Death Clutch - Brock Lesnar [62]
That was probably the quickest trip ever from top of the world to doghouse. By the time we worked our way from the basement of the arena up to the press conference, I had settled down, and the professional side of me took over (if there is one). I had found a Bud Light keg at one of the concession stands on the way up, and I picked it up and was going to carry it in on my shoulder, but Dana saw what I was doing and nixed that idea. I still think it would have been pretty funny. Just imagine the press we would have gotten if I had walked into the press conference with a Bud Light keg on my shoulder.
My lawyers put a Bud Light bottle in my hand before I walked into the press conference room, and I put it front and center by my microphone when I sat down to face the media. They all got a few good laughs out of that.
Because I’m a “real man of genius,” I also apologized to Bud Light. I told them, “I’m not biased. I’ll drink any beer.”
I’ll be the first to admit, I was unprofessional that night. But despite all of the fallout from my outburst, I was as happy as I have ever been in my whole life. I had found a career that excited me, but that also allowed me to be with my family. I was married to the woman I loved and knew I’d happily spend the rest of my life with. Rena had just given birth to our son Turk, a healthy baby boy. I was making good money. I was supporting my family like I always wanted, and there wasn’t anything we needed that we didn’t have.
Life wasn’t just good, it was great. This was the greatest time in my life.
And then I almost died.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
Going into UFC 100, I was like a grumpy bear with a sore ass. Fight week is miserable, because I’m just sitting around, waiting to get into a fight with someone. The training is over. The work, for the most part, is done. I get phone calls from friends, asking “what’s up?” Nothing’s up. I’m just sitting around, waiting to step into a cage in front of millions of people, and either kick someone’s ass or get embarrassed by my opponent. That’s it.
The week of a fight is the longest week on the calendar for me. I spend my time trying to think about anything except what’s on everyone’s mind . . . THE FIGHT. There’s nothing left to do, except drive yourself crazy waiting for that Saturday night, when you go to the arena and finally get to actually do what you’ve just spent months and months training for. The hay, as they say, is in the barn. But I have to go to press conferences and talk about the fight. I have to go to weigh-ins and talk about the fight. Reporters ask me the same questions over and over. My face is everywhere. I can’t get away from it. Everywhere I look, everyone I talk to, it’s always there.
I went to the movies eight times during the week of UFC 100. Matinees, nighttime movies, anything to escape the hype for a couple of hours. It’s like the calm before the storm.
Marty Morgan is my head trainer because he’s been around me for years. Marty understands me, which means he knows when to talk to me about the fight, and when to just leave me alone with my own thoughts. He knows when I need to be with my training partners, and he knows when I shouldn’t have anyone around me. When another person knows you inside and out like that, he can’t be replaced. He’s the key, the glue that holds everything together.
Thank God my wife was mature enough to understand what I needed to do. She went through the last part of her pregnancy practically alone while I trained. But she understood, and she couldn’t have been more supportive.
Coming out of UFC 100 was a totally different deal. We were all on an emotional high. Even though I was the happiest I had ever been, I had to clear my head. I had to get out of fight mode, and back into the mind-set of just being a husband, and being “Daddy” to my kids.
That’s the part people need to understand. Going into a fight, I’m Brock Lesnar, UFC champion, professional mixed martial artist. Pro fighter. But the minute the main