A Fighter's Heart: One Man's Journey Through the World of Fighting (21 page)

Anderson Silva, a fellow Brazilian who shared the locker room with us, lost his fight early on the card and had a smile of relief on in the ring—at least it was all over—and that gradually shifted to a thousand-yard stare in the dressing room watching the rest of the fights, a glazed wetness. We all studiously avoided eye contact. We had to focus on Rodrigo anyway, to turn and give our energies to him, to pour our attention in the form of strength into his vessel.

A Pride staff member came by with a series of envelopes; fighters here are always paid directly in cash. I don’t know how much Anderson stood to make, but Rodrigo would be carrying around two hundred grand in cash at the end of the night. In his early days, he used to get twenty-grand bonuses for submitting an opponent.

Rodrigo was sitting up watching the fights when we came in, but he quickly lay down on the tatami mats and rested his head on a muay Thai pad and covered his eyes with a rag, trying to get some rest. We all sat quietly and watched the fights, which became the constant background for the rest of the night, a TV going in every room and hallway.

Eventually, Rodrigo got up and started walking around, shaking out and rolling his shoulders for a few minutes in front of the mirror, then sitting back down. This is always the bad time, I think, the building slide of events. I was desperately glad it wasn’t me—I could just relax and enjoy the show—but at the same time I was envious of that pure excitement Rodrigo was living in.

He would stand and blow out his nostrils, exhaling hard to clear them, and slap his legs and arms a little, and power stretch, bouncing. There was tension in everyone except Anderson. Anderson was calm, resigned, and depressed, but okay—he was still a pro. He was lost in his own world, in an endless replay of what had gone wrong, the grief of losing beginning to set in.

The Rulon Gardner fight started with the national anthems for both parties, full of unbridled nationalism, flags and gold medals on all the TV screens. Watching the fight was a little like watching a bullfight; there was a sense of the restrictions of both parties. The two Olympic ground fighters stood and struck because they were unwilling or unable to go to the ground, which made for a very awkward stand-up fight. Even a mediocre heavyweight boxer would have destroyed either of those guys; but if either of them had been fighting a straight boxer, they would have had him on his back in about two seconds and torn him to shreds. It was because they both were so good on the ground that they were forced into a standing fight, which was the weak spot for both of them; it just favored Rulon a little more than Yoshida.

It was interesting to watch Rulon learn as the fight went on—he realized what was happening, what he could and couldn’t do. He relaxed, his confidence grew, his face got shinier with understanding. He had a straight hard jab that worked well on the smaller man. He won a decision by essentially taking Yoshida out of his game, and although it was in no way a demonstration of wrestling versus judo, Rulon did win the fight. It was a little slow, like watching soccer players play basketball.

The next fight was Pulver-Gomi, and it was a stand-up war, to my surprise; Gomi, looking much bigger, knocked Jens out in the second round. I had had no idea that Gomi could do something like that. I was flabbergasted, but Jens, true to his word, went down swinging.

The night progressed, slowly, ineluctably, and Rod got dressed. He got taped and they were putting his gloves on and no one had inspected the tape, and I was thinking to myself,
Jesus, no one looks at the tape? Are you kidding me?
You could turn your fists into casts, you could even add weight—but then two slim young Japanese employees in clean white polo shirts came in and pulled the gloves off and inspected the tape and signed it, so that was okay. In the room, just before we left, we all huddled tightly together, our arms around one another, and prayed “Our Father” in Portuguese.

Then it was time to get moving. Events were pulling us along now willy-nilly, a race for the end of the night, the approach of the new year, and the smiling, rotund, rubicon face of Fedor was waiting for us.

Energy was flowing and crackling off Rodrigo, and he would stop every few minutes and blast through a few hard combinations with Dórea. He was separate from us, the one going into the ring, isolated and alone, the guy he had the most in common with that night across the arena somewhere, preparing himself to step into the same ring. In the first dressing room, Rodrigo knelt in a deep prayer for a few long minutes, and Zé held the door closed with his foot.

As we kept walking from room to room, Rod stayed out in a big hallway and started running laps and shadowboxing. He was building the intensity. The Japanese guide wanted to keep moving but stood patiently waiting, as did all the Brazilians who had already started down the next corridor. There were a lot of people in this cold space that led outdoors, and the camera crew loved it. People were staring and taking pictures with their phones.

I realized what Rodrigo was doing; he had confessed to me that he was a slow starter. He was working himself up, building the pitch and pace so that he would have already started by the time he got into the ring. He was going to try to jump all over Fedor. He was taking control of the situation, this headlong flight through the bowels of Saitama Super Arena. There is an inherent danger in the fluctuating time of fights; a series of quick knockouts and your fighter could be in the ring before you’ve properly warmed him up; but if the preceding fights go the distance you may have warmed your man up too soon.

Finally, Rodrigo was ready to move on, and we did. Up in the last little room before the entrance, he continued to jog and shadowbox and hit mitts. He slowed a little as Wanderlei Silva and Mark Hunt went the distance, the crowd erupting in roars seconds before the crowd on the TV, about a two-second delay. I’d hear the roar rumble through the building and then glance at the TV and see the event that caused it, a takedown or a big punch.

Rodrigo was now just pacing, the need to conserve energy coupled with the need to keep moving. He was slapping his arms, his legs, his face, twisting and rubbing his ears—keying his body up. He is going to have to get off, I kept thinking to myself.

Dórea paced with him, his hands in the focus pads like lobster claws, both of them with their specialized hands that would sometimes leap into a dialogue that was only between the two of them; they were the only ones who understood and mattered in this world. They knew what they were talking about—they’d been talking about this for months and months—a tight, neat little conversation of hooks and jabs,
rat-tat-tat
on the mitts.

The decision came for Mark Hunt, who looked bemused, slightly surprised. He had been completely unintimidated by Wanderlei (and had outweighed him by seventy pounds). A K-1 heavyweight, he just wasn’t scared by the whole stare-down routine. It was Wanderlei’s first loss in Pride, and the crowd was in ecstasy.

Now it was time for Rodrigo, and we followed him again, and then he climbed through the scaffolding and stood alone on the platform that would lift him into the arena. He shadowboxed a little, and the whole thing shuddered under him. He spat into the depths of the darkness and waited, and the red light lit his craggy features and we all stared up at him and loved him, and shouted encouragement to him. It was time.

As he goes up to the screaming and shouting, we pile one after another up the stairs and suddenly everyone is racing down the catwalk behind Rodrigo, and I am last but I go too, storming down the aisle in a kind of frenzy. Down the walkway we go, above an ocean of upturned faces.

The three real seconds get through, but security meets the rest of us hard and fast when we step off the walkway and shoves us into the aisle with everyone else, to crouch down when the rounds start and sit up when the rounds end and the lights come up. Still, we are nearly ringside.

The bell dings, and they both rush out and touch gloves, moving like speeded-up movie clips, frenetic and exploding with anticipation.

They come out boxing, both trying to stay up, and at a furious pace. They search for range, throwing jabs and moving. Rodrigo jabs, and Fedor counterpunches with a bombing right that is laser straight and unbelievably quick. The crowd moans in shock as Rodrigo takes another big punch. In the ring, the truth will out, and it quickly becomes obvious that Fedor, standing, isn’t worried about anything Rod can throw. He is much stronger—and faster. His rights are shattering Rodrigo’s game plan.

They stand for almost the whole first round, and Rod chases, jabbing, although he is tentative in his footwork, especially after Fedor hits him a few times. When they do clinch, Fedor tosses Rod around like a rag doll. Fedor, with his hands down and low, strikes with blinding speed, a sound in the eerie silence like an ax splitting meat, and Rod staggers. I hear his nose break.

The crowd cheers at the beginning and end and when big moments happen, but other than that it is strangely silent during the working part of the fight; you can hear the fighters grunt and breathe in the silence. Sometimes someone screams,
“Nogueira,”
in a kind of Japanese rolling of the
g’
s and
r’
s, but that is it. Fedor is quicker than shit and hits harder than anything I had seen. He never stands still but is always drifting and moving.

With a minute left in the first round, Rod takes Fedor down and is on top, but the round ends before he can really get to work. Bebeo, an old top team member, joins me and is shaking his head. “This boxing thing isn’t going to work, he needs to go to the
chão,
the floor.” Bebeo yells this to Zé, who is up, and he nods and returns to his quick and quiet consultations with Rodrigo, whose back is to us. We know now that the guy is too much for him standing, Rodrigo wants to be on the ground with him, preferably on top. But there isn’t much time left. The first round was ten minutes, and the second and third will only be five.

Things don’t get any better. Rodrigo pursues, edging forward, all too aware of that fast, looping, heavy hand of Fedor’s, and he does catch Fedor a few times, but the difference in punching power is instantly apparent. Fedor doesn’t even blink from Rodrigo’s punches, and although Fedor never has Rod in trouble, it is obvious that he is hitting much, much harder. They go down sometimes, usually with Fedor on top, but instead of staying down, where even from the bottom Rodrigo might have a chance, Fedor quickly stands back up. And standing, he puts the hurt on.

All the coaching in the world cannot make someone a big puncher; a figher either is or isn’t a heavy hitter. You can improve speed and boxing ability, but you can’t make someone heavy handed. Fedor has changed his strategy and is more than ready to stand with Rodrigo.

We sit and stare quietly with sinking hearts. If things keep going this way, Rodrigo is going to lose. “He’s got to put him on the floor,” Bebeo says to me in the break heading into the third, shaking his head. The crowd is deadly quiet. Between rounds, Fedor stands and bounces, and Rodrigo is on his stool with his head down. They have been telling him all this time that he is faster, and he isn’t.

It is not to be, although in the third Fedor seems to tire and Rodrigo keeps coming after him, punching and moving, and the round might go to Rodrigo, even though he’s lost the first two, probably.

The bell dings insistently, repeatedly, and the inevitable sound closes the fight off and seals Rodrigo’s doom. He tries to raise his arms like he felt the momentum shift, but he’s kidding himself and he knows it. His face is running with blood. There isn’t much doubt in the arena, and when the decision comes, it is unanimous for Fedor. Fedor never tried to decisively win the fight, but Rodrigo never threatened him, either. I feel like five more minutes might have been enough. As it is, through twenty hard minutes, Rodrigo’s courage never flagged.

We all stand around feeling sick, wondering what the hell to do now.

The night wasn’t quite over. All the fighters came out and entered the ring, and I was struck again by the fact that these men had so much in common with one another and so little in common with the fans: the endless hours of mat time and training, running and lifting and infinite punches and kicks into bags and pads.

Zé Mario had a flag draped around his shoulders like a cape, the Brazilian superhero. I could see Fedor, the Nogueira brothers, and Murilo discussing something, at ease and friendly, consummate professionals who understood one another. I would love to have heard what they were talking about. And then Fedor smiled and left, and they had their core group, safe and secure up there. They believe in themselves, they really do, they believe they can go out there and box and they do it. They believe they can submit the other guy, and sometimes they can.

The promoters had the crowd give self-congratulatory cheers as midnight approached. There was a brief countdown and a big cheer and we all (the Brazilians) found ourselves sheepishly looking at one another, depressed but willing to smile and exchange hugs; they included me even though I didn’t deserve it. Rodrigo, with his face starting to swell, hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek, and I was filled with love for the guy. He just has a lot of love in his heart. It’s what has made him.

Love has given him belief in himself. It’s what makes a dog fight past forty-five minutes. Love is what makes us great, and this display of strength, heart, and love is what brings us all to the fights.

Two days later I left Japan. The Dragon Lady and the Tokyo Hilton never caught me, and the sun was shining brilliantly.

The weakest things in the world can overmatch the strongest things in the world. Nothing in the world can be compared to water for its weak and yielding nature; yet in attacking the hard and the strong nothing is better.

—Lao-tzu,
Tao Te Ching