of four fights, during which he won three and gave Dominick Cruz a serious run for his money in a loss by decision, they matched him up with the recently dethroned Torres. Still, Torres had never been submitted—until Joseph made history at two minutes fifty-seven seconds of round number two.

B
ut Joseph's story carries a far more important message than wins and losses. Joseph not only comprehends, but diligently follows, the tenets I describe in this book. The important thing to note is that despite his difficult past and negative family influence, Joseph found a purpose in his life. And the proof is in the fact that he has excelled in a field that requires discipline, sweat, and savage workouts, not to mention an equal amount of intellectual dedication to understanding the martial arts. And let's not forget that while, as I write this, the lighter weights are getting the props and attention we always knew we deserved, at the time it was expected that, like boxing, the heavyweights would be the main attractions. So not only was the sport largely illegal in the United States and almost entirely an underground enterprise, Joseph—like me—was a niche within a niche, and he consequently blazed a trail for the little guys. But his
intention
wasn't to be a pioneer. The opportunity he created was for
himself
and the passion was his own—and he followed it straight into the unknown.

There might have been times when Joseph's faith in the system wavered, but he never lost his sense of purpose. With that in mind, it's important to remember this: Stay away from people who tell you that your goals are impossible. In most cases, the people who will dismiss your ideas don't have any of their own. If you have done your homework—meaning if you've identified your purpose and have set out a plan to achieve that purpose—you shouldn't be bothered by naysayers. They are destined to remain outside the umbrella; they don't know what you know.

That's worth repeating:
They don't know what you know.

If Joseph Benavidez had listened to the people in his life who told him he was crazy, he'd still be working as a silk-screener in a T-shirt factory in New Mexico. And you know something? He might have gone on to become the greatest silk-screener in the world, but there would always have been a hole in his heart where his passion resided. He would have spent his days wondering what might have been. And maybe he'd be the guy I tell
you
to watch out for—the one who shoots down the dreams of others whose purpose seems utterly out of step with the expectations of conventional society. Instead, Joseph does just the opposite as an integral member of the Alpha Male community, where we support our mutual purposes: to be the best mixed-martial-arts practitioners we can be, and to develop our passions inside and outside the cage.

And yes, Joseph and I have fought at the same weight, and at one point you could have seen our names next to each other near the top of the UFC bantamweight rankings. However, there's no chance we'll ever fight. We're friends and teammates, and that's the deal. Our respective journeys to the top of our profession will continue, with Joseph in my corner and me in his.

But for the record, I think I could knock him out.

And for the record, Joseph thinks he'd do the same to me.

And that's where this argument is going to stay: in the realm of the hypothetical.

More than half a decade after Joseph's desire to jump into the fight world was sparked, his true weight class is being introduced on the largest stage of MMA. The president of the UFC, Dana White, made the announcement that the 125-pound weight class will start its life in March of 2012. When the announcement was made, there was no question in MMA circles around the world about who was going to be the number one seed in the race for the title.

I don't want to sound paternal here, but I'm proud of Joseph. His career is a revelation, and it unfolded from one Law of Power to the next. Joseph's career arc teaches one overriding lesson: You don't have to stay where you are. You don't have to defer or dismiss your dreams. Identify your passion (know what you're fighting for), develop a plan (know how to get it), and commit to a sense of purpose (know how to keep it). And if it doesn't work out perfectly, something else will. You can almost guarantee that even if your ultimate dream doesn't work out, you will be better off in the long run for attempting to pursue it. You stand a far better chance of incorporating your passion into your life if you take a big chance and see where it leads.

T
he message we try to send is consistent with Team Alpha Male's sense of community: It's perfectly okay to fail. It sounds corny, but it truly is about the journey. Every person who comes through our door is treated with respect regardless of skill level. Guys who have been part of the team take something away from their participation, and they leave something behind, too. No matter how long you're here or how successful you are, we hope you are a better person for having been here. Conversely, those you worked with are better for having had you here. Again, it's all about tapping into your positivity.

The 13th Law of Power

Everyone Needs a Little Reassurance—but Ask Someone Who
Knows

T
wo years before I graduated from UC Davis, when I was still just a fan of MMA, I went to a party with a bunch of guys I knew from high school to watch a video of my buddy who had haphazardly taken a fight at an Indian casino. He was an offensive lineman on my high school team and was a tough kid, but he had no business fighting. We all sat down to watch the fight, but to my disappointment it only lasted forty-three seconds. It was September of 2001 and my friend Randy Halmot was up against future UFC referee Herb Dean. Herb wasn't a master in the sport, but he had at least trained in the different disciplines. The fight started and Randy came out much bigger than Herb and looking tough . . . for about three seconds. What happened next was an MMA clinic: punch to the head, kick to the body, double-leg takedown, elbow on the ground, and a finish with a rear naked choke. Herb had done just about every type of offense possible on my big buddy Randy, in less than a minute. Immediately after we watched the pathetic showing, all of my beer-saturated friends, who weren't wrestlers or boxers, martial artists or fighters of any sort, started throwing out their “expert” opinions on what went wrong. The conversation then turned into a debate, with each person making a case for why he would be great at “cage fighting.”

I sat there listening, trying not to betray my disbelief. All along, I was thinking,
These guys would be
terrible
at fighting. Are they being serious right now? They would all get their ass kicked!

While listening, I was waiting for one of the guys to chime in with a bit of reality, but the conversation continued, and I began to realize that almost every one of these guys thought he could make a run at being a professional fighter. You have to understand one thing: These guys were known mostly for their proficiency as party animals, so they were full of crap on most topics. But it stuck with me:
Every last one of them thinks he could do this.

I was stunned that these guys were serious, and I was immediately dismissive; but then, a tiny seed of doubt crept into my mind. I was quiet at the party, but if I had spoken up and said that with serious training I
knew
I could be good at this, would those guys have walked away from the party thinking
I
was the crazy one?

I went back to wrestling at UC Davis that Monday, but the thought still nagged at me. It stuck in my head even two years later when I was confident that I was going to try my luck in the fight world. Were my sense of purpose and positive attitude combining to create a delusion? In 2003, when I made the decision to give professional fighting a try, I thought back to this night with my buddies and I approached my college wrestling coach, Lennie Zalesky, a man who knew me well.

“I know I've told you I think I could be good at this fighting thing,” I said. “But the weird thing is, I remember watching my buddy get beat up one weekend when I went back home. I was with a bunch of guys who definitely would
not
be good at fighting, and all they could talk about was how good they'd be. And they were serious. I hope I'm not being delusional.”

“Trust me,” my coach said. “You're not being delusional. You'd be very good at it.”

I like to see myself as a self-motivated self-starter, but sometimes even I need the affirmation that comes with something as simple as someone telling me what I already know. This is especially true if your chosen path, like mine, is unorthodox. But let me at least offer you partial reassurance here. If your passion is something that few people in your immediate vicinity understand, the likelihood of their succumbing to the temptation to dismiss it as impossible or impractical—which I, admittedly, did with those friends (none of whom became fighters, by the way)—is much greater than it would be if your passion were something equally ambitious, like, say, being the best life insurance salesman in the country. You don't have to work in the insurance industry to understand an insurance salesman's general business and know that he doesn't have many peers telling him that he is crazy or unrealistic in his chosen profession. So there I was, not only endeavoring to be a professional athlete, which in and of itself seems like a fantasy; I was also striving to be a professional athlete in a sport with a virtually unknown market. Anyone reading this who was designing Web sites in the early nineties must know something about this.

If you have decided to embark on an unconventional path, you have to know yourself and be secure enough in yourself to withstand the inevitable: quizzical looks, biting questions, sometimes outright mockery. That's when you have to keep people close who keep you honest. A hard-nosed wrestling coach is great; but a straight-shooting friend can be equally effective.

V
irgil Moorehead is a member of the Big Lagoon tribe in Humboldt County, in the far northwest of California. Virgil is getting his Ph.D. in clinical psychology from the Wright Institute in Berkeley, California. He has two master's degrees, one in marriage and family therapy and another in clinical psychology. He comes to counseling honestly, having grown up on a reservation and struggled with sobriety for many years.

Our relationship is unique. I've joked with Virgil for years about his being the model for conscious incompetence. I dig on him about reading every book on recovery known to man, and still having to battle his demons. But that's nothing new for us—we are constantly at each other's throat, finding our darkest places and going after them.

I treasure my relationship with Virgil because it's based on an intense brand of honesty. As I become more recognizable as a public figure, there is no shortage of yes-men willing to tell me what they think I want to hear. Virgil is like my grounding wire, always there to tell me what I
need
to hear.

Virgil is a terrible loser, and that extends to my losses as well. If I lose a big fight, I might get two solid days of the silent treatment from Virgil. He even rides me when I win, as evidenced by his verbal jabs at me in Palm Springs after I couldn't finish off Rami Boukai. When I lost the Pac-10 wrestling championships my senior year at UC Davis, Virgil walked around with his hands on his throat, saying “Ch-ch-ch-ch-choke” for about two weeks. He takes the losses harder than I do, and digging on me is just the way he shows it.

Virgil has been sober for more than a year as I write this, and I'm proud to see his life coming together. His old ways of conscious incompetence are giving way to bright signs of conscious competence.

Virgil is advancing toward his doctorate and will undoubtedly be one of the greatest addiction counselors the world has ever seen. (Providing he doesn't use the same “tough love” approach he uses on me with his patients.) Anybody who can overcome the history he's faced and combine it with an incredible education is bound to be able to help others. The fact that he's overcome his background is truly epic, and he could end up quietly doing more to help others than anyone could ever imagine. It's important to have people you trust who give it to you straight, especially in a world where the easy thing to do is pat someone on the back, or say nothing at all. Sometimes a little harsh criticism can spark a self-awareness that keeps you on track, just so long as you never let it hold you back.