Is This Legal Page 5

  As much as I quickly came to respect and admire the Gracies, they struck me as a family of birds of prey—extremely protective of their territory, and ready to swoop down on their enemies at all times.

  The old man Hélio was the great bald eagle of the family, the anchor. Rorion was the heir apparent, the eagle in waiting. Rickson was without question the raptor. When I first saw him at the academy, where he was one of the instructors, he stood out from all the other big, bad men on the mat. He looked like a Brazilian Marlon Brando. And while Rickson was several inches shorter than Rorion (who was 6-foot-2), he easily outweighed his older brother by twenty pounds. He was the biggest and fiercest predator of all the Gracie brothers, the golden raptor, in fact. Relson, who lived in Hawaii, and who I only saw occasionally, was the black hawk, unpredictable, dangerous and a bit of an outcast. Royler and Royce, who both taught at the academy, were the young falcons, quick and carefree.

  I began to interact with the Gracies to varying degrees, but my principal relationship was with Rorion. As well as being my instructor, he quickly became my friend.

  Every Tuesday night at 8 p.m., I had a private class with Rorion, undertaking the famous 36 introductory lessons of Gracie Jiu-Jitsu that Hélio had pioneered. The key principle of the Gracie system was that 90 percent of the time in a real fight, the battle goes to the ground. So Gracie Jiu-Jitsu was heavily geared towards ground fighting. Strike to close the distance, execute a take down, and then dominate on the ground with positions leading to submissions. No flashy head kicks or spinning back fists or flying knees. Instead, it was all about perfecting the fundamentals, which were very subtle, yet incredibly devastating. Gracie Jiu-Jitsu was the first form of fighting that I had ever seen, ever heard of, where being on your back with your opponent on top of you was an offensive position. This was incredible to me, as Rorion taught me submission holds from positions that at first glance seemed not only defensive, but disastrous.

  If only I had known this stuff in my boxer vs. wrestler match back on Peconic Bay. Gracie Jiu-Jitsu could beat you anywhere on the ground: from the top, side, or bottom—it didn’t matter. And if you were better on your feet—superior with striking—it didn’t matter. They weren’t going to let you play that game. Sooner or later, probably sooner, you were going to be on the ground, getting schooled the Gracie way.

  Within a few weeks of taking my first class, Rorion held a grand opening party for the new academy. It was on a Saturday and the place was packed. Rorion looked resplendent and was having a ball showing everybody the new palace of jiu-jitsu. I brought a date, Leslie Vargas, a girl I had been close to when I lived in San Diego. We hung out and schmoozed along with everyone else, with Leslie not quite sure what to make of my new friends.

  Then, in the crowd, I saw a familiar face that I couldn’t place. I noticed that he was looking at me, seemingly trying to figure out why I looked familiar to him. Suddenly, I realized that it was Pat Strong, a guy who I hadn’t seen in over a decade. Pat had a leading role in the 1979 direct-to-video martial arts flick Kill the Golden Goose, which also featured iconic Hapkido Master Bong-Soo Han, martial arts legend Ed Parker and body builder Ken Waller. He had come to me through a mutual friend, who thought I could help him raise money for a follow-up film. I liked Pat, but passed, as it wasn’t my area of expertise.

  As we were having our reunion at the academy, the talk turned to the Gracie Challenge. Pat off-handedly mentioned to me that in 1982 he had approached Rorion about taking part in an idea he had for a tournament featuring different styles of martial artists. He was going to call it the World Freestyle Fighting Championship, and it was intended for the burgeoning home video market. Rather than tell him about my similarly themed World’s Best Fighter idea, I just listened intently.

  After Pat left, I asked Rorion about all of this. He said that he had considered it, but there was never a business plan, and zero capital had been raised. Then Rorion told me that I wasn’t the first, and he doubted that I’d be the last, to approach him about trying to make money off the Gracie Challenge. Sometimes they were ideas for big events, like Pat’s and mine. Other times the pitch was a one-off fight, where either he or Rickson would fight a karate guy or a kickboxer on the beach or in a boxing ring. The concept always seemed to revolve around turning the fight or fights into a videotape, which could then be sold directly through mail order, or to a big chain like Blockbuster. Rorion was, of course, all about making a buck, but he had never figured out how to make the Gracie Challenge something that could be successfully monetized.

  All through the rest of 1990 and into 1991 I diligently took my weekly private lesson with Rorion, never once talking business, and continuing to build our friendship. Always in the back of my mind was the World’s Best Fighter, and how I could get it off the ground. I knew that I had to be patient, which was not a problem, since I was incredibly busy with my daytime gig at CDMG. I waited for the right opportunity, which I figured would eventually come. I just wasn’t sure when or how.

  I really started to love Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, as it was not only a great workout, it also gave me new-found confidence as someone who could actually handle himself if the shit went down for real. I didn’t actually expect any shit to go down in my life as a 40-something ad man in Torrance, but it was a good feeling to have just the same. And the academy itself was a really interesting place filled with fascinating characters.

  I began to notice the student, who took a private lesson with Rorion right after me, had a familiar face. But unlike Pat Strong at the grand opening party, there was no returned look of recognition.

  It was driving me crazy that I couldn’t place this guy, so I finally asked Rorion.

  “Oh, that’s John Milius,” was his reply, like it was no big deal.

  To me however—a lifelong movie lover—this was a very big deal.

  Milius had studied film at the University of Southern California School of Cinema-Television where his classmates included George Lucas of Star Wars fame.

  The great screenwriter, director and Academy Award nominee, John Milius. John was a jiu-jitsu student of Rorion Gracie’s who became the creative director for the first UFC.

  He had gone on to become a major player in the film business, working on a number of highly successful movies such as Conan the Barbarian (for which he made a star of Arnold Schwarzenegger), Apocalypse Now (for which he was nominated for an Academy Award), and Red Dawn (for which he sealed his reputation in Hollywood as a right-wing zealot). Milius was a director, producer and screenwriter who would often get big paychecks to punch up completed scripts with amazing dialogue, which he had done for movies such as Jaws, Dirty Harry and The Hunt for Red October.

  I was fascinated by Milius. He was about 6-feet tall and heavyset with a full beard and moustache. We were close to the same age, and shared a passion for military history, warfare, warriors and the fighting arts. Milius, like me, though was no great shakes as an athlete. He had attempted to join the Marine Corps and volunteer for Vietnam service in the late 1960s, but was rejected due to chronic asthma. And he was a gun nut like me too—famously serving on the Board of Directors for the National Rifle Association, and describing himself in interviews as “an anarchist.” He had a theatrical way of talking that was mesmerizing. I began to hang around when Milius was done with his class, just to be near the guy. One night Rorion invited me to join them in his office, and I was absolutely thrilled.

  What really sealed our bond was cigars, for which Milius and I again shared a passion.

  “What do you smoke?” he asked me.

  “Macanudos,” was my reply.

  Milius then cleared his throat and announced, “Hmmm... Let me tell you what John Huston told me about cigars.”

  Now, John Houston was a of course a huge legend in Hollywood as a director (The Maltese Falcon, The African Queen, and Treasure of the Sierra Madre), actor (Chinatown and The Wind and the Lion), raconteur, womanizer (five wives) and cigar smoker.

  Milius sai
d to me, with his finger pointing for emphasis, “Houston taught me about cigars when I was a second unit director on The Bible. He told me that there are only two kinds of cigars: Cubans and rope. And that Jamaican cigar you’ve been smoking—is rope!”

  I loved it. Milius, John Huston, cigars, all of it.

  “Now, come out to the car with me,” Milius said. “Let me introduce you to some Cubans.”

  I followed him out to his Cadillac, and when he unlocked the trunk, there sat a huge, gorgeous lacquered humidor. Milius opened the humidor and extracted three cigars for me: two Montecristo figurados and a Romeo y Julieta Churchill.

  “Try these,” he said. “And let me know if you taste the difference.”

  I zeroed in on Milius, from our spur-of-the-moment bull sessions at the Gracie Academy, that he would be a perfect fit for my World’s Best Fighter project. I had no idea what he would do, or even if he would agree to come on board, but Milius was a guy that I somehow had to get involved. Our friendship was just developing, and I didn’t want to start hassling him with favors and requests. But I kept Milius in mind for the future.

  As much as Milius was into Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, it was nothing compared to his teenage son, Ethan. The kid absolutely worshipped his primary instructor Royce, and there were good-natured jokes from those in the Gracie Academy that Ethan was always lying out in the sun so that he could darken his skin to look Brazilian. He was an outstanding jiu-jitsu student; smart and athletic.

  Milius had started taking Ethan to Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, after being turned on to it himself by Reb Brown, an actor who played Captain America in two made-for-TV movies.

  Reb had a role in Uncommon Valor, a film on which Milius was one of the producers.

  Milius told me that on the set, Randall “Tex” Cobb (a pro boxer and kickboxer) used to terrorize the cast and crew. He had been hired for a small part as an actor, but “Tex” had become a big pain in the ass. Bullying everyone, generally fucking with people, that type of thing. Even a superstar like Gene Hackman, who was the lead in the film, was not immune to this physical intimidation.

  Clay McBride, a Gracie Jiu-Jitsu student, who was an excellent martial artist and accomplished combat sportswriter and photographer.

  But the guy who “Tex” steered clear of was Reb, who undoubtedly would have fucked him up. Reb played football at USC, boxed professionally and worked as a Los Angeles Sheriff’s Deputy. But above all, the man was a devoted and accomplished student of Gracie Jiu-Jitsu. This made a huge impression on Milius, and soon he was on the mat, rolling with Rorion. I got to know Reb at the Academy too. He was a big, tough guy, but as sweet as they come.

  I also got to know Clay McBride at the Gracie Academy, and he instantly earned my respect. He was a lanky guy, maybe 6-foot-1 and 180 lb. who wore glasses, and seemed very studious. Clay had polio as a child, but he didn’t let this hamper him in any way. He was a true martial artist who studied a number of different disciplines. He had gotten into the whole Bruce Lee thing and Lee’s Jeet Kune Do movement.

  Clay had already been a martial artist for 17 years when he met Rorion. He quickly decided that Gracie Jiu-Jitsu was the most efficient, practical and realistic fighting style he’d experienced, and joined the growing list of Gracie devotees. A literate and articulate guy, Clay had written articles about the Gracies for martial arts magazines, like Inside Karate and Inside Kung Fu. Rorion was pretty close with Clay, closer in fact than he was with most of his students. He and I hit it off quickly too.

  There were a lot of cops who trained Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, and as I continued my private sessions with Rorion, I could see why. This was an amazing way to neutralize a suspect. One quick choke or arm bar, and the perp would go quietly into the back of the patrol car. I started noticing one very big and powerful looking student, who was extremely friendly, but seemed ready to flip the switch to all business, if needed. Rorion told me the guy’s name was John McCarthy, an LAPD officer, whose dad, Ron, played a key role in the first SWAT (police high-risk and tactical operations) teams in LA.

  I liked the people who trained at the Gracie Academy, and I truly liked the Gracies. Even though I didn’t really speak that much to Hélio, or to the other Gracie brothers who worked there as instructors: Rickson, Royler, Royce, and occasionally Relson when he was in from Hawaii—they all knew me, and always made me feel welcome. And Rorion and I seemed to be growing closer every week.

  John McCarthy, a Los Angeles police officer, who was a jiu-jitsu student I often saw around the Gracie Academy in the early 1990s.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE GRACIE CHALLENGE

  NO ONE CONQUERS WHO DOESN’T FIGHT.

  — GABRIEL BIEL, Exposito Canonis Missae, lectio 78

  I started to hang out a few times a week at the Gracie Academy, in addition to my regular Tuesday night lesson. The juice bar was the central meeting place after you finished your class. I would sometimes watch the big group classes, which were a lot different from the private lessons I was taking. There were a lot of blue belts rolling and tumbling, as they tried to gain the experience they needed to become purple belts. I soon figured out that if you wanted to become a purple belt you needed to roll with a lot of different guys. As I was now approaching 45, I also figured out that these classes were a fast ticket to the chiropractor for a guy like me. I got to watch Royce and he had the same approach to training students that he’d learned from Rorion, but without his social or verbal skills. It was always awesome to watch Rickson. He operated at another level entirely with his physicality and movement.

  One Saturday afternoon, a young Hispanic guy came in asking for a fight. He wore an all-black gi, with a black belt and was apparently the stud at his karate school. This was going to be my first opportunity to witness in person the legendary Gracie Challenge, the backroom, vale tudo type fights I had read about in Playboy. I was beyond thrilled. Finally, I was going to see a member of the Gracie Family go at it for real, and for $100,000. A key inspiration for my World’s Best Fighter concept was about to occur right in front of me.

  “How do you think this kid came up with $100,000?” I asked Rorion.

  “What do you mean, Arturo?”

  “$100,000. To put up for the Gracie Challenge.”

  Rorion laughed and said, “Arturo, he doesn’t have $100,000.”

  “Well how much is he putting up then?”

  Rorion explained to me that no one actually put up any money to take the Challenge. It was a test of styles and skills, not a contest for money. The Gracie Challenge at the Academy in Torrance was merely an extension of the long-standing Brazilian tradition of martial artists fighting each other informally to show the superiority of their discipline and its teachings. Just like vale tudo, but the kind of vale tudo that happened behind closed doors in Brazil, at jiu-jitsu academies and martial arts schools.

  About once a month, some hot shot or tough guy would call the academy and make an appointment to come down to take the Gracie Challenge. He was usually a black belt from one martial art or another, and would drive in from Compton, Mira Loma, Anaheim or some other Southern California city. The guy would show up with his posse, and Rorion would do everything to make all of them feel incredibly welcome. But when they headed for the back room where the big mat was, Rorion made them all understand that this was going to be no holds-barred, a real fight. Afterwards, you shook hands—and that was it.

  Well, all of these local “champions” went down to defeat the same way, including of course the Hispanic kid in the all black gi in the first Gracie Challenge I witnessed. The Gracies always prevailed. Usually, the Gracie brother would close the distance quickly, and immediately take down his opponent. Occasionally, the opposing fighter would come straight at the Gracie, with the result being the same. Before you knew it, “the grand master” would be squirming on his back, without a clue as to how to get his Brazilian opponent off of him. The submission would be inevitably locked on, and then the tap out would come. For those fighters who didn’t kno
w the etiquette of giving up by tapping with their own hand, the mat or their opponent, a cry of “I give!” or “That’s enough!” or “Stop, stop, stop!” would end the fight.

  The Gracies, in the long-standing family tradition, were all sportsmen. Once the Challenge was over and victory was obtained, the submission hold was released and there were no hard feelings. What fascinated me even more than the skill and speed at which the Gracie brothers dispatched their challengers—most of whom were highly accomplished martial artists—was how the losers almost always wanted to go again. It was as if they couldn’t believe what had happened to them. Anyone can understand a knockout, but these guys simply couldn’t figure out how they were caught in a choke that nearly put them to sleep, or why their shoulder felt as though it was going to pop. Watching these Gracie Challenges, and studying Gracie Jiu-Jitsu, I fully appreciated why the word art is in martial arts. These guys were master craftsmen of the highest order.

  Afterwards, everybody shook hands and the loser left with his dignity, but not his self-confidence intact. As Rorion once said to me, “Imagine finding out that the fighting style to which you’ve dedicated your life is worthless.”

  All of the Gracie brothers who taught at the Academy were called upon to defend the family honor in the Challenge at one time or another. Often, though, it was Royler, all 5-foot-8 and 145 lb. of him, who would step up for the fight. I know that the family adored having this small, wiry guy destroy massive heavyweights, without absorbing any punishment. This is what Hélio had in mind when he worked to perfect his family’s fighting system back in Brazil.