It was a few minutes past 9:00 am when we found "The Batcave". That's what we'd named the elusive and revered MMA Pro gym owned by Greg Jackson and Mike Winklejohn, that some of the most bad ass fighters on Earth call their second home. The place whose address isn't listed on the Jackson’s MMA website, and from which emails return undeliverable with obscure error messages.
Two days previous, my best friend Lauren Taylor had flown into Albuquerque to crash at my place and attempt to infiltrate the gym. She fought professionally in Alaska, our home state, winning two championship belts before moving south, and was on the lookout for new spots to train in the lower 48. The morning of the great search for the hideout, we got up early, and I drove her to the address for Jackson's MMA that we found on the internet, but we saw right away that it couldn’t be the place we were looking for. We'd heard the rumors from other fighters about Jackson having a public gym and also a ‘secret gym’ for the big dogs. I'm sure that 'secret gym' will sound funny to Albuquerque locals, but to two girls from Alaska, and apparently to fighters from everywhere but New Mexico, the place might as well have been Platform Nine and Three Quarters. An apt comparison, really, because finding it did involve some of what Lauren would later call "Google Wizardry" on my part. Eventually, I came up with an address, and, having no idea where we'd end up once I put it into my GPS, we headed that direction.
Upon arriving, I was unsure we’d actually found the place. The sign was out front, but it didn’t look anything like what I’d pictured. It's a gritty concrete building in a neighborhood that you can feel in the air is probably rough by night. The front door and single window next to it are made of one way mirror so you can’t see in, and they’re armored with steel bars. In the days following, we saw one guy digging through the dumpster outside of the gym, and another guy stealing a hat out of an unlocked car door. The building itself has a lock system on the front door that requires a keycard to be slid through in order to get the door opened. The irony of this made me grin. Of all the places that a person with ill intentions might choose to break into... a gym full of world class fighters is, in my mind, second only to a drunk-redneck house party with a firearm stockpile on the table.
When I pulled in, we were one of only a few vehicles in the parking lot. Lauren didn't know what to do. This camp trains some of the best fighters on earth. They can afford to be picky, and the gym is, after all, an invitation only deal, and she had no invitation. So, knocking on the door and saying, "Hey, umm... can I train here?" had her extremely nervous, but she went for it. Strangely enough, the locked door happened to be propped open when she reached it.
I sat in the truck, anxiously fidgeting with the stick shift, looking at the front door, and the signs to the left of it that marked parking spots for Coach Jackson and Coach Winklejohn. When Lauren came back out, she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. The guy she'd spoken to inside had told her to just hang out til 9:15 or so, when Julie usually got to work. "Julie" is not some office manager. Julie is Julie Kedzie. She just fought Meisha Tate in a Strikeforce bout, has fought almost everyone that's anyone in women's MMA over her 10 year career, and now has the honor of commentating for Invicta FC. She also happens to be a close friend and personal assistant to Greg Jackson, and the Jackson's MMA Women's Team Captain.
For lack of any better ideas, we waited in the truck for a while, hoping to see Julie pull into the parking lot. The whole thing seemed like asking to be invited into the White House. She was back to worrying. Maybe whoever that guy was had just not known how to say, "No, we don't accept random show-ups for practice." Maybe Julie Kedzie would laugh in her face. It was past 9:15, and the front door was now firmly closed. We were still one of the only vehicles there, until a truck pulled into the parking spot to my right. It looked like it belonged on the mud trails in AK, and that made me smile a little, before turning my attention back to puzzling over the entrance to the Batcave. Lauren was watching the truck when the driver door opened and shut, and she sucked in a sudden breath that made me look over at her as she said, "Dude. Dude.... that's Carlos Condit."
He was pulling his gym bag out of the back of the truck. My skin erupted in tingles and I could feel my heartbeat in my ear canals. For a fight fan, this was something like how you'd feel if Samuel L. Jackson got out of the car next to you at the grocery store. My first thought was, "Of course. OF COURSE the first person you see at Greg Jackson's gym is Carlos Condit, when you haven't showered since Saturday night. Fuck."
I watched in the rearview mirror as he walked behind my truck, and frowned a little confusedly at the Alaska license plate on my giant 6-tired beast. When he came around the left side he looked back over his shoulder directly at me, then he turned back toward the door and slid his keycard through the lock. The door didn't open. He slid it a few more times and yanked on the handle and had no luck. I started laughing quietly, a little crazed, and said, "Look LT, even Carlos Condit can't get into this gym!"
I couldn't believe I'd just seen the guy in real life. The last thing I had expected that morning was to make eye contact with the UFC Welterweight # 1 Contender/UFC Interim Welterweight Champion, but there he was. Of course. Showing up to practice, like he probably does 2 or 3 times a day, seeing as how he has about 6 weeks left before he fights Georges St. Pierre for the belt, now that GSP has come back from his injury. I looked at the door after he'd been let inside, for several beats with my mouth sort of hanging open. He drives the pickup that I myself have always wanted. Same year, just a different color. He's 6'3", but he looks smaller than I imagined, probably because fighters always look huge to me when they're on TV. And, I have to add it, he is even more handsome in real life (let's face it guys, you wouldn't all like Ronda Rousey so much if you didn't think she was hot).
Someone came out of the gym just then, and went to the car parked in one of the coach's spots. At the time, we thought it was Coach Winklejohn. She started squirming around in her seat and saying, "Should I go talk to him? I don't know if I can go talk to him. Goddamnit, I don't know what to do." My head snapped to the right and I barked, "You'd fucking better go talk to him. We're here, and you don't have much choice if you want to get into that gym. Go on, get out the truck!"
I watched for the next few minutes. Whoever the guy was, he was trying to give her the run around, though that was understandable because to him, she was just a random off the street. I could hear him trying to give her a phone number, and an email address, but she wasn't having it. She said she'd been told to talk to Julie Kedzie. They guy finally let Lauren back into the gym with him to go and search for her. I crossed my fingers, and hoped she'd be able to charm her way into this deal.
A few minutes later, she blasted out the door and across the parking lot to my window, smiling like she'd just won the Powerball. I had expected that if she could pull it off and get invited in, I'd just go run errands while she was training, and then come grab her when she called me but, bless my best friend's heart, instead of just telling them enough about herself to get an open invitation for the week, she asked if I could come inside and sit in on practice.
Jackson's MMA is like Mecca for fighters. A lot of them will make the pilgrimage there at some point, if given the chance. I hurriedly tried to fix the mess in my ponytail, and locked up the truck before following Lauren in the door. I was terrified. I, of all people, did not belong in this magical place that turns determined athletes into shining stars. I expected strange looks from everyone inside. I thought they'd have strict rules about who could come in, especially if it was someone who didn't fight. I thought it'd be on lockdown like the U.S. Mint. I thought a lot of things that didn't turn out to be remotely true.
Which, I probably should have known. When are things ever the way we imagine they will be?
No one scowled at me, or looked at me strangely. I almost instantly felt like a narcissist for even having been worried about such a stupid thing. People training in MMA gyms are doing their very damnedest to work themselves just to the brink of a coma at every practice. Why on Earth would they even bother being puzzled that some girl they don't know is walking around, wide-eyed and barely able to form coherent sentences? Sometimes self-consciousness is really just self-absorption.
The gym is not enormous like other major gyms I have heard about. It isn't fancy, the equipment isn't all shiny and new, and it isn't spotless. Somehow, that made me feel a little more comfortable. I don't know why I thought it would be spiffed up like a Hollywood V.I.P. lounge... probably because awards like "Best Gym" and "Best Coach" that are frequently bestowed upon the place bring to mind... a lot of money. Which in turn brings to mind fancy suits, polished surfaces and snobby attitudes. I am almost embarrassed to write those words now that I know better.
One of the first greeters I had inside the gym was Bailey. Bailey is Julie Kedzie's dog. She's some kind of Rhodesian mix, with red fur and a block head like a Pit. She's well-trained enough to know to never step onto the mats, and I've never heard her bark. She wasn't the only dog either. There was a bulldog playing with Bailey the first day, a beautiful grey Pit a few days later, and the cutest French Bulldog puppy I've ever seen in my life. His name is Nacho and he can't weigh 10 pounds. This is even cuter considering he is owned by the 6'7" 250 pound Heavyweight Travis “Hapa” Browne, who was the main event against Antonio Silva last Saturday at UFC on FX 5, and who, in my opinion, has the sickest tattoos out of anyone at the gym (which is really saying something). The two of them playing together was both odd and adorable. I hadn't expected dogs to be welcome. In my experience, the presence of dogs almost always equals the presence of cool people.
I sat through Jiu Jitsu while Lauren practiced with some of the girls we met when we first arrived, one of whom, Michelle "The Karate Hottie" Waterson, fought in Invicta 3 last weekend, and won a spectacular fight by split decision, and all of whom were very kind to me and Lauren both. I was trying to pay attention to what people were learning, and how they were interacting and NOT pay more attention than was appropriate to the Interim Welterweight Champ. Being obnoxiously starstruck is rarely flattering. I got the impression right away that Condit is a pretty quiet and private dude, and therefore probably would not be happy to know that he had an audience while he was trying to concentrate, and I suddenly felt like I'd rather never come back there than wreck that atmosphere for him, or for any of the other fighters who were there working so hard. I recognized how sacred the gym was to the students who train there. I felt an enormous sense of gratitude that the universe had landed me there, and refused to fuck it up by acting like an annoying fan girl.
When practice was over, we migrated toward the door and were talking to Julie. I was feeling more and more at ease because she was so welcoming, and was petting Bailey, when the door opened behind me and Greg Jackson walked in. There he was, the mastermind behind so many champions. Dana White's current arch nemesis. The guy whose face I'd seen on TV through the chain link of the cage, cornering his star fighters.
Julie introduced Lauren, and Lauren introduced me. Before he said anything, he apologized for being bleary and jet-lagged, but that he'd just gotten off of his flight back from Montreal. Which, I realized, I knew. Jon Jones had just gotten his arm almost snapped by Vitor Belfort in the UFC, but had managed to beat him two rounds later, and keep his belt, even with a numb appendage and probably nerve damage. Cub Swanson had knocked the crap out of Charles Oliveira with a brutal overhand right. Brian Stann had lost, sadly, to Michael Bisping. All three are Jackson's fighters. Of course he would have been there in those corners.
He asked if Lauren needed to stay in the fighter dorms they have above the gym. She said no, that she was staying with me, then asked him what she could pay him to train at the gym for a week. His answer, which surprised the hell out of me again, was, "Don't worry about it. You don't have to pay anything. We're glad to have you." Then he patted her on the shoulder warmly, smiled at both of us, and went off to do his business being the best coach in the world.
We spent the rest of that evening in disbelief at the day we'd just had. And the rest of the week was no less crazy. As a fan and not a fighter, people that train at a gym like Jackson's have always held this air of celebrity in my mind that was hard to reconcile with what they were actually like in real life. They're all... just normal dudes (and chicks). They're all chill, kind, focused and determined, working together contructively, with no segregation between skill levels.
At some gyms, the theory is that sparring in practice should be balls-to-the-wall, hard as you can fight, regardless of the skill of your opponent. What this means is that when facing partners that are way better than you, you are most likely getting your shit kicked all over the gym. The idea is that you'll get used to it, and then have no fear once you're actually inside the cage. Lauren disagrees with this philosophy, and so do I. It only seems more likely to make a fighter gun shy, and set them back in their pursuit to not be afraid to take a punch, which is something most of them fear, at least at the beginning. After all, getting hit feels instinctually wrong to most humans.
At Jackson's I saw partners adapt to each other. If, when the buzzer sounds and it's time to switch partners, the person you are next paired with is not as advanced in terms or strength or speed or skill, you adjust to their level. Not enough so that you let them beat you for the warm and fuzzies, but enough so that they can actually work on technique instead of shielding themselves the entire time, being overwhelmed by punches. That way, the team gets better as a whole, and all it's members benefit. Considering how Jackson adamantly refers to his team as a family, that whole concept seems to fit. Better to engender trust, encouragement and compassion in your family, than frustration and the pursuit of dominance between brothers and sisters.
I did my best to stay out of the way, just happy to be able to see inside the machine that cranks out some of the best in the world. Every here and there, I'd overhear someone say something that made me giggle because it sounded so surreal to me, but seemed so normal to them. Stuff like, "Hey coach! Have you heard from Jon? How's his arm?" Because... in that setting it's totally normal to ask about your buddy Jonny Bones Jones, the UFC Light Heavyweight Champion of the world, and the status of his recent injury.
Or Jackson’s announcement to the whole room in regards to the new rules for training schedules he was laying out that began with this statement, "All of you that are in Strikeforce or the UFC, from now on..." Because... rather than a few fighters from major promotions here and there like most gyms, they make up that big of a chunk of Jackson's students.
I heard Carlos Condit say, when he returned from a few days absence, "Hey, good to see you, yeah, I had to go to that press conference." By which, he means the one where he was sitting across a table from Georges St. Pierre himself, explaining, with respect, that he is going to win their fight. The comment was brief, off-hand, and spoken with a mild tone of annoyance as though being the star of a UFC press conference is an unnecessary distraction from his real work. Which... it is.
One of the fighters, Bubba (I'm not sure what his real name is, aside from his newly christened fight name Bubbasaurus Rex, but he was really nice) told me at one point, "John Dodson right there, he's next in line for Demetrius Johnson. He's just as fast and hits twice as hard. Got this one in the bag easy." Which... is at least partially certain. The evening after I met John, I saw Mighty Mouse Johnson on TV, saying that John would probably be his next fight.
There was Diego the cute Brazilian that won The Ultimate Fighter season 14, who is a fireball of a person. All passion. Talking like it was just normal life (which, for him I suppose it is) that he's about to head to Brazil for his fight in UFC 153.
And, there was Julie Kedzie. More fascinating in many ways than any of the guys there, because she's a woman, and she made it in the fight game when there was very little of it around. She's a pioneer of sorts. Who not only knows, but has probably fought, almost any female fighter you can think to bring up (except Ronda Rousey. Though it would please me greatly if she ever got to knock that bitch out... although I’d rather it was Lauren who pulled that off). And, true to form, she did her best to say only positive things about almost all of them.
I just tried to act like everything in these conversations was normal, though, for me it was anything but.
More than any of the tons of star fighters, the person that most fascinated me was 'Coach Greg'. I didn't know anything about him before going to the gym, other than the skewed horseshit coming out of Dana White. In fact, I just deleted a bunch of paragraphs delving into the bullshit surrounding THAT whole mess. I'll save it for another blog. Suffice to say, the fact that Dana White didn't want to take any credit for the failure of UFC 151, and his subsequent attempts to pass it off onto a coach that has no part in orchestrating the whole deal, were pathetic. After the first few days, I became certain that Dana White doesn't know shit about Greg Jackson.
The guy is hilarious, warm and generous. He cusses like a sailor, he is a gifted and natural teacher, and his choice of practice music is AC/DC. I watched him calm the tempers of frustrated fighters (which are fucking scary sometimes), and with just a few words, redirect that passion into the skill to overcome it in the ring. I watched him explain a concept in MMA class in such a way that even his students from Japan and Eastern Europe who didn't speak English grasped it fully. And I saw him take tough love and turn it into jokes. "Look, if you walk into a jab, you're an idiot. No, wait, ok, let me rephrase that. If you walk into a jab, you're a fuckin moron." And everyone laughs, nods their heads, and listens harder. I went home after the 4th day at practice, and started doing some reading.
Jackson grew up in a rough part of Albuquerque, which drove his interest in fighting, and opened his first martial arts school when he was 17. That in and of itself baffled me. When I was 17, I was really only interested in finding someone to buy us beer, ditching school and otherwise scaring the shit out of my parents.
No one in America, or anywhere other than Brazil really, could teach him the stuff he was seeing the Gracie family pull off in the early UFCs, so the man started teaching himself Jiu Jitsu based on the principles of physics and geometry. Let me just.... repeat that statement. He taught himself how to do Jiu Jitsu... because he is a fucking genius, and is able to visualize how geometry and physics translate into the angles and leverage needed to gain dominance in a fight. He uses those same principles to create new techniques in this ever evolving sport. He isn't teaching shit to his students that he's seen other fighters pull off elsewhere. He is inventing the stuff. That's the culmination of my point, I guess; Greg Jackson is actively inventing mixed martial arts.
But what rocked me more than anything else once I learned it, was that he doesn't charge his fighters any money. The guy remembers what it was like trying to train while living on scraps, and won't ask that of his students. Arguably the best coach in the world is purposefully NOT raking in shitloads of cash, though he easily could, because to him it just isn't the right thing to do. I suddenly understood why the gym isn't huge, and the equipment isn't fancy. Because Jackson believes that accessibility to the talented but broke fighters of the world is more important than flashy gear. This is all particularly interesting in light of Dana White's comments to Jon Jones that Greg Jackson "is not your family" and that "if things went bad tomorrow, brother Greg wouldn't be there for you" because "he is a businessman."
Before I knew shit about Greg Jackson, I might have thought of him in those terms. Especially considering that Jon Jones made a million dollars in his last fight. Whatever percentage of winnings coaches usually charge would have been a nice chunk of change, and would seem like quite an incentive to work hard with Jon Jones. Nope. Coach Greg just does it because he loves to. Nor, I'm certain, would he take any credit for being the MMA world's version of a saint and a father figure. If I were to say something to him about his genius or his astonishing benevolence, what I'd get back would be some sort of self-deprecating joke designed to dodge the spotlight. He is the very picture of what martial arts is intended to instill in human beings; humility, grace, kindness and courage, drive, intelligence, and sheer love for the sport. The man is real. There's not a shred of him that cares or wants the drama that comes with the game. I knew it instantly when he showed up the first day I was there, as I listened to him gripe about cameras and interviews and press conferences taking up the time that he needed to be spending in the gym with his students. If I'd been a journalist of any sort, or he'd had any idea before the very end of our last conversation that I planned to write all this down, you could arguably brush this off as his attempt to look good in the eyes of the public, but that wasn't the case. All he knew was that I was a tiny girl from Alaska who was getting a huge kick out of hanging out at his gym.
I have started to piece things together about Jackson's fighters since last week. Think about the guys that Greg Jackson has trained, that have made it to the top in the UFC; Donald Cerrone, Jon Jones, Shane Carwin, GSP, Carlos Condit, and my new recent favorite, Cub Swanson, among many others. Every single one of them have these things in common; they're smart fighters. Well spoken, not interested in talking shit, respectful, patient and confident. My guess is that these are traits they possessed and that Jackson encouraged and cultivated, or they're traits that were learned from looking up to Coach Greg as a role model.
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Monday was the last day that I took Lauren to practice. When I saw that he had a minute between the heavyweight and lightweight classes, I approached Greg Jackson, which was the easiest thing in the world by the end of that week because he's such an approachable guy. I said, "Lauren is leaving tomorrow, so I won't have an excuse to hang around anymore and I just wanted to say thank you for being so kind to her, and to me, and for letting me crash practice. It's been a really amazing experience and I appreciate it so much." What I expected as a response was something along the lines of, "Yeah, sure! No worries," but what I got was instead was this; "You know, you're quiet, you don't get in anyone's way, and you're fun to hang out with. You're welcome to come in anytime."
I went wide-eyed and could hardly think of anything else to say. The guy probably has no idea what that meant to me. I doubt very much that I'll ever have the guts to just show up and hang out without a reason to be there, which makes me a little sad. But I know I can do one good thing to thank him, and everyone at the gym. Whoever this blog reaches will have a different perspective to add to the information they use to formulate opinions about that gym and the fight game, when all people usually have is the reports of biased fighters, grouchy UFC owners, or sneaky journalists. Now they'll have my perspective, and I am none of those things. I'm just a fan, inspired by goodness and fascinated by that "special kind of crazy" that fighters possess. If I believe anything now about the Jackson-haters that are currently so prevalent on the internet, it is that their lives, and the whole world, would be better if they had Greg Jackson as a teacher, and his students as peers.
