Born to Fight (15 page)

Shortly after that, Dixon arranged another fight for me, this time in an event in Nagoya against Cro Cop. This was
another fight I barely trained for, and one I got through because of my natural resilience to blunt trauma. Mirko was (and, at the time of writing, is still) famed for his head kicks, saying once in a press conference that his right leg was for putting you in the hospital, but his left leg was for putting you in the cemetery.

In that fight I ate what I reckon was one of the biggest left kicks the Croat ever dished out, and I ate it whole, ducking under a punch that never came, multiplying the force of my movement towards his leg by the velocity of his kick. It didn’t put me in the cemetery but it did send me momentarily unconscious, with my hands raised as I fell.

I got up and continued the fight, but lost on points. The Japanese media went to town over Mirko’s kick. I’d never been dropped in my K-1 career up to that point – I was a juggernaut, the immovable object, always moving forward. That was no longer the case.

When the journalists asked me what was wrong I told them he just got me – more power to Mirko. That was the end of the story. Only it wasn’t the end of the story for me. I knew I was a better fighter than Mirko and I was deeply annoyed at being fat and unfit when I’d rolled into that fight against a quality opponent.

When I returned to Oz I started doing some fitness training but couldn’t get back into striking sessions because
I’d aggravated an old hand injury from my street-fighting days. I’d sustained it when a guy I was busting fell into me and was biting chunks out of my stomach and chest. I started throwing punches into the top of this dude’s head until I split my hand between the first and second knuckles, separating the skin and exposing the bone. My hand swelled up in the same place after the Mirko fight and soon it gave me too much grief to punch.

Shortly after I returned from Japan, Dixon called saying that K-1 wanted me to fight again in a couple of months. They were looking for the rubber match between Jérôme Le Banner and me to be the headline for an event they were mounting in the capital of his home nation, France.

I told Dixon I was injured, so they’d have to schedule something for me a little later in the year. Not long afterwards Dixon came to me again, saying Ishii-san really wanted me to take the fight. This was a key event for the company, in a new region, and they very much wanted to have the local hero face off against the man who’d knocked him out in the Grand Prix in which he’d been the heavy favourite to win.

I told Dixon it didn’t really matter what they wanted, my ass wouldn’t be ready until later in the year. I probably could’ve fought through the hand injury if I absolutely had to, but I’d just taken a fight against a real foe and
I’d rolled in fat and unready. I’d rather not do it against Jérôme frickin’ Le Banner.

Two weeks before the Paris event, I was in New Zealand doing fitness training when I got a message from Hape saying he really wanted me to meet him at Dixon’s new house. As I walked through my manager’s place I imagined those cash flow problems he’d been having must have been over, and said as much.

‘Yeah, things are okay,’ he said.

‘Can I get my money back then?’

‘Not just yet. But there is something I have to talk to you about. They still want you to fight Le Banner.’

‘When and where?’

‘Same time, same place.’

Now, I don’t know if he hadn’t told the Japanese I wasn’t fighting, or he hadn’t been telling them with the necessary insistence, but either way I was pissed.

‘I told you Dixon, I can’t. I’m injured.’

‘They wanted me to tell you that if you don’t take this fight they’ll be pretty upset.’

I didn’t want the fight, so I started making demands. ‘Okay, tell them this. I want to fly first class to Paris. Not business, but first. I also want two hundred and fifty grand for the fight.’

It was a number that just popped into my head. I thought I was highballing those guys, but knowing what I do now about K-1 fighters’ pay, I was probably underselling myself.

‘Mate, they won’t go for it,’ Dixon said in a small voice.

‘Mate, then I’m not fucking fighting.’

‘Is that it?’

‘That’s it.’

Dixon went away, presumably to call Ken Imai, and returned with a frown plastered across his face. ‘Well, they’re not going to give you the money. And not just that, if you don’t take the fight your career may be over.’

You probably know me well enough by now to know that I don’t respond to threats particularly well. After telling Dixon to relay the message that the entire K-1 organisation could go fuck itself, I was in my car and away. I was barely out of Dixon’s driveway when he called and asked if I’d do it for a hundred grand.

‘First class and two hundred and fifty. That’s all there is,’ I said, before hanging up.

I was barely out of Dixon’s street when he called back again and said we had a deal. As I drove off it occurred to me that I’d just earned $190,000 specifically because I didn’t listen to my bloody manager. I started thinking about the first contract I’d signed with the K-1, and wondered
whether retaining Dixon as my manager really had been the best thing to do.

When I boarded my flight for Paris, who would I find next to me in first class but Dixon, who had somehow managed to negotiate himself a first-class seat too.

It turned out the flights were the best part of that trip. We were in Paris in the height of summer and the place was hot, smelly and the people didn’t give a shit about me. In Japan I’d been loved by some and respected by all, but when I walked past Parisians, they just saw another thug.

The fight wasn’t much fun, either. My hand didn’t give me any issues but after receiving a light jab from Le Banner in the first round, my vision got all blurry. I went through that fight next to blind and even though I managed to drop Le Banner in the second round, he was picking me apart with long kicks and jabs that I was seeing only a microsecond before they thudded into me.

When I went into my corner after the second round, the fight doctor asked whether I could continue. I said I absolutely could. Even though I was almost blind, I had already dropped that big croissant once. I could do it again.

Dixon disagreed and threw in the towel. Now you might be wondering where a manager gets off making such decisions during a fight, and if you are, you’d probably understand a little bit of the volcanic rage that emanated
from Hape as soon as the linen hit the canvas. Not to mention from me.

Soon Hape and Dixon turned their anger outward, at Le Banner’s corner, accusing them of putting some sort of substance on their fighter’s gloves that had blinded me. There was a short search for the Frenchman’s gloves, which his corner said they’d thrown into the crowd. There was no finding them.

All I wanted was to get out of France. I was done with that fight, I was done with my team, and I was done with Le Banner.

I actually had no problem with Le Banner. If something had been put on his gloves, it was done to win a fight. I understood that. What I didn’t understand was where I stood with Dixon and the K-1 organisation and even Hape – all the people who pushed for this fight I said I didn’t want.

The flight home was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and my faith in Dixon. We had dinner on the plane and at the end of the meal we were served some miniature fine cheeses, one of which looked like a red, oversized pill. It didn’t look like the other cheeses so I left it for last, unsure of what to do with it.

When I saw Dixon pop that cheese into his mouth I followed suit, but I found it wasn’t yielding as deliciously as the other cheeses had. It was tough, chewy and unpleasant.

As I watched Dixon pull the wax out of his teeth I realised my relationship with this guy was coming to an end. I was supposed to be the one who did the fighting and my manager was supposed to be the one who did everything else, which should have included knowing that you take the wax off before you eat the first-class cheese.

I didn’t go into my second K-1 Grand Prix with any intention of defending my title. I didn’t intend not to, either; it was just that the four months after the Paris flight flew by and I wasn’t counting the days leading up to the GP by training sessions, but by calls to Dixon asking for my money back.

Jules and I had decided it was time to move out of the apartment that Hape had arranged for us, and buy our
own place. Back then I had no understanding of mortgages or brokers: I thought the only way to buy a place was the way I did it with my parents’ house – hand over the cash amount whole, as you might buy a sandwich or a beer.

Dixon had stopped returning my calls after we got back from Paris and I was growing more and more annoyed, especially when news stories started emerging about how David Tua had been ripped off by his manager, and there was nothing Tua could do to get his money back.

One day I called Dixon’s place and Ray answered. I told Ray to tell Dixon that he’d better get my fucking money together, and soon.

‘You gave money to Dixon?’ Ray laughed down the line. ‘Was it money to pay back what Dixon owes me?’

I didn’t know what the money had been for, but I was now convinced it wasn’t for a slam-dunk business opportunity as he’d originally said. Maybe Dixon was paying back debts to Ray; maybe he was paying off gambling debts – which I’d heard he had a problem with – or maybe it was to pay for his new house. Whatever the reason, he owed me.

I didn’t want to go around there – because if I did there was a serious possibility Dixon might end up with a fork in his eye, but I did want the debt settled right now. My anger over the situation simmered until one day, when I
was having drinks with some mates who had previously been very useful in settling such situations, it bubbled over. I told these blokes about my predicament.

‘We can put that motherfucker in a car boot for you if you like? If he has any money, he’ll give it to you then, I promise that,’ one of the guys said.

I seriously considered the offer. While it was seductive, it was an old-me solution. I didn’t want to be involved with any more criminal shit; I wanted to be a civilian and deal with things the way civilians did. Besides, if Dixon was getting stuffed into the boot of a car, I hated to think someone else would get the pleasure of doing it.

A few days after that drink I walked into a legal practice in Campbelltown and told a lawyer about what had happened. A few weeks later Dixon’s lawyers and mine were sitting across from one another, discussing terms.

I found out that mine was a long way from being the only debt Dixon had accrued and after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing with his lawyers, my people recommended taking a lesser sum, as the full $300,000 may not ever be recoverable. I asked for two hundred grand. Dixon baulked, but what sealed it was when I held up a newspaper with the story about David Tua and his manager on the cover.

‘That could be you, Dixon,’ I said to him. ‘Do you want to be in the paper?’

We got an offer for a little more than $170,000 and, after a strong recommendation from my lawyers, I took the cash. When the time came to sign the agreement I looked at this slimy bastard who’d tried to take off with my cash and saw two things: a lack of remorse on his mug and an expensive-looking watch on his wrist.

‘I’ll take that too,’ I said of the watch.

Dixon was shocked, but he handed it over. He knew I wasn’t fucking around.

When Ben, the guy who’s helping me put this book together, approached Dixon about the debt, Dixon said he had no recollection of this event. His version of events was that he borrowed the three hundred grand, and then paid it back – simple as that.

I messaged Dixon when I heard this, saying I was sorry he’d had the opportunity to tell his part of the story, but chose to keep lying. I really was sorry, too. I wasn’t angry, but sad. I felt for the guy. He obviously got caught up in some shit he couldn’t handle, and I’m not just talking about his debt to me.

I hope Ray Sefo will get to that point one day too, where he can simply pity Dixon. It might take a while, though. Those two were like family, until Ray found out a trust account he thought had between $200,000 and $400,000 in it was actually $7000 in arrears. Dixon was accessing
the funds without Ray’s knowledge. Ray told Kiwi paper
Sunday News
that he – ‘pray[s] for Dixon’s soul every day, because he’s going to end up in hell’.

By the time I headed to Japan to qualify for the defence of my K-1 Grand Prix title, I was without a manager and considerably less prepared than I’d been the year before. To be honest, though, I didn’t really care that much about what happened. I’d already won the Grand Prix, I was already contracted and I was already a big name in Japan.

The previous year there had been a number of different ways a fighter could pick up a berth for the Grand Prix, but now there was just one – succeed in a single elimination tournament at the newly opened Saitama Super Arena. The sixteen best fighters would be invited, with half going into the main event a couple of months later.

I was drawn against Mike Bernardo, and even though my training had been almost non-existent I was pretty confident of getting over him. He fought pretty well in what ended up being a lethargic fight. I was the aggressor, but I didn’t fight a particularly nuanced fight, basically just trying to butter him up with jabs and put some right-hand finishing bombs on him. I never managed to get one on him in the three regular rounds, and he got some good counter shots in.