Born to Fight (26 page)

Before I got into training I went back to New Zealand for a wedding – Victoria’s son Vinny was getting hitched. When I saw John at the wedding, I saw a man who was now completely absent. It was as though he was an NPC (Non-Playable Character) in the game of life – a zombie, with only a couple of lines of dialogue.

You’d be able to squeeze those few words out of John if he knew you, but if you didn’t he gave you literally nothing. Julie tried to talk to him, but he had nothing to say to her. He managed to play with Noah a little bit, which filled us with hope, and also dread.

During that trip I started feeling strangely fearful that something might happen to our little ones. I wasn’t concerned about John, but I grew deeply distrustful of the people around him. There wasn’t anything that I could put my finger on, but I just didn’t feel comfortable when any of them were with my kids.

Perhaps it was because I’d seen what could happen in South Auckland when little kids were left with fucked-up
adults. Perhaps it was because I’d seen what could happen to a boy as strong and intelligent as John was, when their childhood is put in the hands of a monster.

I had happy, healthy Aussie kids and I just wanted to get away from Auckland, and take my kids with me. I wanted to take the kids home and get stuck back into my training.

I trained hard for that fight, and it’s just as well, too, as the scrap against Bigfoot ended up being one of the most gruelling of my life. As an American Top Team fighter, I knew Bigfoot really well. Like a lot of the guys in the UFC’s heavyweight division he’s a good bloke, a kindly lion who only brings out the claws when it’s necessary. Whenever he did bare his teeth, though, Bigfoot knew what he was doing. He had wins over Fedor, Overeem and Travis Browne. He’d lost twice to Cain, but that didn’t mean much because everyone lost to Cain.

With a black belt in both judo and Brazilian
Jiu-Jitsu
, Bigfoot certainly knew how to fight on the ground, but he also liked to slug when he could. The dude has lunch-boxes for hands and, with my escapes and sprawls now well and truly on point, I suspected the decision would be rendered on the end of someone’s fist.

The day of the fight, the crowd brought it, as the Aussie crowds always do. Being mates and teammates, I think neither of us really wanted this fight to be set, but when
we got into the Octagon we were both ready to take the other out.

As the main-event fight this would be a five-round bout – the first of my career. It’s likely both of us had that in mind when we started, as the first minute of the first round went by without any significant shots being thrown. Bigfoot managed to knock me down in the first round with a short right-hand shot, but apart from that punch I was the aggressor. The Brazilian’s knockdown shot probably gave him the first round, though.

I started getting my hands going in the second round, aiming some good left and right shots through Bigfoot’s gloves and into that ample jaw of his. He responded by repeatedly attacking my front leg. His first big leg kick was a minute into the round, and it landed behind my knee. There were a few more after that that I managed to shrug off until, with about half a minute left in the round, Bigfoot landed a kick on my shin that sent heat through my body – heat that felt similar to what I’d felt when Le Banner busted up my knee.

I switched my stance so he couldn’t attack that leg anymore and managed to ride out the rest of the round, but when I went to my corner I thought my tibia was broken. Lolo advised me to avoid his leg kicks if I could.

With my leg busted I shot in for the takedown, which surprised and delighted the Brisbane Entertainment Centre crowd but probably didn’t please my corner too much. Steve, especially, didn’t like it when I deliberately took BJJ black belts onto the ground.

I got my right hand into Silva’s face a couple of times in that round, with the second a heavy shot going straight down the pipe and into the Brazilian’s jaw. Silva fell backwards like lumber. For a moment I waited, practically hearing Steve’s voice in my head, but soon I was leaping into Silva’s guard.

With my hips down and the Brazilian pressed up against the cage, I kept him on his back and dropped dozens of short, sharp punches and elbows until the horn sounded. The second round could have gone either way, but the third was definitely mine.

When I got back to the corner my right leg was still swelling up but having spent much of the round straddling Silva’s body, it was feeling a little better. My right hand, though, felt numb and warm. I wondered if that was broken, too.

I took Bigfoot down at the beginning of the fourth and when we got back up I started throwing lead right elbows. I landed a couple and felt like Bigfoot was ready to go, so
I punched for a finish, swinging with exhausting combos. It turned out he was almost as durable as me.

After that exchange he came back at me and I ate a few shots that stunned me. Soon I was on the ground with Bigfoot in guard throwing punches and elbows. With 30 seconds left in the round things got even worse, when he took full mount, opened me up with some huge punches and tried for his own finish. I ended the round covered in my own blood, but he didn’t get the finish. As the horn sounded, an exhausted Bigfoot was slumped over me.

When I finished the round I felt that heat in both hands. I had three possibly broken limbs, a cut-up face – my blond hair had turned to pink – and there was one more round to go.

When we got into the middle for the fifth, the crowd was roaring as Silva and I embraced.

Good stuff, mate. Now let’s finish this thing.

I didn’t know what the score was but I felt like I needed at least this final round to win. I started teeing off at Silva with punches, but I knew I couldn’t keep it up – not only because I was exhausted, but because of my busted-up hands. So I started throwing more elbows. One landed, opening up a large cut on Silva’s head, and then another. Soon claret covered half of his face.

Midway through the fifth, the ref paused the action so the fight doctor could have a look at the holes in Bigfoot’s face, but that didn’t bring a stoppage so we had to dredge up everything we had left, swinging until the final bell.

At the end every punter was on their feet; both of us were covered in blood and neither of us capable of even one more strike. We hugged at the end, not only because we’d shared something that won’t quickly be forgotten, but also because I’m not sure either of us could stand up without the other’s help.

As I recovered in my corner, Noah and Caleb both came down to see their dad. I was about as happy as a man could be. I still wanted the win badly, but I knew a loss wouldn’t take away how special that fight had been. Regardless of the decision no one would be losing face, or esteem, in the eyes of Joe Silva, the UFC’s main match-maker.

The first judge gave the fight to me, but the second and third called it a draw, rendering the decision a majority draw. When I got backstage, I found that the boss had appreciated the show.

This is the tweet Dana White sent as soon as the fight concluded:

‘Both Hunt and Silva win FON [Fight of the Night] and both get their win bonus and I might buy them both
their own private ISLANDS!!!! Sickest HW fight ever!!!’ I’m still waiting on that island.

When I went to hospital, I found that I did have two metacarpal breaks, requiring twelve screws, but both breaks were in the same hand. I’d be on the shelf for a little while, but not as long as I might have expected considering how intense the fight had been. A couple of weeks into my recovery I received a call from a journalist telling me that Silva had failed his post-fight drug test, testing positive for unnaturally high levels of testosterone. Our fight had been turned from a majority draw to a no contest. It really didn’t bother me that much. I still got paid, it was one hell of a scrap and it wouldn’t hurt me at all in my title aspirations.

‘Does that mean I get his bonus money?’ I joked.

That journalist stitched me up, writing a piece suggesting I’d lost respect for Bigfoot because of his use of testosterone replacement therapy (TRT). For the record, I hadn’t. Bigfoot still had to get in that Octagon and eat my fists and knees. It’s not like TRT makes your nose any harder. That guy’s a warrior and, besides, I’ve fought a lot of guys taking much more toxic shit than testosterone.

It would be eight months until I’d fight again, and while I trained when I could, I spent a lot of time just hanging out with the kids and Julie, going to church and living the quiet life. I never thought it’d be the case but I found the
home life suited me. I’ve always been a fighter, even when I didn’t think it would be my profession – it’s always been how I define myself. In that break, though, I found I could also define myself as a dad and a husband.

I was happy when my next fight was arranged, though. I still had some momentum going in the heavyweight division and I felt like I was only a couple of fights away from a title shot. I would be headlining the UFC’s third Japanese event, once again at my old stomping ground, the Saitama Super Arena. The man who would be sharing the Octagon with me was the one man in the UFC who made me look svelte, Roy Nelson.

Nicknamed ‘Big Country’, Nelson had a big gut, a mullet and a hillbilly-looking beard, and because of that he’d been underestimated for much of his career. Not anymore, though. Nelson had won
The Ultimate Fighter
reality show and had knocked out some of the best UFC heavyweights, including Nogueira, Kongo and my old mate Cro Cop. In his eleven-fight UFC career, all of Nelson’s wins had come by way of knockout, and no one in the organisation had ever managed to knock him out. Not until I did, anyway.

It came in the second round, my uppercut. It was one of those punches where, as soon as it landed, I knew the dude was out. Roy had eaten a lot of big shots in the UFC and had always kept coming like a Terminator, but when
that uppercut landed I knew there was no need to jump on him and keep doing damage.

I got Knockout of the Night honours and a few months later, at the World MMA Awards, Knockout of the Year honours – all divisions, all organisations. The honour I really wanted came a few weeks after that knockout. It was the honour I’d been fighting for since I came to the UFC. Hell, it was the reason I came to the UFC in the first place.

I’d been enjoying myself after the Nelson fight, expecting to have a few months off before getting back into the Octagon. When Dana called, it was only a few weeks after the Nelson fight, but I’d managed to pile on 22 kilograms above the heavyweight limit.

‘Mark, I have an opportunity for you,’ Dana said.

I knew then and there what it was.

‘Who’s out, Fab or Cain?’

‘Cain. Are you in?’

Of course I was in. Shifting those twenty-plus kilograms would be a bit of a chore, but I would fight any man, any place, any time – especially for my first UFC strap.

UFC 180 was the first-ever UFC event held in Mexico, with the main event announced as a heavyweight title fight between number-one contender Fabrício Werdum and Cain Velasquez, who was born and bred in the US, but as proud a man of Mexican heritage as you could find.

In Mexico, boxing rivals football as the country’s most popular sport, so the UFC hoped they could tap into the nation’s fight history. When the fight was announced,
a season of the reality TV series
The Ultimate Fighter
(
The Ultimate Fighter: Latin America
) was commissioned by Televisa, Latin America’s biggest TV channel, with Werdum and Velasquez as coaches and stars of the show.

The tickets went on sale and all the 21,000 seats in the Arena Ciudad de México were sold in the first eight hours of release. The scene was set for the organisation’s most prominent fighter of Mexican descent to hold up the most valued belt in MMA in front of a packed home crowd.

Only it wasn’t to be. As durable as he is in the Octagon, Velasquez has proved to be a highly injury-prone champion, sidelined a number of times in his career with various maladies. When Dana called, he explained that Cain was going to be on the shelf for some time, so the fight against Werdum would be for the UFC interim belt.

I knew moving all those kilos would be tough. Conditioning could also be an issue, with the fight happening at 2250 metres above sea level, a full 750 metres higher than Denver – where I first learnt about the tribulations of fighting at altitude.

I had three weeks to get ready to face one of the world’s best ground fighters, who’d had months to prepare himself for the biggest fight in his career and had been at altitude for many weeks. Of course I said yes. When an opportunity like that presents itself, you say yes and then figure
everything else out later. Win this fight, and I’d have not only some UFC gold, but a guarantee that I’d get to scrap with Cain sometime later on down the track. I wanted that badly. Cain is probably the best heavyweight MMA has ever seen, and I really wanted to see if I could knock him off his perch.

None of it was going to be easy, but it was do-able. After all, belt a bloke a couple of times properly and all the altitude training in the world won’t stop you from going to sleep.

A couple of days later we were touching down in Mexico City, and when we got out of the airport there was some commotion, with apparently two groups of people there ready to pick us up. One group was with the UFC so we jumped in a car with them.

A few days later my manager got a call from the UFC rep saying there was a specific kidnap threat against me and Werdum, and that we should only leave the hotel when we absolutely had to, and even then it should be with armed guards. Steve also heard that the other group at the airport had been attempting to kidnap me.