The Allure and the Angst of Mixed Martial Arts
Robert slumps against the cage wall of the octagon, the blood streaming from his nose spatters onto the pristine, off-white floor emblazoned with the FCFF logo across the center. His left leg stretches out to one side, dead and useless. It buckled under him after one too many leg kicks from his opponent Bryce, each one landing with the slightly nauseating smacking sound you might get beating an as yet uncooked thanksgiving turkey with a rolling pin. Seeing his man start to go down, Bryce—funny to be talking about them on a first-name basis, like friendly office colleagues with registered weapons at the ends of their arms and legs—launches forwards and connects a flying knee to Robert’s head. The destruction is complete. The referee puts his body between them and waves the attack off, a win by total knockout. After interviewing Robert, I came here tonight awash with emotions: excitement, confidence, anxiety. In my mind his victory was assured, a follow-up interview would serve as the punctuation mark in a perfectly circular story. This isn’t the result I expected or wanted, but… deep down, I couldn’t help but admire Bryce’s performance, and felt all the more guilty for it, as if I was betraying a newly found friend.
The harsh lights overhead at the Roseland Theater illuminate the scene like a hospital operating theater; our chairs scrape as we stand and strain to see the aftermath. Surgery complete, the surgeon stands over his patient admiring his handiwork, while we––the audience, remain in relative darkness and almost out of sight. But not out of sound because the noise registers a deafening “eleven” on the Spinal Tap amp scale. The high ceiling echoes the many boos and a few cheers for the visiting winner emanating from the thousand or so people crowded into this hundred-year-old venue. To my relief, I see Robert finally stand, senses recovered after a couple of minutes. He limps to the center of the ring for the winner announcement, shakes Bryce’s hand, and leaves with his training team. Sportsmanship still lives, in amateur sports at least.
I haven’t watched Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) fighting for years, but my history with the sport goes back to the early noughties, shortly after my wife and I moved to the US. Together, we became big fans watching Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) bouts on pay-per-view, and our affinity with the sport became complete with the launch of the show “Ultimate Fighter” in 2005. A mashup of reality TV and bloody unarmed combat, it provided a jarringly orthogonal and addictive viewing experience compared to the saccharine, prepackaged, and predictable outcomes of Survivor and The Biggest Loser. At some point though, we both got squeamish and stopped watching after witnessing too many fights that should have been stopped early: concussed and bloody fighters long past the point of no return before a referee stoppage. We tapped out.
Fifteen years later, I’ve come back to the sport looking for answers, wanting to know whether it will feel different this time and looking to better understand why these young men and women are willing to invest time, money, sweat, and blood to give and take a beating in the public arena. It’s an amateur night (not UFC), but there are still two people pitting their physical and mental abilities against each other. The risks are very real, and the work required to get here is no different.
Wanting to do more than simply show up and throw up, I reached out to Team Quest MMA in Gresham, OR, where Robert trains, and set up a visit and interview. The gym sits on SE Stark St., one of those interminably long cross streets stretching from NE Portland to Troutdale, lined with mini-malls and shabby low-rent motels, the traffic streaming back and forth in deliberate ignorance of speed limits, pedestrians dicing with death at every crossing. As I arrive, there is a kids training session happening in the biggest of the two large and high-ceilinged rooms, elementary school age children practicing their katas (a form of shadow boxing) under the watchful eye of an adult instructor. According to the schedule the “TUFF Tots” session just ended: a mixed martial arts training program for the very youngest––four to six-year-olds. The idea of kindergartners making this early of a start into martial arts might offend some, but doesn’t surprise me. After trying her hand at multiple activities, our daughter found Tae Kwon Do (a Korean martial art) and stuck with it for several years through elementary school. Learning about discipline and respect for others from someone other than her parents, combined with the threat “What do you think George (the dojo master) would say if he heard you talk to me like that?" was, I'll admit, something of a lifeline for us.
Aaron, my jovial host for this visit, sporting a vest, ball cap and many tattoos, welcomes me warmly and we take a tour of the facility. MMA memorabilia adorns the walls, the hallways, and even the floor in the main reception area as the place is being repainted, creating some temporary disarray. There are fight posters, photos, trophies, medals, and belts charting not just the history of the gym, but the careers of countless fighters who’ve walked through the same doors I did, some of them reaching the highest level of competition in the top tier Ultimate Fighting Championship, or UFC.
As we make our way past the fitness room, well equipped with weights and hanging punch bags, Aaron stops at a framed photo. He proudly explains that the fighter connecting a hard left jab to someone's jaw is none other than Matt “The Law” Lindland. Not just owner of the best nickname in sport ever: he operates this gym, is Robert’s coach, and boasts a truly impressive nineteen-year fighting record including a gold medal for wrestling at the Tokyo Olympics in 2001 and twelve years in MMA including the UFC. As we turn the last corner, Aaron asks if I’ve ever seen MMA live, and I explain no and that’s why we’ve got tickets for the event at the Roseland.
“What seats did you get?”
“Third row back, the $70 seats. I wanted good seats so we can see the action up close.”
“You know you’re going to hear it from that close? ‘Cause the fighters only wear these small, four-ounce gloves. And you’re kinda in the spray zone so best be ready for that.”
Contemplating exactly what that might mean and how it will translate into appropriate fashion choices for my wife and I, Aaron deposits me in the second training room where I sit and take in the scene.
Matt leans casually against one of the red padded walls, talking with another coach, and under the bright fluorescent lights I note for the first time that MMA is definitely one of those sports like boxing and rugby that marks its protagonists for life. His ears have done that magic trick and turned themselves inside out, his head could be hewn from river rock, hard and impermeable but with features worn smooth from a lifetime of friction and heavy blows. I wonder whether it ever occurs to the parents of tots in training that a career in MMA might leave their own children with the same indelible imprints should they be good enough to continue into adulthood.
Out on the black protective floor mats, an adult grappling session is in progress, I’m guessing jiu jitsu. Everyone is working in pairs, one pair is coed, and I recognize the woman from a photo on the Team Quest website. She and her training partner are locked together, snaking around on the mat like two boa constrictors. As one rotates a hip or coils an arm to better throttle the other, there’s an immediate response from the adversary, a subtle shifting of body position or a free limb is moved to a new defensive posture. The grappling is slow and deliberate, but the whole thing looks entirely exhausting. No quarter is asked or given and the sweat-drenched work continues until the coach calls time or a submission is achieved––signaled by tapping a hand onto the mat or nearest available body part. Just as a break is called, Robert arrives, introduces himself, and settles next to me on the low, carpet-covered bench at one side of the mat area.
At six feet tall and 185lbs, Robert Plympton cuts an impressive figure for a twenty-one-year-old. Friendly and unassuming, his matter-of-fact and softly spoken answers to my long list of questions belie the fact that he’s only a week or so away from a major fight. He’ll be defending his Full Contact Fighting Federation (FCFF) Middleweight Championship belt against a very respectable fighter from Orange County, CA. A win for Robert will boost his record to 8-2 (wins vs. losses), and it should also mark his last outing as an amateur. Going professional now then stepping up to the UFC in three to five years is his goal, and the financial allure of the UFC is understandable if you’re a consistent winner.
As an amateur, you get to demonstrate your craft but earn precisely zero or, as Robert plainly puts it, “we’re fighting for free”. Moving up to regional pro promises modest purses worth between a few hundred to a few thousand dollars depending on experience and the promoter staging the event. Joining the ranks of the UFC has the potential to bring far greater financial rewards for those who excel. UFC 317 in June this year paid out $3.5M to the winner of the lightweight title fight, the loser earned $1.32M. Even on the undercard (preliminary fights) the winners were punching, kicking, and submitting their way to at least a $40K payout for fifteen minutes work or less. The payout typically features an appearance fee which typically doubles for a win. In the UFC fighters often earn a bonus for fight of the night; added motivation to put on a great show for the crowd.
Entertainment value is the connective tissue between today and 1993 when the UFC burst onto the scene with its inaugural live and pay-per-view event: UFC 1. A round robin tournament that required everyone to fight everyone else in a single night, this early foray was a proxy designed to answer the age-old schoolboy question “Who would win in a fight, Bruce Lee or Muhammed Ali?”. Wrestlers, kickboxers, and jiu jitsu experts were pitted against each other. Rules were minimal, pulling hair deemed OK, and there were no weight classes. This led to an intentional, spectacular and now infamous mismatch pitting Gerard Gordeau, a 216lb Dutch kickboxer against Teila Tuli, a Hawaiian sumo wrestler who tipped the scales at 410lb. In the opening exchange of the fight, Gordeau kicked Tuli in the head so hard it knocked three of his teeth out, one landing under the referee’s chair and the other two lodging themselves in Gordeau's foot. A subsequent punch from Gordeau was enough to give him a win by total knockout (TKO), and a broken hand for free. MMA with its no-holds-barred fighting and signature chain link eight-sided ring had arrived with a bang.
Commercial success however, was far from guaranteed, and both the sport and its premier organization has had to overcome mixed public sentiment and major legal challenges along the way. After UFC 1, Senator John McCain blasted it as “human cockfighting” and launched a campaign to get it banned or at least heavily regulated. He was successful; thirty-six states complied and it took twenty-three years before MMA was totally legal and regulated nationwide. Accusations of antitrust breaches continue to dog the sport. It has been investigated by the Federal Trade Commission for monopolization and unfair labor practices and been sued twice over pay inequity by former fighters. Their cases highlight that while large single event purses (such as that for UFC 317) continue to capture headlines and aspirations, the UFC still pays out only 20% of its revenue compared to almost 50% across the NBA, NFL, and NHL. In short, fighters feel they are not getting their fair share of the financial rewards. Paramount made headlines this year when it signed a $7.7B seven-year broadcast deal with the organization, but so far this hasn’t signaled any changes to fighter pay. And while compensation is important in any job, in professional fighting it carries considerable significance for reasons not always obvious at the beginning of a career.
Fighters' terms of employment are essentially the same as Uber drivers; they operate as independent contractors meaning they bear the costs of all their expenses, including medical insurance. The UFC only provides coverage for post-fight care if needed, and once these men and women have outlived their usefulness, they truly are on their own. All well and good if you’re healthy and able to launch your second act. Forced into retirement after an abnormal brain scan in 2013, ex-UFC fighter Spencer Fisher went public about his health issues in 2021. The brain injuries he’s suffered have created a long-lasting impact on him and his family. Seven years earnings from professional fighting were quickly dissipated as his medical issues worsened, his wife is working as a part-time carer for him, and the future looks increasingly uncertain. The UFC strives to keep these issues at arm’s length, CEO Dana White once saying “This is a contact sport and anybody who’s done this younger, myself included, is dealing with brain issues. It’s part of the gig.” My own feelings aside, the risk of possible brain injury does not appear to be a detractor to the fighters.
When I ask Robert whether he ever considers these greater risks, he demurs, seeing his chosen profession as no better or worse than football. If I was twenty-one years old again and in the shape Robert is in, I couldn’t say that I’d give a different answer. There is a sense of invincibility at that age that can’t easily be displaced regardless of profession. Now add a repertoire of fighting skills and intense training, and the confidence only grows. In Robert’s mind the risks are greatly outweighed by the reward, and in fighting as an amateur that reward isn’t the money. Winning, getting everything right in the ring––well, there’s just no better feeling. I leave the gym feeling like I just got a rare glimpse into the psyche of what makes a fighter tick, of answering the elusive question of “why?”.
Nervous excitement courses through my veins as we finally arrive at the Roseland Theater in Portland, Oregon and head upstairs. It’s hard to fathom just how big the octagon looks as we crest the well-worn stairs. Its 30’ diameter fills our view and looks very much the gladiator arena where soon our mixed martial artists are scheduled to test their mettle against one another. It doesn’t escape my attention that the sprung floor looks hygienically clean, a status that won’t last long once the action starts. There are folding chairs laid out in rows ten deep on three sides of the room. The stage where not long ago I was watching The The play a live gig occupies the fourth side. It appears to be reserved for special guests; their elevated status denoted by the dangling lanyards and passes around their necks. As we take our seats in section C, row C, seats 4 and 5, I’m reminded of Aaron's words and grateful that we dressed down for the occasion, because we are indeed right up to the action and clearly in the “spray zone”.
The dress code for men is predominantly hoodies, baseball caps, and––where visible––lots of tattoos. Of course, this is Portland where tattoos and ear plugs could be considered mandatory for permanent residence. Far more wardrobe diversity is on display amongst the ladies, who make up a fair proportion of the audience and instantly discredit any trendy notion that MMA is strictly in the manosphere. Around our side of the octagon are two judges, already huddled in deep conversation off to our left. To our right is one of the “corners”, where shortly a couple of trainers or coaches from an MMA gym will be sitting and yelling instructions to their man or woman, depending on the bout underway. Johnny Cash is singing “Folsom Prison Blues” through the PA, and with five minutes to go he’s competing to be heard over the noise of shouted conversation. Our floor area and the upper balconies are almost full, and the excitement continues to build.
As the clock hits 7pm, the music vanishes to be replaced by the voice of God, thanking our veterans for their service and we stand for a rousing version of the national anthem. The gentleman singing is giving it his all as he stands flanked, in a surreal touch, by two ladies holding flags and clad in thigh-length silvery boots, red PVC onesies, and grey wigs. On closer inspection, I realize that our flag bearers are not the Fembots from Austin Powers, rather a more adult-leaning version of Bim and Ben from Dr. Seuss. It is, after all, almost Halloween. Anthem over, the ring is cleared and another man in black, our MC Kevin Keeney steps in. Replete with cowboy boots and Stetson, his voice booms through the PA system as he announces the first of the nine fights. Rumble at the Roseland #129 gets underway officially, and my nervous anticipation climbs another notch.
“It’s time…. for the Ruuuuuuuuuumble…. at the Roseland!”
Cue Black Sabbath “Crazy Train”, and Kevin launches into the first bout introductions as our fighters climb into the cage, shaking their limbs to stay loose and warm. It’s a bantamweight fight, which means the smaller guys, roughly 5’8” and 135lbs. You’d expect them to be quick, but no sooner has the bell been rung, there’s a brief exchange and it’s over––the referee stepping in to stop the fight. The post-fight interview gets right to the point, the winner I’m sure delighted to be done early:
“You dropped him with a knee and then finished him off in 13 seconds, how are you feeling?”
“Fucking perfect.”
I’d forgotten how unpredictable fighting can be. One small stumble, one tiny mistake, and someone is getting their arm raised in victory while the other hangs his head, already replaying how it all could have gone so wrong.
In each of the next six men's bouts, we witness matchups in different weight classes, wins by submission, knockout, and a win by judges’ decision. None are crazier than the co-main event, a topsy-turvy affair where one fighter gets pummeled for almost the entirety of round one until they go to the mat, and he suddenly finds himself able to submit his opponent with superior ground skills. My respect for him only increased once his humility and humor became evident as Kevin quizzed him on his win:
“So, Phelan, it didn’t seem like everything was going to plan, at least from my perspective. Did you feel like you were in control the whole time?”
“My plan was to get beaten senseless for two minutes and then win by submission. That was my game plan.”
In our only female fight of the night, it’s a largely one-sided stand-up bout, the loser on the receiving end of punches and kicks for two rounds, before deciding not to continue. As they take the center of the ring for the winners’ announcement, I could see the badly swollen cheeks, her eyes open just enough to allow tears to fall. I suddenly feel uncomfortable. Our daughter is about the same age, and I couldn’t even contemplate what it might feel like if she were in the ring instead. I’m grateful once the ring is cleared, ready for the main event and I can file my feelings away in a box labeled “TBD”.
We watch Robert enter the floor to deafening applause and cheering, the title holder and hometown favorite. As the bell rings for the start of round one, I can now easily picture some of his pre-fight routine––two meals, most of the day lounging like a big cat, and his superstitions. He always wears the same gloves and uses the same mouth guard, but he gets new shorts every fight. In the first exchange of blows it’s hard to tell who might have landed first, eager to set the tone and pace, immediately looking to gain an edge––in confidence if nothing else. They’re both cagey fighters and as we watch the round unfold, blow by blow, and kick by kick, it’s easy to forget that behind this outward display of physical aggression is a lot of lightning-quick planning and adaptation taking place. Their skill verges on artistry.
The choices they make, each carefully placed punch, kick or combination is no different than a painter selecting colors and brushstrokes. Technique is the mixing palette and this odd octagonal ring the canvas. Every fighter has a fight plan for the night, just as every great artist must have a sequence to their work. And sometimes it might look like chaos to the casual observer, but not much happens in either world without serious intent. And from the opening bell it’s Bryce who looks the more confident and relaxed pugilist, a man with a plan. As they trade hard jabs, hooks, and crosses through the first two rounds, he also takes every opportunity to deliver those punishing kicks to Robert’s thigh, after enough of which the femoral nerve short circuits, and the muscles freeze to create a “dead leg”. Eighteen seconds into round three, Bryce “Up The Hill” de Camargo squints through swollen and half-closed eyes (testament to the effectiveness of Roberts punches), sees a moment of opportunity, and seizes it with dire consequences. It was one kick too many, a stumble, a flying knee, and a flurry of blows creating a climatic conclusion to this dramatic display of the fighting arts.
I know that for Robert, going pro is still real and tangible, a loss won’t change that. I know why he’s chosen to do this, to put it all on the line. The reasons aren’t greatly different from anyone who grew up knowing exactly what they wanted to be, especially in sports. They practiced it relentlessly, talked about it, watched movies about it, and honed their skills from a very early age. Losing goes with the territory; it’s an unavoidable part of competition, and you’d better learn how to deal with it. As he explained to me the week before:
“You lose a fight, get knocked down, you gotta get back up and keep going.”
In the coming days and weeks, he might be licking his wounds but tonight will serve as an opportunity to learn from mistakes made. Sometime soon he’ll be back in the ring, whether it’s here for one more go-around in the FCFF or in his first professional match-up.
I too had come to Rumble at the Roseland #129 to test my mettle, to know whether a night of concussions, bloody noses, and epic bruising would make me turn away again. As we leave the venue, draining and swirling down the stairs like the rain washing through the gutters that greets us outside, I tally up the pros and cons of my night like a referee with a scorecard. For cons it had its moments of brief discomfort; I can’t deny it. But the pros were many: the referees were quick to step in, a live event was far more engaging than pay-per-view, and nothing was predictable or preordained––it was gripping from start to finish. An unexpected bonus was that these amateur fighters were there only to discover if they were truly good enough. At this point in their career money wasn’t a factor, and it made it feel cleaner and somehow more honorable. The decision is easy and unanimous: MMA wins by a total knockout.
So like any good Roman, I can’t wait for the next munera, to cheer from the stands as these gladiators fight one more time in the arena. Luckily, I won’t have long to wait. Rumble at the Roseland #130 arrives just in time for Christmas.