The last time Campbell McLaren promoted fights in New York he fled in the early morning to the peanut capital of the world.
Everything about mixed martial arts has changed since McLaren and the UFC chartered a plane on Feb. 7, 1997, that carried besieg…
The last time Campbell McLaren promoted fights in New York he fled in the early morning to the peanut capital of the world.
Everything about mixed martial arts has changed since McLaren and the UFC chartered a plane on Feb. 7, 1997, that carried besieged executives and hungry fighters to asylum in Alabama.
As day broke over the rural southeastern city of Dothan, Ala., everyone associated with the UFC, which had been driven from Niagara Falls following a judge’s ruling less than 24 hours earlier to effectively block the event, were happy to simply have a chance to put on a show.
UFC 12 may not have gone off as expected but somehow it happened, and ranks among the most important events in the early history of what evolved into the big business of professional mixed martial arts. Nearly 20 years after the incredible relocation of UFC 12, precipitating the sport’s most difficult days in North America, McLaren, a key player behind selling spectacle as sport, remains eager to promote mixed fights.
Especially in the Empire State.
Friday in Verona, N.Y., a month ahead of the $4 billion UFC’s mega-event on Nov. 12 at Madison Square Garden that marks the official debut of New York State Athletic Commission licensed MMA, McLaren’s upstart promotion, Combate Americas, will produce the first live broadcast of caged bouts from New York since the UFC’s nascency.
“I’m a genius or I answered the phone, it could go either way,” joked McLaren, who received a lucrative site fee from the Turning Stone Resort Casino for the mid-October date. “We lucked into this. We’re very happy to go. And I’m very happy I get to beat the UFC by a month.”
Located on the sovereign land of the Oneida Indian Nation, Turning Stone hosts New York’s first pro MMA event since Gov. Andrew Cuomo signed the bill that overturned a ban on the sport in April. The New York State Athletic Commission began regulating MMA in September, however Combate Americas will be aired on UFC Fight Pass and beIN SPORTS’ Spanish language channel without state licensing since tribal lands are sovereign.
For a man who shouldered some of the blame for getting professional MMA banned in New York due partly to the early UFC’s take-no-prisoners marketing, it’s quite a spot.
McLaren, 60, hoped to promote his first event in the Bronx, but rather than working with the newly empowered NYSAC, which has drawn the ire of the combat sports community in New York because of beefed up insurance provisions that critics say makes promoting fights cost prohibitive, McLaren will rely on the Oneida Indian Nation Athletic Commission for sanctioning.
McClaren claimed Combate Americas will follow insurance guidelines used by athletic commissions in California and Nevada.
“We’re not trying to dodge anything,” McLaren said. “I did that before. I ain’t doing that again. This just for us is a great event in a part of New York that doesn’t get a lot of MMA.”
New York fight watchers haven’t been able to watch live MMA outside of the underground or amateur kind since Sept. 8, 1995, when Semaphore Entertainment Group, headed by Bob Meyrowitz, promoted UFC 7, “The Brawl in Buffalo,” in front of more than 10,000 fans at the Buffalo Memorial Auditorium.
McLaren, a top executive with SEG, remembers UFC 7 fondly as the groundbreaking time he witnessed a fighter combine combative arts in a way that resembles the style so prevalent today. Marco Ruas, one of the all-time great Brazilian competitors, blended grappling and striking as well as anyone ever had to that point. He proved the efficacy of mixing techniques by blasting 6-foot-8, 330-pound tough guy Paul Varelans in the finals of an eight-man tournament.
“Not only was New York the place where UFC was born—Park Avenue and 57th Street is where it all started—but I also think the first real MMA fight where we saw the parts mix was in Buffalo for UFC 7,” McLaren said.
The Buffalo card seemed like one SEG could build upon.
SEG’s reputation as a group that implicitly ran from government regulation is belied by its history in New York, which in fact legalized caged combat at the behest of the UFC in 1996 before winds changed under media and political pressures.
Arizona Republican Senator John McCain’s campaign to form a federal boxing commission was in full swing. As an example of why such a thing was needed, he held up SEG’s UFC as what might happen in a lawless situation. Also, the UFC wasn’t the only mixed fighting group around. Based on the early success of the UFC, fledgling competitors soon appeared, most notably Battlecade, backed by Penthouse publisher Bob Guccione. A press conference in Manhattan led by the magazine publisher’s son, Anthony Guccione, stirred up enough dust for it to land on the desk of New York City mayor Rudolph Guilliani, who took up the issue with fellow Republican, Gov. George Pataki.
In advance of UFC 12 in Niagara Falls the athletic commission changed its rules governing the UFC to the point of making the bouts unrecognizable—and likely much less marketable. A 40-foot cage was mandated. Grappling and chokeholds were outlawed, and boxing gloves and headgear were required.
McLaren called it a “perfect storm” that cost SEG any chance of running a sustainable no-holds-barred fight business in the U.S., and kept UFC out of Madison Square Garden until the state reversed its ban on the sport earlier this year.
“For us it was easier to leave,” McLaren said. “We had been fighting [in the courts] for a while. We were winning some, losing some. It was easier just to pack up and go to Dothan.”
As a result fight fans in Niagara Falls missed out on history: The UFC crowned its first heavyweight champion when Mark “The Hammer” Coleman submitted Dan “The Beast” Severn. It may not the same ring to it, but McLaren is also bringing New York fans a milestone moment on Oct. 14. Combate Americas is set to crown its first titleholder when bantamweights John Castenada and Gustavo Lopez meet in the night’s main event.
What frontiers remain left to conquer for McLaren? There aren’t any reasons to run for the hills, yet he’s looking south.
For a promotion built on courting Hispanic audiences, Mexico awaits.
Guarding entrances to Buddhist shrines across Japan, the Shinto gods Fujin and Raijin often serve as protectors for their peaceful surroundings. Thunder and lightning don’t roll through without wind power, so Raijin has long been aligned with Fuj…
Guarding entrances to Buddhist shrines across Japan, the Shinto gods Fujin and Raijin often serve as protectors for their peaceful surroundings. Thunder and lightning don’t roll through without wind power, so Raijin has long been aligned with Fujin, making them a common pairing in the natural order of things.
It was here that NobuyukiSakakibara and the team that worked alongside him during his years running the Pride Fighting Championships found inspiration for Japan’s next big mixed martial arts venture.
Aficionados of Japanese MMA, both foreign and domestic, tend to appreciate the side of the sport that draws from unconventional strains of influence—like the red demon Raijin. Given his ability to harness thunder and lightning, Japanese children have long been warned to curl up and hide for fear that Raijin would devour their bellybuttons. For Sakakibara’s purposes, it was the process of recovering from the effects of the Shinto god’s handiwork that suited him.
Raijin became Rizin, which, like it sounds, is an attempt to get up off the deck.
Sept. 25’s first round of the Rizin World Grand Prix, an open-weight tournament with prize money totaling $500,000, brought together a smorgasbord of mostly unheralded fighters from different parts of the world including Mirko “Cro Cop” Filipovic, KazuyukiFujita, TeodorasAukstuolis, SzymonBajor, JoaoAlmeida, AmirAliakbari, Karl Albrektsson, Valentin Moldavsky, JiriProchazka, Mark Tanios, BarutoKaito and Hyun Man Myung. Other fights featured intriguing prospects such as Kron Gracie and ErsonYamamoto.
Wanderlei Silva, the former Pride 205-pound champion, will join the field on Dec. 29, when he meets Cro Cop for the third time.
Returning to Japan where he was a major star, Silva has taken on the unofficial roll of brand ambassador for Rizin.
“This is not the UFC,” Silva told media Monday. “The only thing that can bring you back to this promotion is a good performance, not a win. There’s no place for fearful fighters here. You come to fight, or you stay at home. I hope you perform better way in December, or you’re not coming back anymore.”
When Sakakibara visited California for business in May and chatted with reporters, he sought help getting the word out that his event is something promoters should want to send their fighters to. Several heeded the call. Late last year, Bellator MMA allowed Mo Lawal to participate in Rizin‘s first attempt at crowning a tournament champion. He won.
March 27, 2007—the day Pride Fighting Championships was officially no longer Japanese—will cling to its co-founder “to the day I die” Sakakibara said during a visit to Los Angeles earlier this year.
News of the deal between Pride and the UFC was hailed as the unifying moment MMA might become a global enterprise, rivaling soccer for the public’s attention under one big league. Like the AFL-NFL merger did for professional American football during the 1960s, the UFC-Pride dynamic represented an honest to goodness chance to control all corners of the MMA world, Fertitta told the Associated Press.
The stateside plan for Pride, such that it was, required the highly produced style of big-budget Japanese MMA to operate in a market tainted by rumors of scandal. This wasn’t the ideal scenario from the perspective of the UFC, but it had long sought a promotional Robin to its Batman. When the time was right, Pride’s best would clash with the UFC’s top fighters for a so-called Super Bowl of MMA, and it seemed possible when Sakakibara agreed to part ways with Pride for a reported $70 million.
The UFC, however, sent mixed signals. Several top fighters were quickly siphoned off into the UFC ranks, though not all of them made the move. Fans who were hoping to see Randy Couture vs. FedorEmelianenko would never be so lucky.
By October 2007, the Pride office in Tokyo was shuttered when staff loyal to the Japanese side were laid off after they chose to hitch their wagon to K-1’s promoter, Fighting and Entertainment Group, and form Dream, which went belly up four years later.
Dana White said the UFC attempted but failed to arrange for a new terrestrial television deal in Japan for Pride. When Fuji TV backed away from Pride in 2006 after reports of organized crime ties to the Sakakibara-led organization hit the news, that important arrangement became untenable. It was also suggested that Sakakibara and some of the people around him were not interested in participating in background checks and other due diligence deal-closing activities.
White said it was like he and his company were unwelcome in Japan.
The fallout prompted a legal showdown between Zuffa and Sakakibara over breach-of-contract claims. Background checks cast aspersions on the Japanese businessman, labeling him “not a person of suitable character” to work with the Fertitta brothers, who in their other lives were Las Vegas casino owners mindful of gaming licenses, according to the Spectrum Gaming Group, LLC, which performed background investigations (h/t Bloody Elbow). Sakakibara responded that he had cooperated and participated in the background check process.
Sakakibara said: “If that came from Dana or Lorenzo that would be something I could respond to. However at that point I’ve already sold my assets. I’m not even on the same boat. It was their decision to continue or not to continue Pride. It was up to them. There is nothing for me to speak about regarding being an unsuitable character.
“I don’t feel that ‘scandal’ is the right way to describe it because there’s absolutely no specific evidence of what went out there as a rumor. The fact is Fuji TV stopped airing Pride, which led to many speculations. There is no specific evidence of anything. So me, personally, I don’t feel guilty for any of those scandals. If I did and if any of it were true I probably would not even be able to come back to this moment. So I am here and one of the reasons I’m back is I feel I have to prove everybody wrong and I have to earn my trust.”
The UFC’s acquisition of Pride sent a clear message about the state of MMA. After the smash debut of The Ultimate Fighter in the U.S. in 2005, business trended up throughout North America, while everything about Japanese MMA trended down—a sharp reversal from the preceding decade. It didn’t take a genius to envision that the vast majority of the sport’s best fights would be earmarked for the Octagon.
By design or based on the reality on the ground, the state of the sport at large, especially in Japan, mattered much less than the state of the Ultimate Fighting Championship. This was Zuffa’s history as it drove UFC to mainstream popularity. Against any competitor that grew into a viable option for fans and fighters, the Zuffa plan was simple: let it fail under its own inflated weight or make a play to buy.
In regard to Pride, the UFC worked both tracks.
Of course, it was the Las Vegas-based company that benefited most from its drive to coalesce the best mixed martial artists under one tent. Four years after dealing a body blow to the Japanese side of the business, Zuffa clamped down on another American competitor, Strikeforce, which was similarly brought into the fold in 2011 before being shelved so its top competitors could compete in the UFC, where they have since enjoyed considerable success.
Following the expiration of a seven-year non-compete clause, Sakakibararesurfaced intent on righting a wrong.
“I told my staff, the fighters, everybody involved that Pride will continue,” he said, recalling his words the day the deal was announced at Roppongi Hills. “So I’ve been holding this emotion of guilt this whole time and I was determined to come back and give back what I can to the people I have let down. So if there’s anything I can do to ask for forgiveness or give back to the people I let down, I was willing to do anything I can to do it for my last challenge.”
He won’t blame the UFC for Pride’s closure. There’s no point.
“There were probably several reasons why that they couldn’t continue Pride, so I don’t blame anyone but myself,” he said. “It was my fault that I could not fulfill my promise.
“The main reason I came back was because Pride died. I think our goal is to let go of Pride and reconstruct and recreate a new atmosphere, a new product and a new vision. That’s the way to be successful. To let Pride go.”
Founded one year ago, the Rizin Fighting Federation represents Sakakibara’s effort to rebuild himself and the industry many believe he failed. Accountable for the demise of Pride—and the subsequent regression of MMA in Japan in its absence—Sakakibara said there remains tremendous potential for the sport in Japan and across Asia.
“Obviously, Japan is not as big as the U.S., but in terms of consumption and the ability to pay, which comes to the fighters and investment in the sport with sponsors, Japan still has the ability to do so,” Sakakibara said. “Yes the Asian market has grown, but a lot of these countries still need development and education toward investing and funding into the sport. How I look at it is Japan still has big potential. Obviously, all the Asian countries have big potential for the future, but as of right now Japan still has the capital to be the center of Asian MMA.”
Key to Rizin‘s concept is taking on the roll of a “federation” rather than a run-of-the-mill MMA promotion where everything is contained in house. By doing so, Sakakibara sees Rizin creating what the UFC-Pride merger failed to do: a place for fighters, regardless of the organizations they represent, to participate on neutral territory against all comers. Sort of like the UEFA Champions League.
“If you compete as a promotion, the largest company is obviously going to win and prevail,” Sakakibara said. “Our goal is to tie all of the promotions together, not in a vertical way but in a horizontal way. We want to be the bridge for each promotion to cooperate at the same scale. That is our goal, and we think that is the key aspect to be the federation instead of a single promotion.
“We want fighters competing in their respective country and organization to look forward to and be motivated by participating in our sporting event that we host,” he explained. “Ideally, it would be absolutely great to have a no-namer from some country become a superstar and be recognized all over the world and get a UFC contract the next day. That would be an ideal situation from our point of view.”
As business stands now, however, Sakakibara‘s vision is fantasy.
The UFC, with its mainstream reputation as the only place where fights really matter, has little incentive to share talent with anyone. The last time it did, Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell, among UFC’s fiercest fighters ever, participated in but did not win one of the greatest events in MMA history, Pride’s 2003 middleweight grand prix. Since then, UFC has maintained its status as an autonomous league, eventually re-emerging in the Japanese fight market in 2012, where it held an event per year until 2016.
“From my point of view, I want UFC to be more aggressive,” Sakakibara said. “Not just once per year. I want the UFC to do more events in order to revitalize and stimulate the market.”
That can happen, he said, if the fights are top-shelf. Casual Japanese fans grew accustomed to watching the best in MMA and won’t be satisfied if their countrymen, most of whom Sakakibara described as “mid-tier,” simply take on opponents from other parts of the world.
“Right now what we’re seriously lacking is talent that’s ready for international competition in the big guys, especially 205 and above,” he said. “I’ve been out of the industry for eight or nine years, and yes there are new stars such as ConorMcGregor—big draws—but in the heavyweight division there’s still a lot of the former Pride fighters in the top rankings. I’m not saying that in a bad way, but we really need to create new stars and new names.”
Rizin could meet this threshold if it discovers the next KazushiSakuraba, but that’s much easier said than done. Beyond UFC veteran YushinOkami, few Japanese fighters above the 185-pound threshold have emerged who can regularly win against higher-end competition. This is why Sakakibara holds higher expectations for finding female stars than male ones—yet another difference in the sport since his departure.
Three MMA bouts featuring women took place at Saitama Super Arena on Sept. 25, including the co-main even in which 25-year-old Rena Kubota (2-0) looked impressive. Twenty-three-year-old 115-pound prospect KanakoMurata, one of Japan’s top amateur wrestlers, pushed her record to 4-0 over a representative of the Combate Americas promotion, KyraBatara. And heavyweight Gabrielle Garcia stomped her way to another win.
With a nod to the Pride days, Rizin has instituted a set of rules that don’t line up with the “UFCnized” bouts that permeated MMA over the last decade. Ten-minute opening rounds in a ring rather than a cage. Yellow cards for inactivity that result in 10 percent purse penalties. Liberal rules that allow for knees to the head of a grounded opponent and soccer kicks.
There’s no question Sakakibara has already impacted the state of MMA in Japan since his return. During Year 1 at the helm of Rizin, the sport returned to terrestrial television for the first time since Pride went down. Sakakibara, who ran a lower-level professional soccer club in Japan during his days away from the fight game, relied on his relationships inside Fuji TV to navigate skepticism about him and the business. In addition to live fights, Fuji TV features shoulder programming designed to reintroduce MMA to casual audiences.
Fuji TV executives were pleased with the early results last New Year’s Eve, according to Rizin representatives. Ratings doubled what the network produced the year prior thanks to nearly five hours of live MMA content that peaked at 5.5 million households. Sept. 25’s card improved on that slightly, hitting a peak of 5.6 million households and averaging 4.4 million over the course of the broadcast.
Compared to monstrous ratings during Japan’s golden days atop the fight world, that’s a tiny number, yet it should be viewed as a solid start.
“The fact is terrestrial television has supported MMA once again and have decided to partner with me once again,” Sakakibara said. “So I’m truly grateful for those staff at Fuji TV who decided to make this happen even with the doubt and skepticism going on within the network.”
The Japanese audience is trending older, mostly men in their 30s and 40s who would be the core of the old Pride fan demographic.
“A lot of the people who know the past have come back,” Sakakibara said. “That’s a fact. What we need to do is work on reaching the new generation.”
The logo for the Rizin Fighting Federation implies “eternity” and features three points shooting out from what appears to be a rising sun. These three “arrows” represent how people should view Rizin.
First, it’s a place for the fighters who built MMA, such as former Pride stars Silva and Cro Cop, to finish their careers as they please. Second, Rizin intends to become a platform to nurture new young talent. And third, through its grand prix tournaments, it aims to discover stars who can attract wider audiences.
“In order to take the sport to the next level, I want to try to do something to evolve MMA,” Sakakibara said.
But does that mean kakutogi (combat sports) needs Sakakibara like it need Antonio Inoki, the pro wrestling cultural icon whose influence in the 1970s created the conditions for MMA to flourish in Japan?
“We’ll all find out if I was necessary after I attempt what I want to do,” he said. “You’ll know the result after looking back at what’s done. I can’t really answer if the Japanese MMA industry needs me, but what I do know is this industry definitely needs someone or something to challenge new things.
“Right now it feels like everyone has fallen into the Unified MMA system, and it seems like everybody is scared to take the next step, the leap of faith for a new adventure. Someone needs to be like Antonio Inoki and become totally stupid and do a challenge. And then those types of challenges will be looked back at.
“I would like for people to look back at what I’ve done and say, ‘Yeah he did the right thing and was absolutely necessary at the time.’ I hope to be able to be that person.”
Chael Sonnen had every intention of returning to the UFC. Until he didn’t.
Whatever the reason, one of the UFC’s most controversial, entertaining and bankable figures over the past seven years found himself on a teleconference Friday …
ChaelSonnen had every intention of returning to the UFC. Until he didn’t.
Whatever the reason, one of the UFC’s most controversial, entertaining and bankable figures over the past seven years found himself on a teleconference Friday afternoon with media and BellatorMMA President Scott Coker. On the line from Budapest, Coker touted the signing of a 39-year-old star, with a notorious history of using performance enhancing drugs, to the most lucrative deal of his fighting career.
That assessment may sound harsh. The truth can be sometimes. But it’s important not to forget these things as Sonnen—“The American Gangster”—moves to the “other side of the tracks” following the conclusion of a two-year suspension from the Nevada Athletic Commission for a cocktail of banned substances featuring EPO, HGH and three estrogen inhibitors.
Sonnen issued the track trope in relation to his days using banned substances. It could just as easily apply to his departure from the UFC.
“I’m on the other side now,” he said.
After three failed drug tests and a poor reputation for his transgressions regarding testosterone replacement therapy during his time under contract to ZuffaLLC, Sonnen has done the things he needed to in order to find some sense of redemption, including penning a wide-ranging meaculpa.
“I got an enhancement,” he said. “I felt better, period. I needed less sleep at night. I had more recovery. I never took anything that wasn’t an enhancer. That’s the only reason I took something.”
What he won’t do in his attempt at kick-starting his career instead of his testosterone production is return from an extended layoff to face the reality of stringent year-round drug testing instituted by the UFC. However, that is not the reason, Sonnen proclaimed, for signing a three-year, six-fight deal with Bellator, which features nowhere near the quality or punitive consequences of testing.
“It didn‘t have anything to do with it,” Sonnen said. “Had I gotten flagged by USADA, Coker’s not talking to me either. And I get it. I would be toxic. I don’t like those things I did. They embarrassed me.
“It was a different world, different times. It just was. And you need to change with those times or you’re outside of those lines. And I was outside of those lines. I should have been suspended. I was. I did my time. But I can tell you I’m not going back.”
To this point, Bellator does not have a strong reputation for its anti-doping measures. Signing egregious offenders like Sonnen and Wanderlei Silva and sometimes promoting in locations where standards aren’t up to par with better financed regulators like California or Nevada hasn’t helped.
California has regularly regulated Bellator events and was repeatedly mentioned by Sonnen and Coker as the location for the Oregonian’s first contest for the promotion.
But even the watchful eyes of a top athletic commission will do little in the absence of year-round random testing.
Coker said his promotion’s policy is to abide by the rules of the state commission that licenses the event, and that he maintains little interest in following the UFC’s lead by aligning with a third-party testing organization.
“Unless it’s a federal agency regulating testing I’m not sure it’s going to work,” Coker said.
After making it clear to the UFC he wanted to fight again, Sonnen said he was looked at four times by the USADA, which enforces the UFC’s anti-doping policy, and came away clean on all the exams.
Sonnen’s new contract includes a clause that would force him to cede his full purse, plus $500,000, if he failed a drug test, he said.
“That’s just to Bellator,” the former UFC middleweight title contender said. “That’s before we start dealing with commissions. I don’t know if that was boilerplate or set aside for me. I’m on the other side of the tracks now. And you wouldn’t believe it, I’ve still got the biggest arms in the business.”
Sonnenisn’t being paid for the size of his biceps. Or even his fighting ability—whatever that may be at this stage of his career. It’s his big mouth that earned him the big bucks. He is a major personality, host of a successful podcast, “You’re Welcome,” and a contributor as an MMA analyst for ESPN.
He is, quite simply, ChaelSonnen, and that is where Bellator MMA’s interest sits.
Sonnen’s intention was to return to the UFC. “That was the track I was going down,” he said.Then he quickly shifted, for reasons he can’t quite say, after it occurred to him that there was another option. The one Rory MacDonald and Benson Henderson and Phil Davis and Tito Ortiz took.
“I thought I’d go back to the UFC. I just thought it would be that way. [Then] in my head I thought, ‘No, not necessarily. Let’s make a phone call.'”
Three conversations and a few text messages later, Sonnen was gone.
“It had nothing to do with new ownership or anything like that,” Sonnen said. “It just had to do with, look, you can only sign with one place. Unfortunately, but that’s where the sport’s at. People have their own promotions, their own networks. One is in the pay-per-view business. The other is in the television and rating business. It’s different models. You have to pick you want to go with.”
Sonnen has his fanbase and platform and knows how to sell a fight, and with some of the well-known names on the Bellator roster, it seems an easy fit to slot him in with a marketable B Side. In moving over to Bellator, Sonnen said he’s looking for competition. It was an odd statement among the ones he made on Friday considering that’s never been an element in short supply in the Octagon. But perhaps Sonnen (29-14-1) meant it another way. Perhaps at this stage of his career, without the enhancements and all, it’s an acknowledgment his competitive peak isn’t where it used to be.
How could it be?
“We’ll make our stand and we’ll stand with Bellator,” he said.
After 21 violent minutes, Rory MacDonald’s arsenal was spent. Beyond his last breath, the Canadian contender had nothing left to give as he lay shattered on the Octagon canvas.
Few people realized it at the time, but there and then, in MacDonald’s most…
After 21 violent minutes, Rory MacDonald‘s arsenal was spent. Beyond his last breath, the Canadian contender had nothing left to give as he lay shattered on the Octagon canvas.
Few people realized it at the time, but there and then, in MacDonald’s most difficult moment as a professional fighter, the seed was planted for the next phase of his career. Images of the clash with Robbie Lawler at UFC 189 remain raw and impossible to forget. For good or for ill, MacDonald’s ability to endure pain made it a championship bout for the ages.
Thirteen months later, on the verge of what should be his prime years as an athlete, having been materially changed by the experience of fighting to his breaking point, MacDonald decided to leave the UFC in hopes of something else, something more appealing.
“For me, that title fight against Robbie was an eye-opener,” said MacDonald, who saw the light while his eyes swelled from punches as he pocketed a paltry $59,000. “OK, we got to the show where we wanted to go. It didn’t work out, but now it’s time to start making some money.”
Widely regarded as one of MMA‘s top welterweights, MacDonald (18-4) officially signed with Bellator MMA on Friday night following a six-and-a-half-year stint with the UFC where “The Red King” was established as a talented and popular contender happy to go through hell if need be.
Still on the mend from one of the most savage fights in recent memory, MacDonald returned to the Octagon in June knowing he was physically unprepared to compete at his best. A stiff shot to his nose meant another setback and more pain, yet the consequences were acceptable because MacDonald, win or lose, would get the chance to cultivate his post-Lawler vision once he was done with Stephen “Wonderboy” Thompson.
Having thought long and hard about his future, MacDonald concluded that rather than take time off to heal correctly, his freedom was worth the risk of losing consecutively for the first time in his career.
“Last time, I didn’t treat it the way I was supposed to,” he said. “I was too hungry to get back in the gym, to get in there and spar with guys to fight.”
MacDonald said the decision to leave UFC for Bellator came easily. Bellator gave him the opportunity to develop and grow a business together, and he felt the promotion respected him as a professional athlete. His marketability in Canada is a major reason Bellator President Scott Coker signed a fighter who, at a glance, carries the potential of damaged goods. Intent on giving his face a chance to fully heal, MacDonald said he won’t fight until the summer of 2017.
“I can’t be taking a year off between every fight,” MacDonald said. “That’s just not what I’m about. I’m going to give [my nose] the time it needs to heal back to 100 percent, then hopefully I can fight once a quarter. I usually fight once a quarter, so that’s the plan.”
If MacDonald can make good on that level of activity, his signing should be a boon for Bellator, particularly in his native land.
“There are a lot of opportunities that Bellator is giving me,” MacDonald said. “The belief that they have in me. The weight that they’re putting on me to promote me to go into Canada. We’re going to take Bellator into Canada, and we’re going to do it big. We’re going to reinvigorate that market. Those fans are going to get a proper fight show again.”
By joining a Viacom-owned property that comes off as a plucky underdog to the $4 billion UFC, MacDonald is following the path other high-profile UFC fighters have paved. Top contender Phil Davis and former UFC lightweight champion Benson Henderson, who headlined Friday’s Bellator 160 card at the Honda Center in Anaheim, California, have spoken glowingly about their transition from the UFC. MacDonald views his arrangement similarly: as a partnership with a promoter that gives him some autonomy, rather than being relegated to a cog in the machine.
“We get to be our own individual self and promote ourselves,” he said. “Whereas where I was before, everyone is wearing the same uniforms. Now we’re all walking out of the same boring dressing room. It’s boring. People are tired of that.
“You walk into the cage like every single other person on the roster. We’re basically a robot walking into the cage.”
For a man not regarded for his charisma, MacDonald’s comments are curious, and they don’t necessarily reflect the truth of things. Yes, UFC’s fighters are mandated to wear outfits that look like Uno cards, yet some of them have become rich and famous while doing so. With the potential of big-money pay-per-views, UFC is an appealing place to fight as well.
This is why free agency and its rewards are not a one-way street. Bellator veterans have opted to head to the UFC, too, and some have thrived both financially and in the cage. In July, Eddie Alvarez rose to become the promotion’s lightweight champion after taking down Rafael dos Anjos. Will Brooks couldn’t wait to leave Bellator, so he gave up the promotion’s lightweight championship and ran when he had the chance.
Entering his third year as president of Bellator, Coker views the influence of free agency as vital for fighters and the overall health of MMA.
“This is good for the MMA industry, not just for Bellator or whoever,” Coker said during the press conference introducing MacDonald as a Bellator fighter. “You need to have two buyers. When you only have one buyer, the price will ultimately go down at the end of the day.”
The addition of top young competitors such as MacDonald is key for Bellator to move beyond the prevalent mindset among fans and media who see it as a second-class organization. Bellator has occasionally damaged its reputation under Coker’s leadership, like the night Kimbo Slice fought Dada 5000 and dinosaurs Ken Shamrock and Royce Gracie met in a sad spectacle. The big ratings for Spike allowed Coker to justify the matchmaking. That, though, is fleeting, risky stuff.
Coker is aware that as much as he enjoys the occasional low-hanging fruit of a circus fight, the future of Bellator can’t be tied to those kinds of events. As his short-term and long-term visions for the company merge, the hope is dismissive attitudes—similar to the ones leveled at Strikeforce, which Coker founded, before Zuffa purchased it in 2011—will melt away as talented fighters emerge into known fighters, and, potentially, bankable stars.
“We built Luke Rockhold. We built Daniel Cormier. We built Tyron Woodley,” Coker said of his leadership at Strikeforce. “These were guys we found from scratch. I think we’re very good star-identifiers, and we know how to build stars in this business, and that’s what we’re doing here. It’s the same formula.”
Sprinkle in the increasing ability to pluck away some of UFC’s talent, and Coker envisions a future for Bellator that puts it on par with MMA’s premier group that was recently purchased for $4 billion—a notion that has MMA supporters inside Viacom excited about the future.
“We’re going to go after every free agent that’s out there,” Coker said. “And if you’re a fighter fighting in a different league and you want to exercise your free agency, that’s how you’ll know your value. To me, I think Rory did the right thing. And why wouldn’t you? If you don’t, you’re only going to know what one company is offering.”
HOLLYWOOD, Calif. — Atop a short staircase on the quiet side of a doorway that shields out the July afternoon sun, Nate Diaz wades into a fast-moving current of his own making.
Less than three weeks from Diaz’s second fight with Irish UFC star Co…
HOLLYWOOD, Calif. — Atop a short staircase on the quiet side of a doorway that shields out the July afternoon sun, Nate Diaz wades into a fast-moving current of his own making.
Less than three weeks from Diaz’s second fight with Irish UFC star Conor McGregor, the 31-year-old idealist is mostly indifferent to starring in a taped sketch on Jimmy Kimmel Live! What matters, though, is that he’s agreeable to doing the spot.
All that’s required of Diaz is to emerge undetected from a nondescript entrance on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame and step to anyone who says McGregor will get his revenge in the main event of UFC 202, which takes place Aug. 20 in Las Vegas.
It’s silly, but it’s supposed to be.
With a browbeating likely to follow, the scenario figures to spur enough on-camera angst to create at least some nervous laughs. That’s a matter of taste, but for “Cousin” Sal Iacono and the Kimmel writers, the plan is a fair calculation. Riffing on the angry, middle finger-raising version of Nate Diaz (the one most often ascribed to him throughout his mixed martial arts career) is to choose the simplest path to amusement.
As the Kimmel sketch commences and a fan opines in favor of the dynamic McGregor, Diaz is forced to listen to the first of several predictions of his demise.
“Can we find people with nice things to say?” he jokes before covering his ears with a pair of headphones and tuning his gaze to a monitor that relays the unfolding scenes from Hollywood Boulevard. In fairness, no, nice isn’t going to make the cut, and Nate’s role hardly calls for him to strain his nonexistent range as an actor.
It’s an odd thing for any fighter to have to experience.
Diaz waits for his cue and soon enough inserts himself into the scene with a light nudge at the back of the detractor’s left shoulder. Playing it cool, Diaz doesn’t have to do much else to make the guy look silly.
Back from the street, he shrugs and smiles.
“That was stupid.”
Adding to the discomfort, on-camera victims need to slide past Diaz as they head to the plush Jimmy Kimmel Live! lounge, where they will hang until the skit is done.
“I don’t think that’s how the fight is going to go,” stuttered one victim, moments after calling McGregor the Irish Muhammad Ali. “I just want to get on TV.”
This is the kind of thinking, a facade on a Hollywood lot, that Diaz dislikes immensely.
But he’s being a good sport and playing along. It’s not until the sixth participant predicts McGregor will be bullied like he was in March—when the Irish fighter tapped out to a rear-naked choke—that Diaz gets any love. The analysis earns cheers from Diaz’s team congregated along the stairs.
To no one’s surprise the endorsement didn’t make the final sketch that aired the following week on ABC.
The Kimmel spot isn’t about digging below the surface; it is about exposing Diaz to new audiences even if it means playing on common perceptions and understanding the value in doing so. He was always one to go against the grain. After more than a decade in the game operating on his terms, this feels so different.
Diaz had not plotted to appear on late-night talk shows when he held firm, pushed back and took risks in the face of real consequences to his livelihood. Media attention. Celebrity. These aren’t the reasons he stood up to the UFC and stood up for himself in recent years. These aren’t the reasons he fights. Never have been. But they are metrics of some types of success, and at the moment Diaz’s Q Score is registering more than it ever has. By a mile.
The previous evening a lighthearted and cheerful time with Conan O’Brien on TBS made for a Diaz doubleheader that few Hollywood stars get to experience.
By assessing his worth, by questioning what he was getting compared to what he was giving, by strangling the sport’s most famous mixed martial artist when the opportunity presented itself, the lofty expectations Diaz set about the state of his MMA stardom have finally been realized.
Exposed to the world, Nate often comes across as agitated, especially when a fight approaches. That’s his public persona, and for legitimate reasons, hard and fast notions of Diaz and his crew are well earned.
Grounded by the harsh truths of fighting, Nate is happier and shrewder a character than most people think. He has a way about him that suggests very little thought goes into what happens next. But that’s not so. Nate is always thinking.
When fans talk about the people who step in a cage to fight like they’re characters in a video game, Diaz is keen to speak to the consequences. “You really want to see someone’s neck get broken?” he’ll wonder out loud. So he’s not belligerent and isn’t a threat to slug any of the camera-hungry people who apparently have little else to do during the middle of the week.
This is a thoughtful guy, most of the time.
During the final press conference for UFC 202 on Wednesday, for instance, Diaz reacted and walked out after McGregor showed up a half hour late. The Irish fighter, the current UFC featherweight champion, didn’t have much of a chance to settle in and run the show because Diaz wasn’t willing to sit there and be quiet for him. Instead, Nate and his team hurled F-bombs and bottles, prompting McGregor to return the favor.
“Nate will give you the shirt off his back, but before a fight he’ll be flipping people off,” said Nick McDermitt, a childhood friend serving as Nate’s personal videographer ahead of Saturday’s anticipated rematch. “It’s a real intense environment. He kind of reacts to it.”
(Warning: Video below contains NSFW content.)
If the skirmish did anything it probably helped to sell a few thousand extra pay-per-view buys. UFC President Dana Whitesaid the card, scheduled for the recently opened T-Mobile Arena, is trending as the company’s biggest buy rate in history, meaning McGregor and Diaz could hold the top two spots on that important list after Saturday night.
Their first encounter in March was booked on 11 days’ notice.
A crazy confluence of events delivered a reported 1.5 million pay-per-view buys, the UFC’s most lucrative fight card yet, and regardless of what McGregor has said since—and he has said plenty—this was not about dumb luck.
“I demanded the fight,” Diaz argued. “I hear him saying, ‘Oh, you won the lottery when you got the call.’ Look, I was ahead of the game on all these motherf–kers so don’t think I’m stupid like everybody else because I knew what I was going to do. Also on top of that, my contract was almost up. And when my contract was up, Conor McGregor was also my plan. No, I’m not doing s–t anymore for this company. I’m not fighting here anymore unless I get more than that little new guy gets. I don’t think anybody says that. But that is what was going to happen.”
Few fighters understand the inner workings of combat sports better than Nate, because in his world being a pro fighter ran deep. Fighting for everything was just the way of the world.
In May of this year, in response to Diaz breaking McGregor, the State Assembly of California bestowed on him a legislative resolution that recognized his work with at-risk youth in Lodi, California. Nate was the sort of kid who would have qualified for this program growing up with his older brother in the Morada neighborhood of nearby Stockton.
“Everyone for some reason would have a problem with Nick, and he would always be in some kind of drama around the neighborhood,” recalled McDermitt, who attended elementary school with Diaz. Nate had his moments too. There were too many fights on the baseball field to count. “They’ll never back down from anything. They’re not scared of anybody.”
Eleven years ago, though, perhaps not even Nate’s biggest supporter could have foreseen how far he’d come. Pausing on a bridge that connected one section of Atlantic City’s Trump Plaza to another, Nick Diaz turned and pointed at the skinny kid lagging several feet behind.
“You see him?” Nick said. “That’s my brother Nate. He’s going to be better than me and a bigger star.”
After midnight the pair found themselves wandering around the hotel casino because there wasn’t much else to do. Nick was scheduled to fight in a couple days, June 4, 2005, against Japan’s Koji Oishi in the opening contest of UFC 53. His natural energy and the three-hour time difference between New Jersey and California made it useless to try to sleep.
Atlantic City, Stockton or anywhere else, the brothers tended to stay up all night consumed with fighting. Back home at the time, the floor in Nick’s room was matted so they could grapple whenever they felt like it. And they often did. They lifted weights until 5 a.m. They watched a VHS copy of Choke, the documentary about the legendary Rickson Gracie that every aspiring MMA fighter and fan needed to watch to be considered legit back then.
“He was all on it and I just lived in the room next to him,” Nate said of his brother. “I had no choice but to be here today because my room was connected to this guy’s. He had a plan. He had a mission. He had an objective. And everything he said he was always right, too.
“He would subliminally put me on a path and tell me to do stuff and it would just happen.”
Nate began fighting adults when he was 16. Boxing smokers. Kickboxing smokers. Amateur fights. Brazilian jiu-jitsu contests. Toughman contests. Pankration bouts (mixed fights with open-hand strikes to the face). You name it and he was thrown into it. This was how he prepared for the future.
They spent much of their time at a gym, Pacific Martial Arts, doing what they could to learn and spar. Nick often asked a local trainer, Richard Perez, if he could get in some rounds with his top student, pro boxer Rodney Jones. Perez eventually agreed and was impressed with the brothers’ attributes.
“I could see these guys were ready to fight and nothing was going to stop them,” said Perez, who understood how they felt. He grew up the youngest boy in a boxing family, and from an early age the life of a pugilist was ingrained in him. Epilepsy prevented Perez from pursuing a pro career, but it couldn’t keep him away from the gym. He saw that same desire in Nick and Nate.
“They work hard. They don’t give up,” Perez said. “They go on and on and on. They’ll train all day and night. They’re always doing something. You never see those guys sitting around.”
If Nick was a bundle of nerves standing on that bridge in Atlantic City, Nate gave off the languid impression of a maturing high school sophomore. In many ways, yes, Nate was his brother’s disciple, but he persisted with his own mannerisms, attitudes and decision-making. As their careers progressed, Nick often found himself in trouble with the authorities, while Nate made it through unscathed.
Where the brothers mirrored each other most was in their firm desire to mix it up. Anyone. Anytime.
“They were good students,” Perez said. “They were eager to learn. They wanted to know everything they can. They had heart. They were strong. They had a good mind. They weren’t scared of anything. They weren’t scared to fight.”
In his second bout as a pro, Nate found himself in the main event of a card in Tokyo—against Oishi, whom Nick destroyed with punches in 84 seconds two months earlier. It was clear the Japanese viewed this as some sort of revenge proposition that would let them save face. And though Nate lost the bout on points, he was better for the experience as his education in the fight game accelerated.
“Nick told me how he would always find the baddest dude in the room and do everything that guy did,” Nate said of his brother’s example. “Who was the hardest guy in my room? My brother. Outworking everyone else. I just followed the leader.”
All the years learning and battling paid off in the spring against McGregor.
Diaz listened as McGregor ranted in 2015 about winning belts at 155 and 170 pounds. Having campaigned at lightweight for most of his career, Diaz was never going to call out smaller fighters, but here was the loudest loudmouth in the UFC begging for someone to step up to him.
So Diaz did.
Without the benefit of a training camp at UFC 196 (he only had eight days to prepare), Nate endured some tough spots throughout his dramatic second-round victory. As the rematch unfolds, Diaz is expected to be much better prepared having gone through the rigors of a full camp, all the while balancing an assortment of media opportunities outside the gym, most of which were fulfilled with weeks remaining before the bout.
McGregor claims to be as prepared as he possibly could be after spending $300,000 on a camp he said began the day Diaz beat him, setting the conditions for an intriguing rematch in which Diaz seems to hold all the advantages.
“Everybody talks about what McGregor can do, but nobody sees what Nathan can do and what he’s going to do,” Perez said. “They’re always looking at McGregor because it looks like he’s a star. He’s not a star. He’s a fighter. Just like Nathan. So Nathan is better than him but people are just putting him up on a pedestal because he’s beating everyone at 145—little guys. Now he’s trying to come up to a big guy, and the big guy slapped him around last time and let him roll on his belly and tapped him out. Made him look silly. That was embarrassing. I mean, I would be embarrassed.”
A come-from-behind effort against an abnormally popular fighter along with his unique approach to life propelled Diaz to where he stands now, wading deeper into a current carrying him places he chose to go rather than battling against the flow.
“If you think about it, when I was 21 years old I was pretty much more famous than anyone I knew,” Nate said. “Me and my brother.”
In Stockton over the last decade, that could very well be true. Now the wider world is paying attention, and another victory over McGregor would elevate Diaz further into the mainstream consciousness.
“I feel I’m in the position I’m in because I put myself in this position,” Diaz surmised. “It’s not great. It’s not horrible. It is what it is.”
Combat sports don’t register in the pecking order of geopolitical concerns amplified after Russian president Vladimir Putin moved to annex the Crimean peninsula from Ukraine.
But with relations between Russia and the West quickly approaching pre-Rocky …
Combat sports don’t register in the pecking order of geopolitical concerns amplified after Russian president Vladimir Putin moved to annex the Crimean peninsula from Ukraine.
But with relations between Russia and the West quickly approaching pre-Rocky IV levels, an emerging group of Kremlin-governed mixed martial artists may be caught up in the fray just as they’re poised to do big things in the U.S.
Should tensions rise, Richard Wilner, a California-based immigration lawyer familiar with MMA promoters and competitors, expects the current state of affairs in Russia, Ukraine and Crimea to effect visa processing, “not just for Russian athletes, but for all persons applying for visas through U.S. consulates in Russia.” U.S.-based MMA organizations such as UFC and Bellator “should anticipate encountering delays in the consular processing of visas for Russian fighters. And, that even if approved here, the delays and ‘issues’ overseas might, practically speaking, make a fighter unavailable.”
Any political outcome that stalls bouts like Khabib Nurmagomedov-Rafael dos Anjos, and Rustam Khabilov-Benson Henderson, is plainly undesirable for MMA fans, which, of course, includes the Russian president. Putin’s government recognized MMA as a state sanctioned amateur sport in 2012, and has considered partnering with big-money professional events in the not-so-distant future.
With some luck, Russian fighters can go about their business uninterrupted, and UFC, Bellator, or any Stateside promoter that wishes to will make matches for them. If so, rising international tensions could actually lead to a promotional opportunity: the jingoism of flag-draped marketing campaigns.
East vs. West. Drago versus Rocky. It’s nothing new.
For example: Bellator’s middleweight title fight Friday at the Maverick Center in West Valley City, Utah, pitting Russian champion Alexander Shlemenko and American challenger Brennan Ward. Quoted in a press release announcing the bout a month before Putin flexed his muscles in Crimea, Ward declared: “Simply put, I’m looking forward to bringing the heat and taking the belt away, Cold War style.”
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Russians owns a valued place in MMA history.
Winning and surviving based on grit and the effectiveness of Sambo — a martial art developed by the Soviet Red Army in the 1920s with a well deserved reputation as a leg-breaker — Oleg “The Russian Bear” Taktarov carved a name for himself inside the Octagon during the early days after Glastnost.
Ten years ago, during Putin’s first term as Russian president, Andrei Semenov and Amar Suloev arrived in the UFC showcasing a fun, wide-open style hampered by limited wrestling and the fact that they were undersized for the competition.
Despite failing to reach terms to fight for Zuffa, “The Last Emperor,” Fedor Emelianenko, retired as Putin’s ally and the stony face of Russian MMA. He currently heads the state-sponsored Russian Union of MMA, an emerging regional network for amateur competition and regulation.
In 2014, in the spirit of that lineage, the latest generation of Russians appear primed to leave a large mark. Especially back home.
“The maturation of mixed martial arts in Russia is similar to the maturation and timing of talent [in America] and in Brazil,” said Bellator CEO Bjorn Rebney, who’s seen Shlemenko, heavyweight Vitaly Minakov, and a spate of Russians rise through his promotion to win tournaments and titles. “It’s a sport that over the last three to four years has really evolved. The question you have to ask yourself is what’s the wrestling background like?”
Like a kid from Iowa who’s predisposed to cauliflower ear, Dagestanis are born wrestling. That’s one significant advantage over their Russian Federation counterparts, and the reason they pose a serious threat to fighters from across the globe.
UFC’s current crew, a strong mix from autonomous Russian republics around the Caucasus Mountains, appear capable right now, for the first time really, of winning belts inside the Octagon. At 155 pounds, Khabib Nurmagomedov and Rustam Khabilov, brothers in arms back in Dagestan, are considered the cream of the crop.
“Having a chance to train with American and UFC fighters was certainly not something Taktarov and Semenov had the luxury of,” said Sam Kardan, a Russian expat living in New Jersey who represents many of his countrymen fighting in the Octagon. “This new generation of fighters can definitely be better in terms of experience, technique, and conditioning for the fight.”
From Jackson’s MMA, to American Top Team, to American Kickboxing Academy, to a wide swath of gyms across the U.S., Russians are benefiting from America’s strong MMA infrastructure. Results have been exciting so far, both in terms of talent level and dynamic style.
If they can strike. If they can wrestle. If they can use submissions. If they’re in shape and competing at the appropriate weight, the belief among many informed MMA people is that Russians are set up to be well represented on Top 10 lists for a long time to come.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt they can be champions in the UFC,” said trainer Greg Jackson. “You’re going to have kids coming from Dagestan, Chechnya and Russia.”
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Competition among American promoters seeking quality Russian prospects has turned intriguing over the last couple years. Both UFC and Bellator MMA believe they signed athletes from that part of the world that can reach No. 1 status.
Compared to UFC, which has essentially no presence in Russia, Bellator, the Viacom-owned property, holds a solid footing on television alongside soccer and Formula-1 on sports-specific network Russia-2, one of 10 free Federal channels broadcast throughout the country.
Fights like Shlemenko-Ward are shown live early in the morning, then replayed multiple times across the country’s nine time zones.
“We’re in a really good place in Russia, and most of the top contenders coming out fall to us first for a look,” Rebney said.
That was certainly the case a year ago, though the recent emergence of a Russian pipeline to UFC suggests the terrain could be shifting. “Probably more Russians wanted to be in Bellator than UFC,” Kardan said. “But now that we kind of opened the doors to Russians into the UFC, I see the trend of fighters trying to get into UFC more than Bellator.”
At UFC 169, Kardan introduced Zuffa brass to Ruslan Suleymanov, the president of big-spending upstart Legend MMA. Kardan believes among the litany of Russian MMA promotions, Legends would make a solid partner for the UFC if the American juggernaut chose to go that route.
Suleymanov made a point to present gifts to Lorenzo Fertitta and Dana White, as well as matchmakers Joe Silva and Sean Shelby. He opted for symbolism. Traditional burkas designed for shepherds operating high in the Caucasian mountains, and ornate daggers signifying friendship and trust — essentially, you’re armed and I’m not, let’s be pals.
This scene falls in line with traditions of the region between the Caspian and Black Seas, where the bulk of UFC’s “Russian” talent hails from.
Having spent time coaching several fighters whose names can run together like a jumble if you stare at them long enough, Jackson labeled Dagestan a “machismo culture,” a difficult but exciting journey where pride and shame are traded in place of stocks and bonds, where and men are bred to be men.
“They want their respect. They’re willing to fight hard for it,” said Jackson. “That’s a motivating factor more than money.”
Jackson cornered Rustam Khabilov, a suplex machine, for a fight in Derbent, Dagestan, in 2011. The high-altitude surroundings reminded the trainer of New Mexico, and ranks among the favorite places he’s ever visited.
“I literally could’ve stayed there two weeks longer than I did,” Jackson said. “By the time I left there was a 30 or 40 man entourage with us. Everyone was very friendly. They gave you gifts. So warm. So amazing. If they have $5 left and you’re their guest, well you’re going to get that $5.”
You can’t read about Dagestan, however, without bumping into descriptors like “troubled” or “embattled” or “jihadi.” Reporting three years ago from the country’s capital, Makhachkala, BBC called Dagestan “the most dangerous place in Europe.”
Dagestani fighters view themselves as Dagestani first, not Russian, said featherweight Shahbulat Shamhalaev, a highly-touted Bellator tournament winner.
“In Dagestan, decisions are made on the go,” Shamhalaev explained. “A lot of times you can make due. You don’t have to follow all the rules.”
By comparison, the U.S. feels boring, he said, a good place to retire.
Perhaps Shamhalaev doesn’t see it this way, but he and most of his compatriots also live under strict rules. Predominantly Muslim, they pray five times a day, eat specially prepared foods, take care to avoid many things, all the while enduring the difficult routine of being a professional fighter.
Eat. Sleep. Pray. Train. Recover. Again. And again. That’s life, which partly explains why Dagestan’s Magomedrasul “Frodo” Khasbulaev is dying to return to the U.S. and fight for Bellator, which owes him a featherweight title shot.
Bellator confirmed that Washington recently denied Frodo’s visa application outright. “Any of the -stans makes it more difficult” to receive a visa, said Wilner, the immigration attorney. The stout fighter is free to reapply at his leisure, though with everything that’s happening in the world, it may prove futile.
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Living in Omsk, Siberia, Shlemenko hasn’t had the luxury of sleeping in his bed while being near enough to a wrestling room to train how he wants. His stylish striking, a compilation of spinning attacks and powerful body shots, reflects that reality, though it only works as well as it does today because of lessons he learned while training in America.
“The most important thing for me was the mental confidence that I received there,” Shlemenko said. “I got a chance to spar and train with Top 10 fighters and could test myself against them. I could see I was doing pretty well and that gave me self confidence that helped me a lot. Also, before my career in the U.S., I really lacked confidence of the MMA game, for example standing up from the ground or working against the cage.”
Affixed high on a wall inside a converted garage in Huntington Beach, Calif., reminders of this work exist in the form of cartoony oversized checks, each made out for $100,000. Alongside Shlemenko’s prize, which Bellator issues like trophies, hang ones payable to Vitaly Minakov, Andrey Koreskhov, Alexander Volkov and “Frodo” Khasbulaev.
A blend of ethnic Russians and Dagestanis, Russian Orthodox Christians and Muslims, these men joined forces the past four years to improve their skills and prepare for fights while living in a fantasyland along the Pacific Ocean.
“Even though they’re ethnically different, when it comes to the cage they’re all fighters,” said Zhernekov, whose Rusfighters Sports Club represents the bulk of Bellator’s Russian cadre. “They all come from Russia. And they all represent Russia when they fight abroad. Sometimes it’s hard to draw the line between them. They look different, but not much else.”
Dorm life includes carpeted floors, a sauna, two bunk beds, a comfortable couch, and a refrigerator full of food for Muslims and non-Muslims alike. Everything someone serious about training for a fight could want, for rent in the rear of former MMA manager Ken Pavia’s place, with the added benefit of being situated a short walk from the beach.
For first timers, culture shock has been part of the experience. During some strolls around the neighborhood, for instance, polite smiles and head nods from strangers prompted confusion. “In Russia, people don’t do that,” Zhernekov said. “It’s a cultural thing. Sometimes when people smile or nod to them, they turn to me and say, ‘Hey, why is everyone saying ‘hi’ to me? Do they know me? Why is that?’ I tell them it’s common in the U.S. to be friendly. It doesn’t mean you really have to be friends and tell them about your day.”
After four years worth of fights in the U.S., Shlemenko, 29, is well acclimated to life here, though the car buff, who back home drives a custom built 360-horsepower, Subaru Legacy designed for drifting, remains in awe of the four-wheel toys Americans have access to at a third of the price.
Shlemenko views himself as “a pretty important part” of this newest group of Russians seeking success at the highest level of MMA. The Bellator champion has been positioned as the stereotypical stern, stoic Russian — the “Ivan Drago” reputation — in part because his English remains limited. Any marketing beyond a fun set of highlights and a brash challenger has been difficult for Bellator.
He didn’t say much when Doug Marshall popped off. And, as a fighter, he regards the mouthy 25-year-old Ward as a “typical American guy who wants it all, and wants it now.” Shlemenko said he’s never had anything against America or Americans, and even if other fighters take cheap shots, he’ll avoid playing the nationalism card.
“Of course I don’t like it,” he said. “I want this belt to stay in Russia and I will do everything to make that happen.”
All quotes are obtained firsthand unless noted otherwise.
Josh Gross has reported on mixed martial arts since April 2000. He served as executive editor of Sherdog.com before covering MMA for SI.com and, most recently, ESPN. He can be found on Twitter at @yay_yee.
The last time Campbell McLaren promoted fights in New York he fled in the early morning to the peanut capital of the world.