It's Time! Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by Bruce Buffer

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crown Archetype, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Crown Archetype with colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Buffer, Bruce.

  It’s time! : my 360° view of the UFC / Bruce Buffer.

  —1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Mixed martial arts. 2. UFC (Mixed martial arts event).

  3. Buffer, Bruce. 4. Sportscasters—United States. I. Title.

  GV1102.7.M59B84 2012

  796.8—dc23

  eISBN: 978-0-307-95393-3

  Jacket design by Michael Nagin

  Jacket photograph by Kenneth Cappello

  v3.1

  To my father, Joseph Buffer,

  my mother, Constance Buffer,

  my brother Brian Buffer,

  this book is lovingly dedicated.

  With you at my side, I learned to live and love, laugh and cry, fight and win.

  Throughout life I have strived to honor you with my presence and passion.

  Now I honor you with my words.

  And to my brother Michael Buffer:

  Thank you for believing in my dreams, as I believed in yours, during our historic journey into the world of sports and

  entertainment together!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE: TORONTO

  1. PUNCHED IN THE FACE

  2. FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

  3. BOILER ROOM

  4. SECRETS

  5. SELLING THE VOICE

  6. TAP OUT

  7. LOW POINT

  8. WHITE KNIGHT

  9. PATH TO GLORY

  10. THE PEOPLE’S CHAMPION

  11. NO PAIN

  Photo Insert

  12. BRAWL IN THE FAMILY

  13. ON THE ROAD

  14. THE NATURAL

  15. IT’S A GAMBLE

  16. THE ICEMAN

  17. FANS

  18. RAMPAGE

  19. GREAT FIGHTS

  20. BONES

  21. MMA HOLLYWOOD

  22. 360

  23. TO ALL THE GIRLS I’VE

  LOVED BEFORE

  24. INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

  EPILOGUE: RETURN TO THE OCTAGON

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  TORONTO

  Like everyone else on the planet, I was looking forward to UFC 129 in April 2011. It was, just from the looks of it, a phenomenal card. You had the great Randy Couture taking on the much younger Lyoto Machida. And the bout everyone in two nations was sitting tight for was the main event: Georges St-Pierre taking on a contender from the U.S.A., Jake Shields.

  Well, of course that bout was going to attract attention. We were playing in the Rogers Centre in Toronto. The Canadians snapped up the tickets as soon as they went on sale, giving the organization its biggest sellout crowd in UFC history, in North American history. Everyone, from Dana White down to the freshest newbie, was looking forward to it.

  But for me, a funny thing happened on the way to Toronto.

  About a week before the fight, I was playing at a two-day poker tournament at the Hustler Casino in Gardena, California, the one owned by the famous magazine mogul Larry Flynt, and fortune was spinning her wheel in my favor. I was up a few thousand dollars in tournament winnings and had high hopes I’d finish with a title.

  But as I was walking around the casino, I rolled my ankle when I stepped on an uneven spot in the carpet. I didn’t think much of it because it used to happen all the time in my kickboxing days. You’d roll your ankle, you’d regain your balance, and maybe you’d get a little sprain that you’d walk off in a few minutes or so.

  But that day, for some reason, it didn’t play that way at all.

  By the end of the evening, the ankle was hugely swollen and I couldn’t stand on my leg. The next morning, during a break in the action, I rushed to the doctor. He drew blood, not water, out of the ankle. Not a good sign. I’d obviously traumatized the joint. That afternoon, there I was, showing up at the Hustler Casino walking with a cane. But okay. No big deal. I returned to the tables and finished third out of 1,500 poker players and walked away with $30,000.

  That was a fantastic win, so I was not about to let a little ankle injury throw me off my game. Clearly I still had it. Luck was spinning in my favor again. Look, I always tell people today, I wasn’t born on the twenty-first of May for nothing. Twenty-one is the sign of blackjack, one of my best games, and 21 will always be my lucky number.

  For the next few days, I did everything I could to get that ankle back in shape. I would not, under any circumstances, walk into the Octagon with that cane. This was going to be the UFC’s hugest night yet. I’ve worked fifteen years to get where I am tonight, I told myself, and now I can’t put weight on my leg. Maybe that’s not a big deal for most fight announcers. My brother, Michael Buffer, can stand in the center of a boxing ring without moving a finger and entrance a crowd. He’s debonair and stylish, with those drop-dead good looks. His voice, his image, and his signature line, “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble,” are known and recognized all over the world.

  But that’s not my style. I’ve taken my work in another direction. More than eighteen years ago Michael and I took a gamble on each other. I signed on to become his manager and business partner, and set out to do what many people told me was impossible: I took his voice, already famous in the world of boxing, and solidified his signature catchphrase into a solidly protected federal trademark that has grossed more than $400 million in retail sales from the licensed products and ventures we developed and created. Yes, $400 million.

  Along the way, I was able to carve out a niche for myself. I’m known for being the most physical, the most intense announcer the sport of mixed martial arts has ever seen. To do what I do, to absorb all the energy of the fans and channel it into a 180 or, God help us, a 360, I need to be at the top of my game. The tiniest injury can easily derail me. So I nursed that ankle as best I could. Babied it. Iced it. Worked out carefully at the gym. Then I got my stuff together for the flight to Toronto.

  That night, I called about six hours of fights. Then came the main event. GSP and Shields were in the Octagon, and the place was going wild. The Canadians were out of their minds.

  I took the microphone in hand and said:

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING!”

  The crowd screamed.

  I love it when the crowd is pumped and each new fight builds to a crescendo of raw energy. It’s my job to radiate that excitement back to the crowd, to take what they’ve given me and pay it all back in homage to the two warriors who have trained weeks to get here.

  When I’m in the Octagon, I speak from the heart. My heart, and yours.

  My message to the fighters is simple: We honor you! We pay tribute to you. You deserve every ounce of recognition for being here, and I’m going to give the raw power of my voice, my lungs, my physical energy, and my passion to get you ready for this match.

  GSP and Shields were loosening up.

  I held up my cards and marched through the names of the judges and referee and sponsors …

  “AND NOW, THIS IS THE MOMENT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR …”

  I spun into a 360-degree turn and roared like a lion:

  “IIIII​IIIII​IIIT’S TIMMM​MMMMM​MMMMM​E!!!!​!!!!!​!”

  The audience went wild.

  I did a three-foot aerial jump. I hi
t the ground, whipped off a lightning-fast 180-degree turn, and locked eyes with Jake Shields as I read his name and credentials.

  Then I did an aerial 180, and as I landed, I yelled:

  “FIGHTING …”

  I had never done this before off the ground, and it went perfectly.

  “FIGHTING OUT OF THE RED CORNER!”

  I stalked over to Georges and locked eyes with him.

  “THE REIGNING, DEFENDING UNDISPUTED UFC WELTERWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD.”

  “GEORGES—”

  I thrust my body at him.

  “RUSH—”

  Getting into the spirit of things, Georges lunged at me.

  I leaped back as I roared …

  “ST-PIERRE!”

  But as I leaped back, my foot wobbled and I felt a searing pain in my right knee.

  It was the loudest “St-Pierre!” I ever shouted in my life. A boom and a scream all wrapped together, with a little bit of my body as a sacrifice.

  Oh, I thought, that is not good. Something just blew.

  I left the Octagon as the warriors entered the heat of battle. I watched from the sidelines, horrified that my right knee was wobbling from side to side. I don’t think anyone could tell how concerned I was.

  But inside, I had only one thought: Shit, shit, shit. My knee is destroyed. I’ll never be able to announce my way again.

  I limped over to Stitch Duran, the UFC’s legendary cutman, and lowered myself into a chair. Without a word, he brought over an icepack. Stitch watches everyone in the Octagon like a hawk. It’s his job to spot pain, and he knew I was hurting.

  Big John McCarthy, one of the sport’s pioneers and one of its most recognizable referees, caught my eye. “How you doing?” he said.

  “Not good.”

  “I didn’t think so. I saw the way you moved up there. I think you blew your ACL.”

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Look at the crazy irony here, would you? Two of the world’s best fighters are going at it in the Octagon in front of 55,000 people, and the guy in the tuxedo has ice clapped to his knee. What’s wrong with this picture?

  The record will show that I did my job that night. I announced St-Pierre as the winner by unanimous decision. Later, as Joe Rogan was interviewing GSP, I got a chance to speak with Lorenzo Fertitta, one of the owners of the billion-dollar empire that is UFC. “Awesome night of fights,” I said to him. “But I think I blew my ACL. Do you mind giving me the name of the doctor in L.A. that you send the fighters to?”

  He said no problem.

  After the main event, I was leaning against the safety gates in the arena’s aisle and said hi to Dana White, the UFC’s leader, as he walked by.

  “Awesome show tonight, Dana,” I said. “But I think I blew my knee introducing GSP.”

  He nearly laughed out loud. “You?”

  As soon as I left the arena, I became busier than I’d ever been after a fight. This was the largest arena at which we’d ever appeared, with the largest number of fans, and as I limped away from the Octagon that night, this became my longest walk ever. Every corridor and atrium was lined with photo- and autograph-hungry fans. I couldn’t really care about the condition I was in. I simply focused on walking slowly and carefully, posing and signing autographs for every single person who asked me for one.

  I was supposed to hit the after-parties that night with the fighters, same as always. It’s one of the things I love to do. But that night, I passed. I couldn’t risk being jostled by someone. A few days later, the doctor gave me the worst news of my life. I had torn a meniscus, one of the two critical pieces of cartilage in the human knee, in three places, and completely ripped my anterior cruciate ligament. The ACL is one of four ligaments that connect the thighbone to the shinbone. It’s a common injury for sportsmen; a good, wrenching twist after a lifetime of activity will rip that precious cord. You can live without an ACL; Hines Ward had a spectacular career as a wide receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers, hardly missing the ACL he snapped in childhood. But the rest of us mortals can’t begin to do what we do best without getting it replaced, usually when you’re more than thirty years old, with an Achilles’ heel tendon taken from a cadaver.

  My life of athleticism flashed before my eyes. When I was training as a kickboxer as a younger man, that leg had been freakishly strong and fast. I could kick at your face and stop within an inch of your skin without hurting you. That’s how agile that right leg was.

  Now, sitting on the doctor’s bench, I felt like my body had betrayed me.

  “You must get the meniscus done within three to six months,” the doctor said. “If you don’t, it will wear away. You’ll be bone on bone, and you’ll ruin your knee and you will absolutely need a replacement when you’re older. But I do also recommend getting the ACL done.”

  “How much time do I need to recover?”

  “Fully? Six months to a year. To be able to walk up the stairs into the Octagon and do what you do, two to three months with a brace,” he said.

  I didn’t have three months. I had a show in three weeks, and I was also booked to appear in a major motion picture with actors Kevin James, Salma Hayek, and Henry Winkler. Our ten-day film shoot started in Boston in a week’s time. Looking ahead at my schedule, I didn’t have a good long break from the UFC for three months.

  Not long ago, I’d seen another doctor for shoulder pain. After a lifetime of throwing punches and surfing like a madman, my shoulder bone was no longer round but flat. By the time I reached my late sixties, the doctor said, I’d be a good candidate for a shoulder replacement.

  Great, I thought angrily. Knee, shoulder, what else is gonna happen?

  I was worried about my future. I had spent a good chunk of my life in service to the UFC. I’d loved the sport from the moment I’d watched it, and I’d fought hard for the chance to become the sport’s preeminent announcer. Over the years, I’d used every connection I’d made in the world of sports and entertainment to up the UFC’s profile with fans, sports journalists, and TV producers. Those were all things I did behind the scenes—things people never saw or heard about. But for me, the highlight of any fight was being able to walk into the Octagon and do the job I love.

  And now, if I couldn’t walk into the Octagon, what would happen to everything I fought for?

  Worse, I’d done it all to myself. And that really pissed me off.

  I needed to get the surgery done, and fast. The thing was, I had five UFCs in the next two months, one nearly every week. The doc could work on me ASAP, but if he performed the surgery now, I’d break my perfect attendance record. For fifteen years, nothing had kept me out of the Octagon. I hated to ruin that streak.

  I had designed my life around my role as the “Voice of the Octagon,” or the VOTO, as my brother Brian had nicknamed me a few years back. If I took off now, who knows? Maybe I could lose my job. I could lose everything that mattered to me.

  To understand my pain, you must understand how hard I’ve worked to get here. More than a decade and a half ago, I took a gamble on an incredible partnership with my long-lost brother. Then I gambled my livelihood on a dream of announcing for a living. I felt like the luckiest guy in the world to have achieved everything I set my mind on.

  How did I get here? How did I come to manage my brother Michael’s career and make him his first million? How did I talk myself into a job I coveted? How did I earn the right to be in the Octagon? How did I get to surround myself with some of the world’s most talented athletes? How did I get to travel the globe in service to the world’s greatest sport?

  It’s time I told you.

  1

  PUNCHED IN THE FACE

  You don’t know who you really are until you’ve been punched in the face.

  For me, that magic moment happened when I was about thirteen years old. My younger brother Brian and I were living with my folks in Glenside, Pennsylvania, about twenty minutes outside downtown Philly. It was the middle of winter, one of those miserably cold day
s when any snowball you scraped together from the dirty mound of whiteness on the sidewalk was sure to have a couple of hard chunks of ice in it. I packed one of these monsters together and lobbed it at this tough, stern-faced Italian-American kid named Glenn. He and his friends used to terrorize students, especially Jewish kids, at school. They mistakenly thought I was Jewish, so they singled me out for their brand of punishment.

  I was hanging out with his crew and mine, and the moment the iceball whacked his face you could hear everyone get real quiet.

  Glenn didn’t say a word.

  He stomped over to me. Before I knew what was happening, he hit me with a few well-placed right and left hooks. Boom, boom, boom, all knuckles to the face.

  Now, you have to realize something: I was no angel.

  Wherever we lived, the kids were always pretty territorial. This is our turf. You’re either in or out. Well, I thought, if they didn’t want me in, I would just carve out my own turf. I had already formed my own gang when I was about six or seven years old. I actually got in trouble at school for it, and my parents had to come in and have a talk with the principal.

  Being a kid then was different. My father raised us to be very independent. When we were seven and nine years old, my brother Brian and I were taking the bus or train into Philly in the morning, going to museums or a movie, and coming home around five o’clock or later. You won’t dare let your kids do that today. Times were different, and I think kids and parents were different, too.

  I was Joe Buffer’s kid. I’d been conceived in Las Vegas and born in Oklahoma. I’d spent my childhood bouncing back and forth between Dallas and Philly as my father changed corporate VP jobs for a variety of Fortune 500 companies. He traveled extensively during those early years, and many times it was just my mom, Brian, and me alone for a week or two at a time while he was gone.

  Nominally my father was a salesman, but he was so much more. He had always tried to instill some street smarts in the two of us. He taught my older brother, Brian, and me basic self-defense moves at an early age. Good thing, too, because the first time I was jumped was at age six. A kid grabbed me from behind, and I remembered something Dad had just told me. I raised my foot and stomped on the kid’s instep. Crunch. The kid ran away. He never messed with me again. I was attending a tough school in Philadelphia at the time. I needed to know how to handle myself, because even though we were young, now and then we still had to fight to hang on to our lunch money.