Chris signed up for lessons at a local gym. Weeks later he signed up for a seminar put on by UFC Hall of Famer Matt Hughes and thus began his love affair with all things martial arts!
He took an MMA instructor’s course (where he learned he can vomit from exhaustion), he mined Gold in his division at a Grapplers Quest tourney in Canada (submission grappling), and he even competed in Thai Boxing to find out how it would “feel” to fight!
All of his experiences peaked his curiosity. “What makes a fighter tick?” “Why did you start fighting?” “Where does your love of coaching come from?” He wanted to delve into the mental aspects & the evolution of training methodology as it pertains to martial arts and thus began the journey that led to the publishing of this book. For many of my peers & myself, the spiritual godfather of mixed martial arts, Bruce Lee, inspired us, but what/who inspired the younger generation?
I had the pleasure of meeting Chris a few years ago at a Paradise Warrior retreat seminar where I was one of the guest trainers. Chris has an affable personality, and his curious nature allows him to ask great questions.
So, this book is all about martial artists, kickboxers, mixed martial artists, BJJ practitioners, boxers, and, of course, their coaches.
From A-damek (a champion boxer) to Z-ahabi (acclaimed MMA trainer), and many others in between, he has interviewed them all!
Great work, Chris!
Godspeed
Bas Rutten
• Three times undefeated King of Pancrase World Champion
• Undefeated UFC Heavyweight Champion
• UFC Hall of Fame inductee
• Fifth-degree Kyokushin Karate
• Second-degree Tae Kwon Do
• Second-degree Shin Tai Karate
• Commentator / Actor
Chapter One
THE MEAT GRINDER
“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”
—Mark Twain
The bell rang, and the sound of cheers faded deep into my psyche as I raised the sixteen-ounce gloves up to my chin, taking in the smell of used leather and sweat. My breath steadied and my eyes focused until I absorbed a hard right hook and thunderous leg kick that elevated my lead leg clean off the mat. The stark realization hit me like a speeding freight train; a mix of emotions comprised of fear, anxiety, delight, and pride swirled in the upper tier of my stomach, eating at my throat. I was in a fight!
My opponent, seasoned and much stronger, pressured me as I tapped him with weak combinations, either out of fear or from the extreme adrenaline infusion I had just endured. My endorphins were shooting from synapse to synapse, and my six months of training in Muay Thai had not prepared me for the stresses or accumulation of adrenaline before the fight, let alone the effects of depleting that adrenaline, which left me feeling drained of energy and hopeless.
I faintly heard my corner yelling in the background, through my barotrauma, better known as ear popping. My heart rate was vividly audible through my muffed hearing as it raced like a machine gun spraying bullets at the range, my skin wet and clammy with sweat, and my mind pulled in a multitude of directions. I thought to myself, “What are they saying?”
My corner yelled again, “Hit him harder, Chris! Hit him harder!”
I started throwing faster combinations, landing a few hard shots, but my opponent, at least twenty pounds heavier than I, was experienced and thus able to cut the ring much better than me. He ended his combinations with hard-hitting kicks. I was not fast enough to check them, so I absorbed each shot from his sculpted, tree-trunk legs.
The bell rang to signify the end of the round; “Could it have been that quick?” Moments felt like an eternity in the fight, but once the round ended, it felt like we had just started exchanging. It was an eerie feeling; I had lost all track of time and place. If not for the sixteen-ounce pillows on my hands, I would have pinched myself just to check if this was all part of a surreal dream.
My corner men attempted to encourage me between rounds, but in all honesty, they were just as green as I was. They were my training partners; my coaches were nowhere to be found. It dawned on me at that moment: they had already held the amateur bouts. That explained why I was fighting a guy that looked like the bodybuilder version of Rob Zombie with seven years of experience in the fight game. Our match was jammed between the pro fights—the promoter decided to pull a fast one on me, and I was the sacrificial lamb for everyone’s entertainment. I was thrown into this predicament as my first hoorah—my very first fight.
I glared across the ring at my opponent who sported dreadlocks and a thick goatee that touched his barrel chest, his face emblazoned with a menacing stare. I wiped my mind clear of the flooding self-doubt. I tried to take deep breaths, feeling my lungs experience difficulty in doing what they had done for my entire life. The harsh gasping for air was expanding my chest, pressing my ribs against my skin as it became more and more difficult to relax. I thought to myself “I’m better than this. This guy has nothing on me!” Almost getting disgusted with myself, I was getting myself amped up.
We went out to the center of the ring and rhythmically danced the oldest, most savage tango known to humans, bringing our basic instincts to the surface. I tried to add speed to my combinations, and he veered backward each time I connected; it must have been doing the trick. When we tied up, he grabbed me in the plum clinch, pulling the back of my head toward his chest while trapping my head between his elbows, and diligently proceeded to bombard my torso with a barrage of knees. I ate a couple to the face, and he received a stern warning from the referee, as it was against the rules to knee the face during this smoker of an event.
I only knew of one way out of the plum clinch at that point, and that was to put my glove on his face and muscle my way out of it. He must have determined that this would be my undoing, so he proceeded to tie me up again. Yet again, I ate a knee to the face, becoming furious at that point. I caught his leg, placed my other fist in his face, and forcefully threw him over to put his knees to the mat.
The momentum swung my way, and I felt great—but only for that split second, as the lactic acid had engulfed my body with a sharp pain. I was exhausted. My mind was processing what needed to be done, but my body could not carry out the acts. That was another feeling I had never felt before; it took two rounds to finally get loosened up, only to be met by a physical wall that my body could not surmount. The round was called to an end, and I thanked God that my opponent was just as drained as I was.
The beginning of the third round was painfully slow; both of us heavyweights had expelled all of our stamina. We circled a lot, both hesitant to start something our bodies could not commit to. When we did exchange, there was no power or speed. I learned a hard lesson that day, which was to never let my guard down. He twisted his lead foot and torqued his hips. My mind predicted that a whopping right hook would be coming my way, so I decided to weave beneath it. As I tried to duck toward my left, I lowered my glove from my cheek because of fatigue, and to my surprise I ducked directly into his oncoming torpedo shin. My face did a superb job of absorbing all of his force, and all that was missing were those cartoon birds flying around my head as the final cherry on top.
My left ear buzzed for a split second, but I straightened out and got out of harm’s
