Let's Get It On!_ The Making of MMA and Its Ultimate Referee - Big John Mccarthy [6]
When I was nine, the day before a deep-sea fishing trip with my dad, I broke my collarbone. Outside the school, my friend had been dragging me on my skateboard behind his dirt bike when I missed a turn and slammed into a wall. I didn’t want anyone to find out about the accident because I’d need my arms to crank on the lines. I’d be damned if I let a little broken bone stop me.
So I sucked it up and hobbled home, trying not to let on to my mom that something wasn’t right. But she noticed I was standing funny, and when she poked and prodded, I couldn’t hold back my wincing and tears.
I was sent to the hospital and was put in a brace, but the next day I was with my dad on the Pacific Ocean, happily balancing my rod on the boat’s rail and catching my fifteen-fish limit.
When my dad could, he’d bring me along on his job too. Yes, his occupation was taxing, but it also afforded me exciting opportunities.
When SWAT simulated hostage recovery scenarios in the Universal Studios back lots, I ran the streets that appear in so many Hollywood movies. As I got older, my dad allowed me to try some of the exercises there after his team had left. I rappelled off rooftops and rode on the helicopter’s skid at 120 miles per hour over the terrain’s hills and dips. I also got to try spy-rigging, latching onto a rope with harnesses and clasps to hang from the bottom of the helicopter in formation with the group. When the helicopter gained enough speed, the rope went horizontal and I’d extend my arms like Superman.
My thrill-seeking tendencies came from my dad, no doubt about it. At forty-eight years old, I’ve tried almost everything like skydiving, bungee jumping, shark diving, quad riding, dirt biking, and sand railing. Any kind of crazy riding or driving is right up my alley.
Of course, not all of my childhood was extraordinary. Most days were of the normal variety, and I had the usual trials of kid life.
When I was five years old, my family moved up the 60 Freeway to Hacienda Heights, about twenty-five minutes west of Los Angeles. There, I attended Wedgeworth Elementary School, which was about 300 yards from my house, one of a dozen or so identical cookie-cutter models on the block.
My monumental event during this time was getting eyeglasses. I hated them. I enjoyed seeing but not being different.
I was one of the bigger kids in my class, but I wasn’t nearly the towering figure people see me as today, which made me a choice candidate for every bully who thought he ruled the school.
Kids can be mean, but they’re also not that creative. “Four Eyes” was the name they came up with for me, and there was a stretch of time—maybe from the age of five to eight—when Four Eyes had to defend his honor on the playground, after school, and even on the street outside his own house.
When it came to facing my antagonists, my dad gave me words I would learn to live by. “What you allow people to do, they’ll do. If you don’t like what’s happening, make a stand.” There was one stipulation, though. I was allowed to take said stands, which usually included punching people square in the mouth, only if they’d done something to me first. If someone called me a name, he was fair game.
Following this advice didn’t always work out. There were older kids who’d clock me and send my glasses flying. Dr. Giordano finally switched me to thick, plastic, horn-rimmed frames. I know, the irony of it all. Luckily, my aim got better fast.
In junior high, I dumped my glasses to make way for sports. On the football field, I would usually tackle any moving blob in the opposite team’s colors.
1
Sports were another way for me to spend time with my dad. Starting at age six or seven, I shot hoops, ran the football, and played catch with him. He often took me to a field near Dodger Stadium, where