The Laws of the Ring

The Laws of the Ring

Urijah Faber with Tim Keown

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my family: My amazing mom, Suzanne; my carefree pop, Theo; and my fearless stepdad, Tom. My brother, Ryan, and my sister, Michaella. Rhino and KK, you have inspired me with your fighting spirit. You have both pushed through adversity that I may never fully experience or truly understand. Mom, Pop, and Tom, thank you for all the guidance through the good and the difficult! We have all grown stronger together. Love you guys.

Special thanks to all the teachers and coaches throughout my life, and Jim and Renata Peterson for their help in mapping out this book.

Contents

THE LAWS OF POWER

The First Fight

M
eet Jay Valencia, my first professional opponent: wide, strong, mean-looking. The first thing I notice is the tattoo across his stomach:
PRIDE
in Old English font. He has clearly seen more than me, experienced more than me, struggled more than me. The bend in his nose tells me all I need to know on those counts.

And those eyes—damn, those eyes are something else. They're wide and wild under his shaved head. They are fixed on mine, but I get the feeling they're not really focused. He is looking but not looking, which could be intimidating if I'd allow it. Tattooed like the ex-con he isn't, muscled like a bodybuilder, he is jumping around like a maniac. He is looking at me the way I imagine a fox looks at a crippled hen.

I look at the people in the stands and wonder how every roughneck—and his mother—found his way to the Colusa Casino, dropped down in the middle of rice fields and orchards north of Sacramento, California. They're here to watch something that's illegal everywhere in California but on sovereign Indian land. Maybe the semi-illicit nature of the spectacle has them amped up, or maybe it's the booze or whatever else is coursing through their veins. This is the Wild West of cage fighting, back before rules and money took MMA mainstream. These people are screaming and pounding the chairs, dying to see blood spilled. Tough-looking guys and tougher-looking girls, they look ready to fight, too, with eyes every bit as crazily detached as Valencia's. Teeth, I notice, seem optional.

Here's what these people see: a smiling, clean-cut, blond kid—fresh out of college—facing a tough, hardened Mexican. They see scars and tattoos on one side, shiny white teeth and no tattoos on the other. Everything society has taught them leads them to one conclusion: The college kid is going down, hard, and it's not going to be pretty.

It's the same thing Valencia sees. He sees someone he can intimidate, then destroy. There's nothing in his or anyone else's frame of reference that would lead them to believe anything else is possible. The tough barrio guy wants it more. He needs it more. He's overcome obstacles in his life, making him hungrier and more desperate.

What are the stakes? If the clean-cut college graduate loses, he might give up fighting and get a job with an investment bank, or make a career out of coaching college wrestling. If the other guy loses, who knows? He doesn't want to think about it, which is one more reason to believe he's going to mop the floor with the college kid.

Valencia is supposed to hold the power in this human dynamic. He has seen more and done more and has more to lose. Society tells me, in a whispery, judgmental tone, that I should be doing something better with my life. It tells me I should be embracing the advantages I've been afforded. I should be putting my college degree to good use with a solid, well-paying job with benefits and a clear path to advancement. I should be looking to buy a new car and maybe a house. I should be putting money away for my retirement and to fund the college educations of the kids I don't yet have.

Wherever I should be, I shouldn't be here, standing inches away from Jay Valencia's murderous eyes. This is something guys like me wouldn't do on a dare, and definitely wouldn't do for the small payout I've been promised.

Society has trained people to
get
Jay Valencia. They understand what he's doing here, and why he's doing it, and what's at stake. But what about me? What to make of this guy? Jay Valencia might
look
crazy, but these fans—including my buddies from college—are thinking
I'm
the truly crazy one. I'm the one they don't understand, because everything they've read or heard or seen about sports, especially fighting sports, tells them I'm here on a lark, and Jay Valencia's here for keeps.

True or not, these are the unspoken messages emanating from the cage in the moments before the fight. As I walk toward the cage, I'm not scared or intimidated. However, one thought ricochets through my brain.

Why the hell did I get myself into this?

As soon as I step into the cage, that thought changes into something far different.

This dude is going down.

I
believe there are laws at work in human interaction. These are laws that dictate success or failure, laws that portend a life of happiness or a life of regret. Put simply, they are Laws of Power. They are equally relevant to a salesman and a professional fighter. They work in the office or out. By maximizing your Laws of Power, you will lead a happier, more fulfilling life.

You'd be surprised how much you can learn when you make it your profession to stand in an enclosed cage with another man, with the intention of defeating him by simulating his murder—by strangulation, knockout, submission—the best you can. It's the history of the world compressed into a series of five-minute rounds: strength, wits, gamesmanship, creativity, adaptability—it's all on display.

And if you're observant and introspective, you can learn quite a bit. For instance, the way people carry themselves tells a lot about them. A fighter who comes into the cage talking garbage is telling me right away he's insecure, not sure of either his talent or his preparation. There's no need to talk; we're all dressed up to fight, so what good are words? What are you going to do, call me out? We have the means of settling it right in front of us. We're about to fight, so shut your mouth or expose yourself and your insecurities.

There are messages everywhere, some hidden, some not.

I must admit, a cage fight inside the Colusa Casino ballroom, at an event called “The Gladiator Challenge,” is a strange place to begin a book intended to teach you how to find your passion and incorporate it into your life. If you were expecting a clear blue sky and a sandy beach, I apologize in advance.

But that night—the night of November 13, 2003—was the night my passion began to lead me. It was the night my life opened to the possibilities of following a dream even when it seemed outlandish and impossible. The events of that night set in motion a series of events I couldn't possibly have imagined.

The seeds for the Laws of Power were planted that night. Every one of them was in play at some point before, during, and after my fight with Jay Valencia. That night a rock was thrown into the water, and the ripples emanating from it tell the story you are about to read.

The lessons I learned are still with me, still leading. The laws that grew out of them are as pertinent today as they were then. If you live your life according to these laws, you will be happier and more productive. You will have more power over your life, and you will be more positive and successful.

They helped me, and they can help you.

T
here are things Valencia can't tell simply from looking at me, important things that might have changed his attitude some. He doesn't know the surge of adrenaline that shot through my entire body the first time I saw an MMA fight. He doesn't know that my commitment to the sport means I will attack him with single-minded devotion and a cold-blooded intensity that belie my looks. He doesn't know the words that are running through my mind as he is bouncing around and staring me down. As we stand waiting for the bell, any doubt or reserve is purged from my system. As I look into Valencia's wild, crazed eyes, there is just one thought remaining inside the mind of the pretty-boy blond college kid:

You're dead, dude.

Several of my buddies from college are in the stands. Dave Shapiro and Dustin Soderman, former UC Davis baseball players and my roommates at the time, sit out there wondering what the hell they've gotten themselves into. I can imagine them sitting in their metal folding chairs, paragons of young-adult responsibility and corporate potential, looking around at their fellow fight fans thinking they might not get out of the Colusa Casino alive. My dad is there, happy as always, looking at this as just another example of life's good fortune.

I don't have any formal training in mixed martial arts. I go with a southpaw stance, which feels right (but lasts only three fights). As soon as the bell rings, I shoot out of the corner as if fired from a gun. Immediately I attack. I start punching, thudding my opponent on the head a few times. He fights back, but without much passion, and right there I've got the feeling Jay Valencia understands that he's gotten more than he expected.

I believe there's a certain energy that emanates from the human body. That energy is exaggerated in stressful moments like a fight. Right then, as I pop a few more good shots at Valencia's face, I feel a change in his energy. He goes from blustery confidence to uncertainty. This isn't going to be as easy as he thought, and his body tells me he wonders if he has the ability to change course and adopt a different approach. His energy is all doubt.

Valencia's formal training, like mine, is as a wrestler, and he double-legs me and takes me to the ground. It is his last good moment. I reverse it quickly, get back onto my feet, and knee him twice before we clinch against the cage. I am in complete control of this fight, and I know it. As we are leaning against the cage, I look out in the crowd and find my dad. I give him a quick nod and a smile, then I toss Valencia to the ground with a step-over throw and knee him three times in the head.

I jump on top of Valencia and choke him till he taps out at one minute, twenty-two seconds of the first round. I release him and punch the cage. I scream once and begin marching around the cage whooping and pointing to my buddies in the crowd. “Those are my dawgs!” I yell. I am pretty out-of-control happy at this point.

The crowd is going absolutely crazy. I can't describe the feeling. I've never been happier. This is beyond intoxicating. All the toothless and semitoothed standing together, throwing air punches and yelling at the top of their lungs, happy to see someone get the shit kicked out of him, regardless of who it is. I wish I could find Dave and Dustin, just to see how wide their eyes were.

T
hat settled it: I was hooked. This was all I wanted to do. The feeling I got in that funky place in front of all those funky people was worth every minute spent busing tables and teaching wrestling and wondering if I had enough money to pay rent. It took three minutes and forty-eight seconds for me to commit fully to this unconventional career path.

I couldn't have articulated it at the time, but that first fight encapsulated each of the Laws of Power that would take shape in my mind as my career progressed. As those fans howled their bloodthirsty approval and my buddies looked up at me like they couldn't believe what I just did, a future started to take shape.

I could get used to that feeling. I could make this work. It wasn't a profession yet—and there was no guarantee it ever would be—but at that moment I was following my heart and my passion. The feeling I had in that cage was something I was ready to follow wherever it might lead.

That was the easy part. Now I needed to weave it throughout the rest of my life. I needed to take this unconventional obsession and make it work for me. Along the way, I established rules—some intentional, some accidental—that served as a road map, guiding me toward my ultimate destination.