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UFC 15 was the first event to be sanctioned and regulated by a recognized governmental body, in this case the Mississippi Athletic Commission under the leadership of Billy Lyons. It was the first time I was licensed as a referee.

The most memorable fight at UFC 15 was the heavyweight bout between Brazilian phenom Vitor Belfort and four-time Olympic wrestling alternate Randy Couture, who was fresh off his heavyweight tournament win at UFC 13.

When I found out UFC matchmaker Art Davie was scheduling this fight, I told him it was stupid. “Why would you do that to the guy who just won your tournament?” I said. “Couture’s a wrestler. Give him some time to learn the sport so he can fight Belfort down the road.”

Throwing Couture in with Belfort, a Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt, would lead to Couture losing by submission. It seemed to me that SEG was wasting a guy who had solid credentials and potential to be promotable later.

Davie said, “That’s the point.” Belfort would take out Couture, the tournament champion, and then face the winner of the heavyweight title match between Maurice Smith and Dan Severn, also on that night’s card.

Davie and I were the first in a long line of doubters of Couture’s talents. Little did we know Couture would go on to become one of the most decorated athletes the sport had ever seen and remain a relevant competitor into his late forties.

If Belfort was the surefire favorite, he didn’t do himself any favors prior to the fight. The night before, he was a mess. He called the UFC boardroom and asked to speak with me regarding the rules, so I went upstairs to his hotel room.

I found Belfort sitting there with his girlfriend, and he was seriously concerned.

“What’s the problem?” I said.

“He’s a wrestler,” Belfort said. “He likes to hold, so if he’s on top of me on the ground, where can he elbow?”

Belfort wasn’t helpless from his back by any means, but he seemed preoccupied with what Couture could do to him—not exactly the frame of mind you’d want a competitor to be in the night before a fight.

Finally, I said, “Just go out there and do what you do best.” I left his hotel room thinking, Oh my God, this guy is going to lose.

If there could be an exact opposite of what I’d seen in Belfort, Couture was it. When he entered the cage the next night, he was the epitome of confidence.

I walked to his corner and gave him the same speech I give all the fighters: “This is your corner, and this is where I need you to be for me to start the fight. I’m going to ask you if you’re ready, and I’m going to ask your opponent if he’s ready, and once I get an okay from the both of you, I’m going to tell you, ‘Let’s get it on.’ That’s your time to do your thing. Protect yourself at all times, and obey my commands, and if I tell you to stop, I need you to stop. Do you have any questions about anything?”

Couture shook his head. I returned to center cage and looked at the small entrance ramp SEG had built for the fighters. We waited. And waited. And waited. Belfort never appeared.

After about ten minutes, a UFC employee climbed onto the Octagon’s lip and whispered through the chain link, “Belfort won’t come out of his dressing room.”

I left the cage and went outside to the holding area, where each fighter had a camper. I climbed up into Belfort’s, where his team was mulling around, but Belfort was in the bathroom. “What’s wrong with him?” I said to his cornerman.

“He’s having stomach problems.”

Loudly enough for Belfort to hear, I told his corner, “He has two minutes to get himself in the cage, or the fight will be forfeited to Couture.”

After the event, the native Brazilian would be quoted as saying in broken English that he had worms, which became the butt of many jokes at the time.

What Belfort really had was a bad case of nerves, which was understandable. The situation reminded me how vulnerable these fighters, seen as ultimate combat machines, could be.

I was certainly sensitive to Belfort’s condition, but the pay-per-view was running live.