Death Clutch - Brock Lesnar [60]
Even now, just thinking about him makes me want to hand a beating to Frank Mir again. And again. And again.
When I had to do the photo shoot with Frank for the very first UFC Magazine, I kept looking at him and asking myself, “How could I have given this guy a win? How could I let someone like THAT get their hand raised against ME?”
As soon as we started training camp, we put the pieces together on what it would take to beat Frank. It was easy to come up with a game plan because I knew in my mind that I had him beat the first time. I just had to control Frank, and it was obvious to me and my trainers that if I just got my hands on him, I could control him easily.
I wanted this fight bad, not just because I wanted to become the Undisputed Heavyweight Champion, but because I wanted the satisfaction of kicking Frank’s ass. I wanted to beat him at his own game. I hated the fact that Frank was running his big fat mouth about how he was a great jujitsu expert, and about how he showed me the difference between jujitsu and wrestling, blah blah blah.
Frank claimed he was this great jujitsu black belt. What a crock of shit. Hey, let’s face facts . . . when it comes to jujitsu, the truth is that a black belt doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. Black-belt-schmack-belt. I’m a white belt, but I beat a black belt at his own game. Shouldn’t that make me a black belt?
Frank submitted me because I made a stupid mistake, and all of a sudden he’s the world’s greatest submission artist. Sorry, everyone, but guys like Frank get awarded black belts based on how many hours they spend in the dojo. The belts come from the guys’ own instructors. They don’t have to beat anyone in a real fight in order to win them.
My coach didn’t give me the NCAA Division I Heavyweight Title. I earned it. My training staff didn’t award me the UFC Championship either. I earned both by kicking someone’s ass for the honor of being champion. I deserved to be recognized as the best by beating someone man-to-man, in the spirit of competition. Frank got his black belt because he paid the instructor a lot of money over the years and put in his time. Big deal.
A lot of people talk about how I turned my back on Frank after the referee gave us our instructions in the middle of the Octagon. I guess we were supposed to touch gloves. I wasn’t in the mood to touch gloves with Frank Mir. I had no desire to be respectful toward him. After all the shit he said about me, it was time for him to back it up. Hey, I said a lot of shit about him, too, and I was ready to back it up the moment the referee said it was legal for me to do so.
While we’re on the subject of touching gloves and all that pageantry, let’s get something straight. There are a lot of rules and regulations in the UFC, but touching gloves is not one of them. No state athletic commission mandates that fighters must touch gloves before they fight. So, in my mind, I’M NOT OBLIGATED TO TOUCH GLOVES OR HAVE A LICK OF RESPECT FOR MY OPPONENT, either before or after a fight. This is not a bunch of neighborhood kids all playing around on a bright sunny day in the backyard. This is a sport. At its very core, it’s a fight.
I did exactly what I planned on doing in that fight. I took Frank down, controlled him, and hit him in the head repeatedly, and with violent intent. I scrambled his brains before the fight was stopped in the second round. I wish the referee would have let the fight go on a few seconds longer so I could have gotten the satisfaction of punching Frank in the face a few more times.
That win was very emotional for me. I had waited seventeen long months to shut Frank’s mouth, and it felt so good when I finally did it.
So there I am, in the Octagon, pumped