Is This Legal Read online

  And the rejections came quickly from HBO and Showtime, which also meant TVKO and SET. The head of sports programming for HBO/TVKO, Lou DiBella, let me know that there was a memo floating around their offices in New York that said if a guy came to their door pitching anything that had to do with kickboxing or martial arts—slam the door in his face.

  Jay Larkin, a senior VP and executive producer for boxing at Showtime/SET told me that he’d be more interested if I was pitching him a show on “marital arts” rather than martial arts.

  Michael Aresco at ESPN and Terri Quinn at Prime Ticket, both asked me to send them my two-page executive summary, and said they’d be in touch. I understood that these could be polite blow-offs, but I mailed them the exec summary just the same. At least they hadn’t said “no” right away like DiBella and Larkin.

  As far as PPV, I’d only scratched the surface. It was no doubt a booming enterprise that expanded far beyond the boxing offered up on TVKO and SET. There was pro wrestling, music and comedy concerts, and lots of oddball events like Jimmy Connors vs. Martina Navratilova in a tennis exhibition from Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, and a basketball one-on-one competition from Atlantic City featuring Dr. J and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. None of these fell under the HBO or Showtime umbrella.

  Back at the Torrance Public Library, I found, and then read over 200 articles on the PPV-TV industry—literally everything that they had. A name that kept popping up as an emerging force in the business was Semaphore Entertainment Group (SEG).

  On April 14, 1993, exactly one year and one day after I signed my contract for the 22.5 percent commission on the Basics of Gracie Jiu-Jitsu tapes with Rorion, I called SEG in New York. Cold.

  I asked the receptionist for Campbell McLaren, who I knew from my research, was SEG’s Vice President of Original Programming—the guy who was tasked with finding new shows. I was put right through to Campbell, and after a brief introduction, I started in—laying it on thick.

  Borrowing from Milius, I told him that what we were doing was, “The search for the real Superman.” I didn’t let Campbell catch his breath. Academy Award nominee John Milius was our creative director, my partner was Rorion Gracie of the Brazilian family who had created an unbeatable fighting style. And the guy who designed the UN Building, well, his relative, was our promoter, and we were going to do our first event in Rio—probably on Halloween night.

  This would be the real deal, featuring 16 of the best martial artists and combat sports athletes from around the world. There would hardly be any rules. Fights to the finish, consequences be damned. This just wouldn’t be sports, it would be spectacle. And best of all, this wasn’t going to be a one-time thing. War of the Worlds was built to be a never-ending series of tournaments to discover the latest and the greatest king of combat.

  That was my big finish, because my research had shown me that what SEG lacked was a franchise. Everything that they did was a one-shot: New Kids on the Block, Andrew Dice Clay, the Judds Farewell Concert. SEG had a few hits, and some big misses, but absolutely nothing that would keep the same customers coming back time and time again. I was a native New Yorker talking to a guy in New York, and I knew that I couldn’t be humble.

  “The train is leaving the station, Campbell. Either you’ll be with me for the first event, or you’ll be watching it at home on TV.”

  “So you’re going to do this event, if we don’t get involved?” asked Campbell.

  “Absolutely. I’ve had discussions with HBO and Showtime, and ESPN is currently reviewing my proposal.”

  It got very quiet on the other end of the phone. Then Campbell asked if I could fax him my proposal for War of the Worlds. I told him I’d do it as soon as I hung up, and that I’d also overnight him both Gracie Jiu-Jitsu in Action tapes, so that he’d be able to see the type of fighting that I was talking about. At that moment, I knew that I had my PPV partner. All I had to do now was close the deal. Two weeks later, on April 27, I received a fax from Campbell, in which he wrote:

  “Dear Art: Thank you for all the information on War of the Worlds, the World Hand-to-Hand Combat Championship. I am definitely interested in pursuing this event as a Pay-Per-View television show. I think there is tremendous potential in the War of the Worlds and am anxious to begin working with you and Rorion. We should schedule a meeting in the next few weeks. I will call you soon to set up a convenient date.”

  Campbell arranged our meeting for the first week in May, at the SEG headquarters on 57th Street in Manhattan, and said that they would pay for my entire trip. I told Rorion about the meeting, but didn’t even ask him if he wanted to go. He probably wouldn’t have anyway—too busy, not interested, this wasn’t his world; those sorts of things would have likely been his response. I knew that by and large at this point, he was happy to leave the driving to me. Rorion wished me good luck, and that was that.

  On my flight out from Los Angeles, I started to wonder if War of the Worlds could really take off. Getting shown the door by HBO and Showtime was wholly expected, but it hadn’t exactly boosted my confidence. I had a solid two-page executive summary, a killer 65-page business plan, an outstanding fight poster for an event that did not yet exist, Milius as our creative director and Rorion with the Gracie name and reputation. And now I had a meeting across the country with a legit PPV-TV outlet, serious enough to bring me out on their dime.

  What I didn’t have though was an actual set location and date for our first event, or the 16 fighters that we needed for the first tournament. I figured that Rickson was in for sure, but I’d never actually bothered to ask him, and I wasn’t positive that Rorion had yet either. And there was the matter of the $250,000 that I’d always felt that we needed to raise, of which we had so far brought in nothing. But maybe SEG would chip in $250,000 or even more? I really didn’t know what to expect.

  A young, cute receptionist greeted me when I entered the SEG offices. Behind her were small cubicles with lots of intense folks hunched over computers. Campbell came out and greeted me warmly: he was not what I’d expected. An executive with a slightly bohemian edge to him, he was quick-witted, fast-talking and New York cool. He had on a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows and his hair was unfashionably long. Campbell was chubby and looked like he had been a hippy in his earlier days. He also looked like he had done his share of mind-altering drugs. I liked him immediately.

  Campbell was my entry point, but I knew that he wasn’t the final decision maker. That was SEG owner, president and CEO Bob Meyrowitz, who Campbell said I’d meet in a bit. First, he wanted to introduce me around the office. There was Michael Pillot, the in-house producer for SEG’s broadcasts. Balding, and with a constant smile, Pillot looked a lot like the creative directors and art directors that I had worked with throughout much of my professional life in advertising.

  Next up was Stephen Loeb, SEG’s chief financial officer—the guy who made out the checks. Loeb struck me as the quintessential New Yorker, sarcastic and very funny. He looked like Central Casting had hired him to play the skinflint in charge of a big company’s money.

  On then to David Isaacs. Slim, of average height and clean-shaven, he struck me as quiet, self-assured, intellectual and very smart. It wasn’t actually explained to me what Isaacs did at SEG. Apparently, he had both a law degree and a finance degree from Harvard, and he’d previously worked for Bertelsmann’s Music Group in Europe—better known in the show business world as BMG. I knew from my research back at the Torrance Public Library that BMG was SEG’s big financial backer. Something about the PPV concerts with the music superstars. And I knew that BMG was the largest privately held entertainment company on the planet, so perhaps Isaacs was their man at SEG. Neither Campbell nor Isaacs explained further, and I didn’t ask.

  Then there was Michael Abramson, a guy I knew immediately. Not literally, but I’d bought advertising time for clients from salesmen exactly like Abramson for years. Sales studs like him were the backbone of radio and TV stations across the country, selling commercia
l time, which allowed the creative types to be creative. Abramson’s office was small and crammed. It looked impossibly disorganized, but not chaotic. He was a husky guy, with his jacket off and his tie loosened. A fast talker with plenty of New York smarts, who I liked right off the bat.

  “There’s more than 20 MSOs (multi-system operators), and more than a thousand cable systems in the U.S. and Canada. I close them on our shows. I’m on the phone following up on a kit, like this,” Abramson said as he held up a package about one of SEG’s upcoming PPV broadcasts.

  It was Abramson’s job to get the local cable providers from California to Maine to push SEG’s product. I understood it completely. It also turned out that Abramson did more than PPV. Campbell escorted me around the corner, and there was a recording studio right there in SEG’s offices. It turned out that they cut the syndicated radio program, The King Biscuit Flower Hour, there every week.

  King Biscuit was a rock radio institution that began in 1973, and aired every Sunday night on more than 300 stations across the country. It featured concerts that were specially recorded for the show, with artists ranging from Eric Clapton to the Grateful Dead to U2.

  Abramson’s job on this program was to close radio stations in North America, and from what I could see, he was really good at it. He’d better be, because King Biscuit was the creation and baby of his boss, Bob Meyrowitz.

  I was next introduced to Mary Corigliano, a marketing coordinator who seemed smart, and was very attractive. I could tell this well-dressed blonde, young woman was a big asset at SEG. Mary handled herself like she would eventually be running the whole show.

  I’d done my homework on Meyrowitz, trying to get a handle on the guy, and more importantly his needs for SEG. A magazine article that I’d read explained that SEG was searching within the PPV television milieu for a franchise. Concerts, both music and comedy were, by definition, one-night stands. Almost nobody was going to pay to watch the same performer multiple times in a year. And the sporting events that they’d produced, such as the Martina Navratilova vs. Jimmy Connors tennis match in Las Vegas had failed to be SEG’s ticket to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Nothing on their roster was a series of ongoing events such as TVKO and SET had with their non-stop line up of boxing world title fights. SEG had thus far failed to find a franchise to call their own.

  I could immediately tell from the vibe at SEG, that Meyrowitz was, without question, “the Man.” The way that Campbell and all of the employees spoke of him, and genuflected when his name was mentioned, made it clear that Meyrowitz had a large and well-developed ego. Everyone there deferentially referred to him as “Meyro,” as though it was a title more than a nickname. When I was ushered into Meyrowitz’s office, after being made to wait a considerable amount of time, Campbell and I then waited some more for him to get off the phone.

  Meyrowitz was impeccably dressed. His suit and tie looked like it cost more than most people pay for rent or a mortgage. His hair was dark, cut fashionably and his beard was well trimmed. He came across as a modern day business buccaneer. Finally, he was ready to greet me, and started right in. Meyrowitz began expounding on what SEG did, and I mainly listened. He had strong opinions about everything, and mentioned that he’d been nominated for a Cable ACE Award for a Bette Midler special that he’d executive produced. Then he told me that he understood War of the Worlds, since he’d boxed as kid.

  “I know fighting. I don’t know the martial arts, but I know fighting,” he said. “There were people who thought that I could have been the first Jewish heavyweight champ if I’d stayed with boxing,”

  I figured that he had forgotten about Max Baer, as well as reality, but I kept my mouth shut. He was big, well over six feet tall, with an imposing physical presence. But Meyrowitz certainly didn’t strike me as the sort of guy who liked to mix it up in the ring or on the street. But what could I say? I just smiled and nodded.

  Then we got into why I was there, and I could tell that his level of preparation on me was nowhere close to the prep that I had done on him. It struck me that this was Campbell’s pet project, and that he was the one who brought me out to New York, not Meyrowitz. But Campbell just sat there in deference to his boss, hardly saying a word.

  I started talking about Rorion and his family’s history. Meyrowitz asked me about their style of fighting, and I used a phrase that Rorion was fond of, “With the Gracies, they need time to cook a guy.” What this meant when Rorion said it—and what I was trying to convey to Meyrowitz and Campbell—was that their technique could be a slow-build. The takedowns and positions, the transitions and submissions often took time—it was not like a one-punch knockout in boxing.

  This completely stopped the discussion cold. As soon as I said it, I realized that it was going to take thirty minutes of explanation on my part. Campbell—my advocate—looked at me like he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. And Meyrowitz wasn’t about to be drawn into an esoteric discussion that only a martial artist or a serious fan would understand. I could see he wanted to keep his eyes focused on the big picture, which was how he could make money with War of the Worlds.

  Sensing that I was losing Meyrowitz, I then mentioned that I was a fellow cigar aficionado, turned on to Cubans by Milius. They all smoked cigars in the office, and when I first arrived, Campbell had offered me a Punch Black Prince, which I happily accepted and lit up. Meyrowitz warmed to this part of our discussion. But as I sat in his office, our mutual love of cigars notwithstanding, I sensed he wasn’t so sure that this venture was going to work. But I also felt that he just might be willing to take a flyer on Campbell’s say-so.

  Meyrowitz said that we should get our respective attorneys together to see how a deal could be structured. It hit me that I didn’t know anything about how a deal was done in this industry, and that I’d never gotten around to putting an attorney on retainer. I hadn’t even bothered to register W.O.W. Promotions as an LLC, or anything else for that matter. It existed only on paper, sharing an address with a martial arts school in Torrance, California.

  I called Rorion at his office back at the Gracie Academy, and told him that SEG seemed preliminarily interested, and that they were preparing a deal. But let’s not start popping the champagne corks yet. What that deal would propose and offer, I had no idea. All I did know for sure was that we had to get our shit together, and right away. After our meeting, Campbell and Isaacs took me out for a meal at McCormick & Schmick’s at 52nd and 6th Ave., where I got a taste of the sort of life these show business types led. There was a huge platter of Dungeness crab, thick, rare T-bone steaks and icy Bombay Sapphire gin martinis. I had no doubt that these guys knew how to fly first class. With their connection to BMG, I started to think of SEG as the New York Bankees.

  As soon as I got back to Los Angeles, I packed up my car, withdrew a few thousand dollars in cash from my personal account, grabbed my 9mm Glock 17, and hit the road for Denver. There was no way Rorion was going to make the trip, as he was wall-to-wall with the Gracie Academy, but he agreed that we’d split all of my costs.

  I was headed there to first and foremost register W.O.W. Promotions as an LLC in the state, then locate a local attorney for us, and finally scout possible venues. Rio was feeling more and more to me like a really expensive and possibly disastrous idea.

  W.O.W. Promotions, LLC, officially moved from a paper company to a real one on May 12, 1993. I hired Mark Field to be our attorney in Denver. He got us an accountant, J.A. Olsen & Associates, and I set up our company checking and savings accounts with First Bank at 17th and Broadway.

  While there, I tracked down Karyn Turner, the kickboxing promoter with the Coors beer sponsorship, with whom I’d spoken three-and-a-half years earlier when I was trying to figure out my World’s Best Fighter pitch to Wisdom Imports.

  I asked Karyn about local fighters and possible venues. She told me that I should really look at McNichols Sports Arena, home of the Denver Nuggets. I still hadn’t ruled out working with Lulu in
Rio, but Colorado, with its legal tolerance for bare-knuckle fighting and now the home state of W.O.W. Promotions, LLC, was making more and more sense. Booking a venue would have to wait, as would setting a date for our inaugural event, but I did like the idea of playing a 17,000-seat NBA building.

  Without question, there was a need for at least one hometown hero type in our tournament of 16 fighters, no matter where we held War of the Worlds. A local “champion” would help to not only sell tickets, but also energize the crowd. Karyn gave me a number of names, but at the top of her list was Pat Smith, a guy who was really making his mark on the Denver fight scene. Karyn said that he’d just won the Sabaki Challenge, which I knew was a huge bare-knuckle, full-contact karate tournament held annually in the city. He was also a pro boxer, and Karyn told me that he absolutely looked the part.

  I went to watch Smith work out at Tiger Kim’s Academy, and he instantly reminded me of the boxing knock-out artist Cleveland Williams, who fought Muhammad Ali for the world title in 1966. Smith was impressive: quick, athletic, and powerfully built at 6-foot-2 and about 220 lb. But he also struck me as a bit weird, kind of volatile, and paranoid. He told me about his win at the Sabaki Challenge, and that he’d been working with the noted boxing trainer Bobby Lewis, who had served as the U.S. Olympic coach in 1972.

  Smith then said to me that he had a record of 250-0, which I found amusing, and wholly predictable. I’d heard talk around the Gracie Academy that Rickson was 400-0. What Smith didn’t know was that after Karyn Turner recommended him, I quickly did a little research and discovered that he had at least two losses as a pro boxer. His personal record keeping didn’t deter me though, as I hit it off pretty well with him, despite his edgy vibe.