Let's Get It On!_ The Making of MMA and Its Ultimate Referee - Big John Mccarthy [74]
Don Frye and Gary Goodridge also made their auspicious Octagon debuts that evening.
In a quarterfinal bout, Goodridge, a Canadian Kuk Sool Won practitioner and former arm wrestling world champion, used his own arms and legs to trap both of Paul Herrera’s arms into a crucifix position on the ground when Herrera attempted a fireman’s throw. With Herrera’s arms tied up, he was unable to cover up and defend himself. Goodridge bashed in Herrera’s left temple with his right elbow. The bout lasted merely thirteen seconds before I jumped in to save Herrera, now unconscious, but I’m sure no fighter ever forgot that attempting a fireman’s throw on your opponent could end badly.
I learned a valuable lesson from this fight, too, which was to not anticipate a fight’s outcome too far ahead. I’d known Herrera was a decent wrestler at the University of Nebraska, and I’d doubted Goodridge’s credentials beyond his arm wrestling. This had led me to believe Herrera would control Goodridge on the ground. As soon as I saw Herrera shoot for a single leg, I had it in my head that he’d get the takedown. I casually moved myself around the fighters to a position I felt they were heading, which was a big mistake. I wasn’t near enough when Goodridge started dropping heavy elbows, and I was slow to react. I’d never do that again.
In the finals, Goodridge shed his black gi and met former Oklahoma State wrestler Don Frye, who’d gotten into the event through his old friend Dan Severn. Frye was memorable not only for his bushy Magnum, P.I. mustache but because he was as tough as leather in the cage and as funny as hell out of it. Goodridge made a good go at it, but Frye gained superior position to rain down punches and get the stoppage.
I wouldn’t say this was the most memorable fight for me at UFC 8, though. That one happened outside the cage.
Tank Abbott, who’d become a star overnight for the promotion, was flown down to Puerto Rico to sit cageside at the event. Following his brutal knockout of John Matua at UFC 6, Abbott had been met with an eruption of cheers when he’d attended UFC 7. The UFC had then set Abbott up in a cop versus criminal match against UFC 3 winner Steve Jennum at Ultimate Ultimate, which Abbott won before getting mauled by eventual winner Dan Severn in the tournament’s next round. Even with his landslide loss to Severn, fans were really into this guy, which automatically made him Bob Meyrowitz’s golden child.
Sitting cageside, knocking back one vodka after another at UFC 8, Abbott recognized somebody sitting on the other side of the cage. His name was Allan Goes, a Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt under Carlson Gracie, and he rubbed Abbott the wrong way.
Despite all his guff about not needing martial arts training, Abbott knew the deal. He’d sought out some ground instruction at a school that Goes had been working at in Orange County, California, a few months earlier. Goes had rolled with Abbott at the school and tapped him out a few times, which was to be expected. But then, Goes did what many fighters consider disrespectful: he told people about it.
When Abbott spotted Goes across the cage, he was like a bull seeing red.
Elaine had noticed Abbott eyeballing Goes all night and told me. I hadn’t thought it was that big of a deal, but Elaine knew what was coming when she saw Abbott rise, take out his false teeth, hand them to his girlfriend, and start making his way in Goes’ direction. Goes saw Abbott and began moving toward him as well. The two freight trains came at each other head-on.
Luckily, Joe Hamilton, the second referee, and I were standing on the Octagon’s apron during a break between fights. Joe jumped down and grabbed Abbott as