Ultimate fighting in San Bernardino County
I received an e-mail this morning from a loyal reader asking if the story on ultimate fighting over the weekend was an endorsement of San Manuel Casino. As a reporter, my job is not to make endorsements of any group or politican. That's the job of our editorial board and editors. The casino was included in the story because it is a major venue in Southern California for ultimate fighting. But you can make up your own mind.
Here's the story:
At the end of the second five-minute round, Mr. Unbreakable was verging on exhaustion, stumbling in the ring, barely able to land a punch or a kick to his opponent's upper body.
Muscles aching, sweat streaming down his face, he moved in on defending junior welterweight champion, Victor "Joe Boxer" Valenzuela, and tackled him to the floor. Again and again, Mr. Unbreakable drove his elbow into Valenzuela's head with calculated force.
The thing about Mr. Unbreakable, or Brian Warren, as he is known outside the chain-link fencing that makes up the King of the Cage ring - and outside the realm of professional mixed martial arts - is that he has been broken many times.
Aside from the regular bruising, the broken noses and countless head and face wounds, the six-foot-tall, 170-pound 34-year-old has suffered three "major career injuries": a broken ankle from a "lock" so tight it shattered the bone, a broken leg pieced together with a metal plate and screws, and a busted knee, which took him out of professional fighting for the longest period of time and helped him find God.
"I was looking at my foot the whole time," Warren said. "It was facing the wrong direction. That was the most humbling experience in my life."
As a skinny white boy growing up in San Bernardino, Warren got picked on and was frequently jumped. He had to learn to defend himself from an early age.
"San Bernardino is a pretty rough city," Warren said. "I'm from the
barrio. I grew up fighting. That's all I know how to do is fight. It's instilled in me."
But after that day in the hospital, during which he endured four excruciating hours without painkillers, finding God and following His word has led Warren on a new path.
He has focused more on teaching up-and-coming fighters than on his own wins in the cage, and he has opened a Christian-based gym in a strip mall on East Lynwood Drive in San Bernardino. On Wednesday nights, Warren leads a Bible study class there.
"People always ask me, `How can you be a fighter and be a Christian?"' Warren said. "There were a lot of warriors in the Bible, like King David and Joshua, and they fought. I'm going into competition and using the skills that God has given me - hard work, dedication and determination."
Ultimate fighting has become an Inland Empire phenomenon. Part of the credit may be due to the casinos which first hosted the competitions, back in the day before ultimate fighting was legal, before the formation of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, an organization which offered the sport not only some legitimacy, but regulations, including mandatory drug testing.
On the night when Warren fought and won a three-round match against Valenzuela on Dec. 11, the Bingo Hall at San Manuel Casino in Highland was packed with people cheering on the competitors.
San Bernardino County seems to breed ultimate fighters. From the center of the cage, like a circus ringleader, the announcer used his booming baritone voice to list off the fighters' hometowns - Highland, Victorville, Rancho Cucamonga, San Bernardino.
What makes King of the Cage such sheer spectacle besides the violent ringside show? The adrenaline-pumping metal music, the glaring lights trained on the stage, the blaring preview videos of fighters attempting to psych out their adversaries, and the scantily clad cage girls strutting around the cage's perimeter in black string bikinis and high heels.
The fighters enter the arena to the pounding music. They strip off their warm-up suits, revealing skin etched with the black, green and blue ink of tattoos. Vaseline is smeared on their faces to deflect punches and reduce the chances of incurring bloody facial wounds.
Then the coaches thump the fighters' backs, give words of reassurance and encouragement. The two fighters square off in the ring. The bell rings three times, and the fight is on.
The entire event seems to be carefully orchestrated to draw - and hold - the audience's attention.
At the heart of ultimate fighting is mixed martial arts - fighters boast combined knowledge of disciplines including boxing, kickboxing, wrestling, karate, jiu-jitsu and judo.
Ultimate fighting bends the traditional rules of boxing. It is bloodier and faster-paced (there are only three to five rounds as opposed to 12 found in boxing).
It is also more savage. Forms of choking are acceptable, such as a triangle choke hold or scissor lock, when a fighter wraps his legs around an opponent's head and one arm and uses leverage to apply extreme pressure, crushing the opponent into submission.
Steve Lengel, executive director of operations at San Manuel, declined to comment on how much revenue the casino pulls in from hosting King of the Cage events. Ticket prices tend to range anywhere from $35 to more than $100 for similar events across the nation.
On the night Warren fought - the sixth competition hosted by San Manuel this year - it's safe to say at least a few thousand people attended the event.
"The fans just love it. They love the excitement," Lengel said. "They asked for more, so we just kept bringing it to them."
Thanks to pay per view, YouTube, sponsorships and cross-marketing deals, it has become easier for fighters to make a name for themselves and earn a living.
Randy Couture, among the most recognizable faces in mixed martial arts, might stand to garner $250,000 just for showing up to a fight, and another $250,000 in prize money if he wins.
Warren, on the other hand, might be classified as a second-tier fighter in terms of pay, collecting around $10,000 per fight, and possibly another $10,000 for winning.
But Warren isn't banking on his wins alone to earn a living. His mission is to be a teacher and a leader.
He points to the case of Vincent Martinez as an example. Martinez, 23 and a San Bernardino native, is one of the guys Warren has trained and whose life has changed as a result.
Growing up, Martinez was in and out of juvenile hall, shuffled from one group home to another. When he hit his late teens, Martinez started street fighting and engaging in bar brawls.
It was only recently that he found purpose and stability at the Unbreakable Gym.
The morals, life skills and character building he gained at the gym were life altering, Martinez said.
"Coming here has matured me so much," Martinez said. "This is another home for me."
For months Martinez slept in his car at a nearby park. He would shower each morning by rinsing off at an outdoor faucet, then head over to the gym at 8:30 a.m.
Now Martinez wants to pursue professional fighting, but he's also thinking about the future and other ways of making a living. He says he wants to go back to school and, one day, maybe work as a car mechanic.
On the seat of Warren's shorts, where most fighters have their last names emblazoned, Warren has the words, "Jesus didn't tap." It's a reference to tapping out, or submitting, in a fight.
It seems to be a motto that applies to more than just fighting in the cage, but to life as well.
"Fighting is not about fighting for me. It's more of a journey," Warren said. "It takes a lot of heart to get in there and fight.
"It takes a lot of courage."
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