Let's Get It On!_ The Making of MMA and Its Ultimate Referee - Big John Mccarthy [55]
“Big John, Big John, let me down, let me down,” he yelled, until I obliged him.
In this playful interaction between two smart-asses, I was marked for life.
“‘Big’ John. That’s what you are from now on,” Art said. And sure enough, each time he introduced me, a few other people would start calling me it, until the name finally etched its way into the sport’s vernacular.
Standing at the podium in front of all of the competitors in UFC 2, “Big” John didn’t know what the fuck to say. I was nervous, but from my years on the police force, I knew I had to at least give off the vibe that I was in control.
Certain things just stuck out in my mind that I had to get across. I remembered Jason DeLucia getting cut by Trent Jenkins’ toenails at the first event, so I drilled home that the fighters had to cut their toenails and fingernails.
Then I said, “Look, if you want out, tap the mat.” I hit the podium for emphasis. “You can tap the mat, your opponent, or even yourself if that’s all you can reach. If your hands are tied up, you can tap out with your feet.”
I also addressed the cornermen. Nobody had asked me to do this, but since the corners had the ability to stop the fight and I didn’t, I figured communication between us all was probably a good thing. “If I think your fighter’s in trouble or starting to have a problem, I’m going to point to you and say, ‘Watch your fighter.’ If they’re really in trouble, I’m going to say, ‘Throw your towel.’”
Soon the fighters were dismissed for their last-minute preparations. As they poured out of the room, Rickson Gracie walked up to me and said, “Hey, John, you’re scaring everyone.”
Apparently my nerves, stern delivery, and podium slamming had made an impression.
UFC 2 introduced another new player to the mix: Bob Meyrowitz, the owner of SEG. He’d watched UFC 1 on his couch back in New York City, and the smell of greenbacks must have wafted right out of his TV. He flew all the way out to Denver to see the second show firsthand.
I was sitting in the hotel restaurant’s bar when Bob approached me for the first time. “John McCarthy, how are you?” he asked, extending his hand. Bob was a decent-sized man, maybe six feet and 200 pounds, with a distinguished salt-and-pepper beard, but his nasally voice didn’t match up.
Truthfully, I had no idea who he was at the time. All I knew was that he owned the TV production company SEG. I had no idea that SEG might have ownership stake in the UFC.
Bob started describing to me what he wanted to see happen during the fights, as if I was the puppet master controlling the strings. “I want you to make sure the fighters are fighting good.”
I wondered how the hell I was supposed to do that. Little did I know that TV producers and promoters would be saying the same stupid thing to me eighteen years later: “Make sure it’s an exciting fight. Don’t let them lay on the ground too long.”
Here was this fortysomething TV guy doing what TV people do—trying to make the show better any way he thought he could—but I didn’t understand any of that at the time. I just thought a lot of what he was saying was pretty ridiculous.
Rorion had never really spoken of Bob, so I just wanted him to go away. When it came to the show, I didn’t take orders from anyone except Rorion. He was my boss.
There was one request that I did fulfill for Art Davie, though, and it was something that would become fairly synonymous with, well, me. A couple days before the show, Art asked me to come up with a catchy way to begin the fights. He thought a slogan and some sort of hand gesture would fit well.
“Christ, Art, I’ve got two guys standing in a cage waiting to knock the shit out of each other. I’m just going to ask this guy if he’s ready