The Laws of the Ring (15 page)

The 17th Law of Power

You Never Know Who's Watching: The Power of Personal Credit

B
y now, you at least know there are two things you must do to live your passion (after adopting a positive attitude, of course): (1) identify your strengths; and (2) be brutally honest with yourself about your weaknesses. Once you come to terms with the results of your personal inventory, you will come to a conclusion: You can't do everything yourself.

When I first started fighting professionally, I didn't have an area of expertise, but there was one thing I knew that I loved and that was fighting. Surprised? I didn't think so. I wasn't much of an expert on anything else, but I knew wrestling and had a love for all forms of martial arts. When I wasn't training, it's what I read about and thought about. Then I started to have business ideas that required not just a set of skills to implement, but money I didn't have. The only thing I had to fall back on was a fanatically positive mentality that anything was possible, and,
just as
important, a willingness to
learn
from people who knew more than I did.

The $250 investment from my friend Dustin for Alpha Male clothing was the first step toward broadening my horizons and making my community a part of my profession. We started something, and it worked in a small-scale way. It planted a seed in my mind that I needed to be open to opportunities that would help me achieve my goals. At this time that meant finding ways to make outside income so I could keep fighting. I was heading into uncharted waters; there was no union for guys who fought in Indian casino ballrooms, no salary scale that told me what I'd be making in five years if I reached a certain level or won a certain belt.

That's why I was intrigued when I came into contact with Jeremy and Sidney Dunmore, two brothers who owned a construction company called Dunmore Communities. The Dunmores had taken a unique path to wealth, and they took a unique path into my life. Their father and grandfather were immensely successful homebuilders in the Sacramento area. Jeremy and Sidney split from their father's company, Dunmore Homes, and started Dunmore Communities with a piece of property and funding from their grandfather. They put a subdivision on that piece of land at a time when Sacramento was growing and the housing market was booming. It was low risk, high reward, and they got filthy rich in a big hurry.

Part of being rich, in the Dunmores' world, was
enjoying
it. Jeremy, the more flamboyant of the two, bought a stretch Suburban and hired a driver named Claude to drive him around. One of the Dunmores' financial advisers was Coach Dave, the head wrestling coach at Sierra College, a community college near Sacramento where I had trained in the past. I was two fights into my pro career when Claude was driving Jeremy around with the financial adviser, and my name came up around the topic of the fight game. Coach Dave said, “I remember Urijah: hardest-working kid I ever saw.”

Claude, who by coincidence was friends with one of my UC Davis teammates, Adrian Garcia, chimed in.

“Urijah's the man,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror. “You should look him up.”

Jeremy, who was a fan of combat sports and a fitness buff, was intrigued.

“Good enough for me. Ask Urijah if he wants to meet up for dinner.”

Jeremy was pitched to me as this young, hip multimillionaire, interested in the fight game, by my buddy Adrian Garcia, so when the Suburban pulled up on the day of our lunch, I wasn't terribly surprised. Claude stepped out of the driver's side and led me into the backseat of the long black machine. There was Jeremy, with a welcoming grin on his face.

“What's up? I'm Jeremy.” We shook hands. “Let me see your abs,” he said just as soon as Claude shut the door. Okay, this was a little weird. I complied unenthusiastically, keeping a sharp eye on him, making sure he meant no funny business.

“Nice,” he said, in a way that suggested I'd just showed him a shiny watch he was thinking of buying. I breathed easy. Apparently he was just assessing a potential investment.

Then he lifted his shirt. “Here, check mine out,” he said, like he was showing off a new toy. But something in his tone suggested that, for him, this really was just part of casual banter.

“That's not bad, dude,” I said, a bit weirded out by the exchange. Satisfied with my reply, he engaged me in a discussion about fighting and my “career” (which, again, had spanned a whole two fights).

“Your name keeps coming up from different people,” he told me. “People we trust. And I just wanted to meet with you to see if there's any way we can help you out.”

I learned over lunch at a local Davis restaurant called Fuzio's that Jeremy was a former competitive Jet Skier. He was now
way
into working out and wanted to be around the fight scene.

Jeremy was rich, living big, and he was looking for different ways to use his money to open doors, particularly for his peers. He was only four years older than me and, despite the obvious financial discrepancy, made it perfectly clear that I
was
a peer.

Despite my initial reservations sparked by the abs show, Jeremy and I built a friendship over the following weeks. I was struggling financially and, with just two fights under my belt, not exactly established professionally, and because of Jeremy's guidance and generosity, I got to have a glimpse into a far more luxurious lifestyle. We were establishing a rapport that suggested to me that he was indeed interested in supporting my endeavors, but the subject of
money
had not yet come up.

You're Always Selling Yourself

One day, during one of our meetings, I offhandedly mentioned my Alpha Male clothing line, which was really nothing more than a handful of T-shirts and workout shorts at the time. But I was serious about moving this forward and let Jeremy know it. It wasn't just something to which I was lending my name—which at that point wouldn't have really helped anyway. I had a sharp vision for the art and the community that would buy it.

And Jeremy loved it. The name, the idea, the market analysis, everything. After my pitch (I'm not even sure I realized it was a pitch at the time) he proposed paying me eighteen hundred dollars a month to train and, at the same time, to run the clothing line.

I really wasn't mentioning the clothing line to show off how well rounded I was, but apparently Jeremy was looking for that added spark in order to sponsor me—something that separated me from other athletes. The clothing line provided him with the opportunity to do just that.

I struggled to keep my eyes from popping out of my head. Not counting the money I'd earned in my two fights, I was killing myself working three jobs—coaching, busing, and fighting—to make slightly less than that. The whole world opened up in front of me at the prospect of being paid eighteen hundred bucks a month to do what I was currently doing in my spare time anyway (of course I didn't see my fighting career and fashion ambitions as such a frivolous hobby, but that was the reality before meeting Jeremy).

In return, I agreed to wear a henna tattoo—
DUNMORE COMMUNITIES
—across my back for my upcoming fights. “It's not like you're going to be selling a lot of houses for me,” he said, “but it's just another way for me to market.”

J
eremy's investment in me worked for both of us. The more we hung out, the more Jeremy saw that I was enthusiastic and passionate about training and fighting. But he also saw the way I saw my career giving birth to other enterprises. I wasn't obsessed with just the act of fighting, but with the culture it bred and the passionate community it engendered. I wasn't concerned just with winning, but with participating and contributing to this movement. Jeremy had a lot of money and wasn't afraid to spend it—private jets, wild vacations, out-of-control shopping sprees. Now he wanted to give back. But he didn't just want to donate to an organization that would spend the money as they saw fit. He wanted to see where his money was going. And in me he saw a struggling fighter with big dreams and a practical way to implement them. More important, he could attach himself to me and my goals.

Unfortunately, my career took off just as the housing market crashed to earth, and Dunmore Communities was one of many casualties of the housing-foreclosure crisis. The sponsorship was cut short, but make no mistake about it: Jeremy's contribution had a major impact on my career. Not just logistically, but morally. It was the first time I was able to look at the fight game and think,
I really might be able to make a living at this.

P
erhaps because she and my dad struggled financially for so long, my mom always preached to Ryan and me that our financial credit was second only to our health. She wanted us to be aware of how a person's credit follows him, and what it says about him as a responsible and dependable adult. As I got older, I adapted her thoughts into one of my own: The most important thing a person can have—and it's worth capitalizing—is
personal
credit.

By my definition, personal credit is a combination of your word, your personality, and your trustworthiness. In other words, personal credit is a summary of your identity—nothing short of
who you are
. There was no way for me to know it at the time, but I was building personal credit with Jeremy Dunmore every time I walked into the gym at Sierra College as an eighteen-year-old fresh out of high school, and every time I sold a T-shirt or treated a fan with respect.

You need to remember you're doing the same thing, too—every time you speak to a business associate or encounter a stranger or order a meal at a restaurant. The image you convey and the decency you show will determine how you will be judged—today, tomorrow, and perhaps many years from now.

And it started with idle talk and a dubious abdominal display in a stretch Suburban. A wrestling coach and a chauffeur who I knew only casually vouched for my credibility to a wealthy entrepreneur, and it went from there.

The 18th Law of Power

Opinions Don't Drive Reality

A
fter the second time I fought Mike Brown—which I'll discuss in more detail later—a guy came up to me in Sacramento and said, “I never really was much of a fan of yours because of that whole ‘pretty boy' thing, but I really became a fan after that fight.”

I clenched my jaw a little tighter and, withholding some choice words, said, “I appreciate it.”

I thought by the Mike Brown fights I would've accepted the “pretty boy” label that had been affixed to my résumé, but I'd be lying if I said I'd shaken it off by the time of this backhanded compliment. I had never seen the whole “pretty boy” thing, because I don't fit into my own description of a pretty boy. I don't fake tan. I don't pluck my eyebrows. I don't shave my chest. I almost never comb my hair. That makes me 0-for-four on my personal “Pretty Boy Checklist.” And, oh yeah, I train every day and fight for a living.

M
y third professional fight was against a tough dude named David Velasquez. He was the
Gladiator Challenge
champion at 145 pounds, and this fight was for his belt. He was a thirty-seven-year-old man with missing teeth and scars across his body that looked to me like stab wounds. He wore shorts that had “5150” across the belt and the back. If you don't know, “5150” is the California penal code number for putting someone in a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold. Colloquially, it means someone who has been identified as a threat to himself or others.

A week or so before the fight, Velasquez was in the locker room of a health club in his hometown of Yuba City, about forty miles north of Sacramento and about twenty-five miles from my hometown of Lincoln.

He was talking to a buddy about his upcoming fight in Colusa. He told his buddy, “You gotta come watch this fight, man. I'm going to destroy this pretty-boy college kid.”

His buddy said, “Oh yeah, what's his name?”

“Guy named Urijah Faber,” Velasquez told him.

Velasquez didn't know one important piece of information: The guy who was getting dressed on the bench next to him and his buddy was my girlfriend Michelle's father. He owned a Kawasaki shop in Yuba City and worked out in the same gym as Velasquez. Thanks to the connection, I heard about the episode immediately after David left the club.

To be fair, it was a safe bet that Velasquez and I came from different backgrounds. He didn't give the impression of being someone who spent part of his youth in a free-range Christian commune. And the only “statement” I was making was on my back: a henna tattoo that read
DUNMORE COMMUNITIES.

But fighting is one of the purest ways to observe the power dynamic between two people. It is about as primal as human interaction can get. For whatever reason, this has always been something I felt a compulsion to explore. The first time I saw fighting, I said, “I'd be really good at that. No one would be able to beat me up.” I felt that even before it was true, and much of it had to do with the social aspect of the interaction.

There was a part of me that viewed the entire enterprise as a sociological experiment. Just like my first fight with Jay Valencia, everything society puts forward indicates that I should have been deathly afraid of David Velasquez. Judging by appearances, the things he'd done and the things he'd seen, the 5150 shorts and the loud mouth, vile fans who supported him . . . it should have scared me right out of the cage before the first bell.

The first lesson I was taught in an entry-level political science course was this: The most dangerous people are those with the least to lose. The guy with the least to lose—the guy who has suffered the most and just figures the hell with it—is the guy who has the advantage. Because of that, the guy with the least to lose will do the most to win. I'm not trying to compare what happens in a cage fight with actions of historical importance, but the man-to-man battle inside a cage can be seen through the same lens as the Middle East uprising in the spring of 2011. The people in countries like Egypt and Libya decided they couldn't continue to live under the oppressive regimes that ruled them. They got tired of being trod upon, subjugated, and ignored. They looked at their situation and decided it would be worth risking their lives to change it, simply because they would rather be dead than continue living under the dictatorial, dream-killing systems. They had nothing to lose, so they rose up and fought for their lives.

And David Velasquez should have had the least to lose. On top of everything, he was a good fighter; with eleven fights to his name, he was a former teammate of the legendary Frank Shamrock and had lost a tough fight to Jens Pulver in the UFC years prior. There was nothing I could do to this man that someone else hadn't already done to him. I had a college degree and a marketable face and a sponsorship that paid me to train. How much did I really need this? How much would I gain by beating him, compared to how much he would gain by beating me?

What did he have to fear? After all, he was facing someone who would ultimately be tagged as the “pretty boy” of MMA. And yet, I felt absolutely no fear.

The Velasquez fight was like something out of a movie. I stood in the back corner of the amphitheater, waiting for my walk-up music to start, and from across the corridor I could see and hear Velasquez, who—as the champion—would enter the cage second.

“This is my house!” he screamed. “This is my house!” Over and over, as if those were the only four words he knew. He was alternately shadowboxing and punching himself in the head as he glared across at me.

From above me, a chubby dude in the stands looked down on me and my guys. He was yelling, too: “Mess this pretty boy up, Dave! Mess this pretty boy up!” He was wobbly, the beer inside his plastic cup sloshing and spilling onto the floor, misting us. A female version of him—tattooed, drinking, fat, loud—stood by his side.

My music started, a roar shook the small arena, and it felt like every hair on my body was standing at attention.

Velasquez came into the cage screaming. He paced around yelling. Then he got nose to nose with me and popped his mouthpiece out so I could see his missing teeth. “I'm gonna whoop your ass, boy, and teach you some respect,” he said. Inside I was calm and composed. I had prepared well for this fight, and I was confident in both my planning and my ability. Velasquez was attempting to intimidate me, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.

I
wanted
him to scream and yell and waste his energy. I knew it was a show. I knew he was acting tough because he couldn't figure me out. I had him worried, and his insecurities were on display every time he opened his big mouth. He was trying to sell me on the idea that he could intimidate me with his looks and his words.

The only emotion I was feeling was impatience. He was pissing me off with all his jumping around and his stupid proclamations, and I couldn't wait to punch him in the mouth. I'm a relatively calm guy in the cage, before and during the fight. I get antsy, but I'm not going to make a big scene or break out into some tribal dance just for the show of it. The anticipation gets me fired up inside, though. There's a part of me that instinctually strives to correct whatever it is that's pissing me off. In this case, David Velasquez was pissing me off.
Pretty boy?!
Outwardly you couldn't tell—I think I appeared composed—at least that's what those who watched the fight tell me—but inside I was thinking a wide variety of words you wouldn't use at Sunday school.

Finally, as he jumped around in my face one more time, I clenched my jaw and looked at him very calmly. “I'm going to knock the rest of your teeth out,” I said. Pretty calmly, I think. The look on his face indicated that he expected me to back down, or at least respond to his wild histrionics with some of my own. He didn't expect the calm confidence. I think it gave him pause.

The fight started. I took control right from the beginning and started beating him up. His demeanor changed completely. “5150” or no, on this night,
I
was the one who was a danger to others, and the “others” was one David Velasquez. There were no more threats coming out of him. I didn't hear “pretty boy” again.

We were on the ground when the bell rang to end the first round. He jumped up to head to his corner, but before he did this, a most amazing thing happened: He reached out and shook my hand.

His mouth had been muted, but the handshake spoke volumes. All he did was nod, but it told me he went to his corner thinking,
Okay, this guy's for real.
I had already earned more than his respect. I had taken the best he had to offer and topped it. His gesture of sportsmanship was the acknowledgment.

It was a good fight. He fought to the end. He was motivated. He saw that I could fight, and that I was not going to fall victim to his posturing, so he decided to give me the respect he thought I deserved and keep fighting his best. He knew it wasn't going to be enough, but that didn't stop him.

In the third round, I did a bad setup to a shot and got kicked in the face. He got me square, and a curtain of black flashed in my eyes. In the moment it barely registered. There was no fear that I had suffered some damage, or that I might be knocked unconscious and lose the fight. I was only tangentially aware of it happening, like a shooting star that flashes in your peripheral vision. David Velasquez couldn't beat me. I couldn't let it happen. I shook it off and doubled into him with a takedown. I used that moment to recover my wits, and then I shot after him and pounded him to leave no doubt.

W
hen I first started hearing “pretty boy,” I recoiled some. It wasn't who I was, and it wasn't how I wanted to be perceived. But then I got honest with myself. As I looked across the cage at David Velasquez, it was pretty obvious. I don't look like the
public perception
of a fighter. The marketers of the sport have done a good job imprinting on the minds of the public that a fighter is the ultimate warrior, a serious, machinelike beast with scars and tattoos and a shelflike brow. Consequently, detractors see mixed martial artists as brutes and bullies. But this is where the perception and reality diverge. People who open their minds and take the time to research MMA discover that the nature of the sport requires us to be extremely critical and intelligent, possessing the same attributes of champions in any other sport. The most successful guys have it all—intelligence, discipline, fitness, dedication.

And then there's me. The so-called pretty boy. Not an enviable moniker in my line of work. But I learned, over time, that I couldn't control every external force. I must admit, the perception has worked to my advantage. Opportunities for endorsements and high-profile fights grew in part because I was marketable and could serve as a likable spokesman. In this case, I learned to live with it and take advantage of it. I never considered slapping tattoos all over my body or cutting my hair or doing something crazy to change my image. In fact, I guess I was able to debunk the idea that a so-called pretty boy couldn't compete in the vicious sport of mixed martial arts.

A
fter the fight Velasquez was respectful. It was my third fight and my first title fight, and he said, “I'm ready to pass the torch. You deserve it.”

My favorite photo from that fight is me holding his head late in the fight, and every bit of his head is covered in blood. I'm looking into the crowd, smiling. It reminds me of why I started in this sport, and the attitude that I try to keep in my world. Life can be brutal and messy, but it's about the experience. There is no doubt in my mind that Dave Velasquez sees that picture and holds his head high. Our battle that night is something he can be proud of, a feather in his cap, a part of the journey of his life, and a great story for both of us to tell.