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  Without saying a world, Tuli took the envelope from me, opened it, and then stared at the cash. With that, a huge smile spread across his broad face, which caused his brother and two cousins to begin smiling too. The ice had cracked, and just like that Tuli shook my hand, as though I was his best friend in the world. As the five of us piled into the van I was driving, as part of our rented three van fleet, I felt very thankful that I hadn’t tried to squeeze this crew and their luggage into an economy car.

  I drove back out to the airport to get Kevin Rosier, for the sole reason of seeing for myself if the reports that I’d been receiving about him being out of shape were indeed true. When I spotted him standing by baggage claim, I thought for a moment that Teila Tuli had an identical twin. Dating back to our very first conversation, Rosier had always insisted that he was “about 265.”

  When I saw Rosier at the Denver Airport, I immediately said to him, “Kevin, I’m Art Davie. What the fuck happened to 265 pounds?”

  He sheepishly replied, “Well, I guess I’m up to around 285 now.”

  “Bullshit, your left leg weighs 285.”

  I knew that I was getting a behemoth in Tuli, but that wasn’t the deal with Rosier. He was supposed to be an in-shape, mean heavyweight kickboxer. Instead he looked like Poppin’ Fresh the Pillsbury Doughboy.

  Rosier wasn’t with his wife, and I asked him where she was, since her attendance in Denver was part of his contract. He told me that he changed her to a later flight, and that instead of going to the hotel with me, he was headed out to Loveland, Colorado in a rental car to see his ex-wife. I shook my head thinking that in addition to being out of shape, Rosier had a soap opera going on.

  Gordeau and Shamrock both arrived from outside of the country, in-shape and all business. Flying in from Amsterdam and accompanied by his trainer, Gordeau carried only a small duffel bag and a lot of cigarettes. Upon meeting him at the airport, he struck me as relaxed and cool as any human could possibly be—like he had come to Colorado for a week of sight-seeing.

  I asked Gordeau if he needed anything from my staff or me, and he responded, “No problem, Art Davie.”

  Shamrock had flown straight to Denver from Japan, where on Monday he had submitted Takaku Fuke in just 44 seconds at Pancrase’s third event. He was with his adoptive dad, Bob, who immediately stood out to me as a first-class guy. Seeing Shamrock in person, with his athletic grappler’s physique, I felt, more than ever, that this was the fighter who might just beat Royce at his own game. He was now 3-0 in Pancrase, and regardless of what those fights were or weren’t, Shamrock was absolutely oozing with confidence and muscular swagger.

  On the other end of the spectrum were Jimmerson and Frazier. From the moment that he arrived with his wife, Jimmerson seemed off to me. When I first saw him at the hotel, I couldn’t tell if he was wildly overconfident, as in “I’m going to knock all these motherfuckers out,” or scared shitless.

  SEG had already paid him his $17,000 guarantee, and I could only hope that he was still going to be a hungry and motivated fighter.

  Upon seeing Frazier in the hotel lobby, I commented to Rorion that “he seemed more nervous than a virgin on her wedding night.” All Frazier wanted to talk about with me was the mile-high altitude in Denver, the cold weather, his breathing issues and his runny nose. I felt like he was subconsciously building excuses for why he was going to lose, all the while desperately trying to convince himself that he was going to destroy everyone in his path. He also kept complaining to me about Rorion’s involvement with the Ultimate Fighting Championship, and how he was angling to make sure that Royce won. I tried to reassure him that I absolutely didn’t care who won, and I promised him that all of the fighters were going to be treated fairly and honestly. But Frazier persisted and said, “Rorion’s trying to make us all look bad on national TV.”

  Although I didn’t say it to Frazier, I understood how he and all of the fighters could feel that the deck was being stacked for a Royce victory. His big brother was an owner of W.O.W. Promotions, and listed as both “Matchmaker” of the Ultimate Fighting Championship and “Commissioner” of the IFC. I was struck by the irony of how I originally felt I needed Rorion as my partner to give me credibility in order to stage a mixed match fighting event, and now his presence was potentially undermining my credibility and the credibility of the event itself.

  Outside of my assurance, what reason would Frazier and the other fighters have to believe that I wasn’t in on a pro-Gracie conspiracy? Without question, I knew that for Rorion, the Ultimate Fighting Championship was primarily a vehicle to showcase the superiority of Gracie Jiu-Jitsu to the outside world. But all I wanted was to get our deal with SEG signed, and then score big with ticket sales and PPV buys. It truly made absolutely no difference to me if Royce won the tournament, or got knocked out in ten seconds. The event was the thing that I knew would last. Fighters come and go.

  It was clear that DeLucia was thrilled to be part of the tournament, even as an alternate. So once I found out that he had checked in to the hotel, I left it at that. If anyone would keep their head down and mouth shut, it would be DeLucia.

  When Campbell arrived in Denver from New York, I was surprised to see that he wasn’t with Meyrowitz.

  “Where’s Bob?” I asked.

  “Oh, he decided not to come.”

  “Why not? What’s the deal?”

  “Actually Art, I think... uh... he was afraid that someone might actually get killed Friday night, and he didn’t want to be there if it happened.”

  I did, however, feel that I had Campbell’s full support, despite all of our ups and downs over the past seven months. I’d grown to really like him, and I felt that he liked me. At times his level of involvement surpassed Rorion’s. But then he would disappear, leaving me with the impression that the Ultimate Fighting Championship was, for him, a bit of an afterthought. Campbell wasn’t a principal like Meyrowitz, Rorion, and me and he had a lot of irons in the TV fire. I knew that our project was just one of many for him.

  But to his credit, Campbell had kept moving everything forward from my original cold call and cold fax to him on April 14, 1993. Now we were both in Denver, about to see this to fruition, or so I hoped. There was still the matter of that unsigned contract though.

  Before I dealt with my seemingly never-ending SEG issues, I had to settle things with Fey and Bresloff, my local promoters in Denver. Wednesday was the day that I was due to pick up the $25,000 advance guarantee from Barry Fey at his office in Englewood, just south of the city. No matter how many tickets were sold, they had to deliver this payment to us. It was in the contract.

  Fey and Bresloff had swamped the city with flyers and posters advertising “DEATH”, “MUTILATION” and “THE END OF CIVILIZATION AS WE KNOW IT,” in hopes of whipping up interest. I knew that SEG’s advertising approach was aggressive, but this was clearly on an entirely different level. Fey had told me earlier that he liked that our fighter contracts I had drafted listed “death” as one way that a bout could end. So he took that idea, and built their local ticket sales campaign around it, but apparently to little effect.

  I knew though that I was dealing with a guy from the rock concert business and a guy from the pro wrestling business, two industries not known for their unwavering honesty. I also knew that Fey and Bresloff were used to playing hardball, and intimidating their various business associates. They owed me $25,000 for the guarantee that we’d agreed to, and it was now time to collect, regardless of what they claimed.

  I wasn’t in the mood to play, so I asked Rorion to send me a Brazilian to act as my “aide.” Rorion enlisted Rickson to go with me to Fey’s office, and he seemed happy to oblige. As I was ready to head out, I ran into Campbell, and we started talking about Fey and Bresloff. At one point during the conversation, my Glock 17, which I had shoved into my waistband, “printed”—it became visible. Campbell immediately went silent, and his face turned pale white. He was a New Yorker, and the super restrictive gun laws the
re meant to him that only criminals and cops had guns.

  This newspaper clipping shows the ad that the local promoters we hired—Barry Fey and Zane Bresloff—employed to sell tickets to the live event. Note the mention of “7 Bone Crushing Bouts.”

  After a long pause, he asked nervously, “Why are you armed?”

  “No big deal. I just like to have my little friend along when I carry cash.”

  So, with my Glock, my chutzpah, and Rickson, I set out to get what we were owed.

  As soon as Rickson and I arrived, Fey started right in about all of the money they were going to lose, and how he wanted to renegotiate our deal.

  “$15,000 is fair,” Fey said. “That’s what I think I want to pay. This event isn’t selling so good.”

  “That’s not our problem. That’s your problem,” I responded, as Rickson sat silently, and kept his killer eyes on Fey.

  “Art, you’re acting like a little gangster, bringing your goon with you to shake us down.”

  I understood where he was coming from. In Fey’s world, this was how the game was played. He didn’t get to be the top concert/event promoter in the Rocky Mountain states by being a push-over. Neither Fey nor Bresloff, who remained pretty quiet during our meeting, had any idea who Rickson was, but they could tell that he was not a person to be fucked with. We went back and forth, and I finally agreed to take a $23,000 cashier’s check, which they issued on the spot. As Rickson and I drove straight to the bank, we shared a laugh about him being my mob enforcer. With Rickson by my side, I could have left my Glock in the hotel safe.

  When we arrived back at the Executive Tower Inn, Kathy told me that things were reaching a boiling point, and that she and her staff were doing their best to keep everyone separated in the undersized lobby. Apparently, in the latest of numerous incidents, Tuli’s two cousins were ready to throw down with a couple of the Gracies, and Pat Smith kept walking around glowering and trash talking—generally trying to intimidate everyone.

  Then there were complaints from both Zane Frazier and Pat Smith that Carlos Valente, one of Rickson’s black belts, had been videotaping their workouts and sparring sessions at Tiger Kim’s and Jones’ Tai-Kung Fu-Karate.

  A few minutes later, I ran into Frazier, who was coming back from a run.

  He immediately starting griping about the weather, and the altitude, and his breathing problems.

  This made me think of a conversation that I had earlier with our broadcast producer Pillot about the fighter entrances, which would involve them walking through smoke.

  I had asked him if this could potentially be a problem for anyone, and he had told me not to worry.

  But now speaking with Frazier, I began to worry. He once again struck me as a man who was looking for an excuse as to why he’d lost—before the fights even began. I certainly didn’t want to hear after the event that Frazier was blaming defeat on our smoke machine, or anything other than his own performance.

  I genuinely liked Frazier, and I knew that he was a smart cookie. But he seemed increasingly nervous, and skeptical about everything that we were doing.

  Part of my overall job description for W.O.W. Promotions included the roles of booker and matchmaker, and in this regard, I had to keep all of the fighters focused and on track. I wasn’t anyone’s manager, so I didn’t care who won and lost. My loyalty was to the Ultimate Fighting Championship itself, which meant that I had to work towards delivering great fights. So I had to create a level of trust and confidence with all 10 fighters, and put them in a position to give their absolute best effort. But I fully understood that I was walking a fine line, because if favoritism was to become involved, then I was suddenly a manager.

  With a guy like Frazier, I felt that I had to support him, but only to a certain point. I knew that it would be a calamity if any of the fighters grew jealous of perceived special treatment, or far worse, believed that I had a rooting interest in their opponents. This approach was, of course, not available to Rorion, since as the big brother to Royce, he undeniably had a horse in this race.

  I did my best to remain a booker/matchmaker, and not become a manager, when Tuli told me that he forgot to bring a pair of both fighting and workout shorts to Denver. I asked Kathy to take him, his brother and cousins on an excursion in one of our vans, so that they could find something in a size 60. Kathy then drove all over the city, while Tuli’s brother and cousins pounded down beer after beer in the van.

  After becoming thoroughly lost in the eastern Denver suburbs, Kathy and her Hawaiian companions finally made it back to the hotel. As soon as she arrived at the Executive Tower Inn, Kathy told me that there was some sort of issue regarding Rosier that I needed to address with his manager, Charlie Anzalone. Known as “Captain Disco” during his days as a nightclub DJ in Buffalo, New York, Anzalone was a fast-talking guy with a nervous twitch in his face. He struck me as a crazy party-animal type, and I immediately liked him.

  I figured that Anzalone wanted to talk to me about Rosier’s eating habits. I had already been advised by Kathy about the ever increasing room service bill that Rosier was racking up for pizzas and muffins, and I really wasn’t too concerned. Rosier was horribly out of shape, and there was no way that he was going to be fit and trim come Friday night. So it really didn’t matter to me now what he ate. I became pretty much resigned to Rosier being a blimp when he informed me on Monday that, “my best diet for a fight is brown rice with hot sauce, and Snickers bars washed down with a Dr. Pepper.”

  But Anzalone told me that the issue at hand involved Rosier’s other big appetite. Apparently, access to both his current and ex-wife during the week wasn’t enough for him, as Anzalone had walked in on Rosier and some barely legal girl in bed together naked.

  “Don’t worry Charlie, I’ll keep a close eye on Kevin, and you do the same. He’s a problem child.”

  I didn’t feel that there was anything else that I could say or do.

  Later that Wednesday afternoon, I gave an interview to a reporter from KUSA Channel 9, the NBC affiliate in Denver. I told him that facing their fears and stepping up to the challenge marked our athletes as special.

  “Isn’t this brutal?” the reporter then asked me.

  “Men have been competing in hand-to-hand fighting contests since 648 B.C., and most societies found such contests a safety valve.”

  I didn’t think he was convinced. Our advertising that blared around town, courtesy of Fey and Bresloff, proclaimed that the Ultimate Fighting Championship would be the most brutal show since the Christians went winless against the lions.

  After the TV interview, I met in my conference room with Rorion, Jim Brown and Bill Wallace. It started as a casual opportunity for everyone to get better acquainted, but the energy level in the room quickly escalated.

  Wallace suddenly stood up and demonstrated what he would do if he was competing in the tournament, instead of commentating. He was used to commanding the floor from his seminars, and he quickly hit full speed. I made eye contact with Rorion, and I could tell that he thought Wallace was a full-of-shit idiot.

  I then turned towards Brown and saw that the look on his face was priceless. In addition to being arguably the best and the toughest running back in the history of the NFL, Brown conducted numerous leadership workshops with Crips and Bloods gang members. A glimmer of a smile appeared, and Brown slightly pursed his lips. Even though I hardly knew him, it was clear to me that he felt about Wallace just as Rorion and I did. For his part, Wallace carried on, completely oblivious to his less-than-impressed audience.

  After Wallace finally left, I asked Brown who was the toughest man he had ever met in show business.

  After some additional prodding, Brown finally responded, “Charles Bronson. I don’t know if he could fight. I never saw him throw down, but he gave off a heavy vibe that he could.”

  I smiled, remembering that Campbell and I had very briefly contemplated approaching that hard-as-nails film star about a job as one of our commentators.


  It was important to me that I routinely stopped by the fighters’ hotel rooms unannounced at night, just to see how they were doing, ask if they needed anything, and to get a handle on their mental state. As I made my rounds on Wednesday night, my knock on Tuli’s door was answered by his brother, who invited me in. Sitting on a stool completely naked in the darkened room was Tuli, who was being rubbed down by his two cousins with a concoction that smelled like cat piss. I recognized it as dit da jow, an analgesic liniment favored by martial artists—a mixture of aromatic herbs like myrrh and ginseng, used to stimulate circulation and reduce pain and swelling.

  “Hello, Mr. Davie.”

  “Hey Teila. I’ll come back later. You’re busy. Take it easy,” I said as I beat a quick retreat.

  My brief visits to Jimmerson’s room had already shown me that this knockout artist had turned into a nervous kitten here in Denver. Word had gotten back to me that John McCarthy had taken Jimmerson to a workout area, and it had gone horribly wrong for the boxer.

  Apparently Jimmerson said, “What are you going to do when I’m shooting a jab at you like this?”

  As Jimmerson then fired off his lighting quick jab, McCarthy stepped back, just out of range, and quickly shot in for a double leg takedown. After hitting the mat, McCarthy moved effortlessly to the mount position, raised his fist above the flattened Jimmerson, and said, “Now what are you going to do?”

  I didn’t bother to check up on Royce, as Rorion and Rickson had him sequestered away. They didn’t want anyone outside of their tight inner circle, including me, to enter the hotel suite in which they had laid down mats brought in from the Gracie Academy. Through W.O.W. Promotions, we’d booked and paid for a suite, and I was really concerned that the other fighters would find out about this, only adding to their case of Gracie favoritism. I knew that it was an unfair advantage, and now I kicked myself for having agreed to this when Rorion suggested that we cover the costs.