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Inside Looking OutByline: Brett Orzechowski
Aug. 19--NEW HAVEN -- A Canadian chill settled outside the Palais des Congres in Hull, Quebec, during mid-January's winter lull. Inside, maple-leaved flags fluttered, chants pelted John Clarke in English and French, and the partisan crowd pulled for a man called "Farmer."
There was no ring, but an octagon, and Clarke's heartbeat remained even, eyes fixed on his opponent. Just steps behind him, his coach Roger Denton noticed the scene unfolding around his fighter.
Denton then knew. This would never happen in Connecticut.
Clarke has known this life since he began the endless pursuit of a sport which is illegal in this state but has replaced boxing in popularity across the country, capturing cable television’s crucial 18-34 male marketing demographic, and spawning knockoff leagues and reality television shows. He travels to fights and earns a less-than-modest paycheck.
Meanwhile, he searches for a break.
The lifestyle appeals to Clarke, 32, a journeyman who wrestled at Hamden Hall, momentarily went to college, joined the Army Reserve, and found mixed martial arts in California before returning home to New Haven. A Sept. 7 tournament begins a three-month stretch for Clarke that may lead to a spot on one of the few high-profile professional MMA circuits, which includes the original and most popular, Ultimate Fighting Championship.
Opportunities are only out of state for Clarke. The eight-man tournament will be held at the Tropicana Atlantic City Casino and Resort.
He also faces this reality: the sport is relegated to just training in Connecticut beyond the casino's sovereign ground. There is no governing body. No legislation. And most in MMA circles believe there is little hope the state will create an organization.
That is, until a national federation is formed. When purses spiral out of control. When a percolating steroid issue intensifies. When gambling corrupts the sport. When the perception of MMA rivals wrestling and becomes as mundane as boxing.
These are Clarke's thoughts on a sport which is equal parts tradition and discipline, but no longer a novelty.
He is on the outside looking in with nowhere else to turn.
"What's the future of MMA in Connecticut? I don't know," Denton said. "Is there a future ?"
MISCONCEPTIONS
There are those who believe they can do this that shuffle through one of two gyms Denton owns with Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu instructor Fabio Araujo. Former football players and wrestlers. Boxers who question the functionality of MMA. Then there's Denton's favorite -- the barroom fighter.
"I don't look at a football game and think I can do that, but for some reason people watch Spike TV and think they can do this," Denton said. "So this is what we do. We throw them in the ring with a guy 50 pounds lighter, looking like nothing and then all their dreams go out the window. The skinny guy always wins. It's good that way. We weed out the bad ones."
When the first UFC took place in 1993, the sport was a mere paid-television curiosity.
But this wasn't the first meeting of different disciplines.
In 1976, Muhammad Ali fought sumo wrestler Antonio Inoki. Andre the Giant once took on Chuck Wepner. For a fictitious reference, think Thunderlips (Hulk Hogan) versus Rocky Balboa (Sylvester Stallone) in Rocky III.
Fighters from all disciplines -- wrestling, judo, boxing, tae kwon do -- fought each other to prove who was the best fighter in the world. There were size differences. There was much more blood. More often than not, a fighter was usually hauled out of the octagon unconscious, the result of submission without the devastating head trauma a boxer usually sustains.
It wasn't until 2001, when Lorenzo and Frank Fertitta began pumping money into the UFC and installed Connecticut-born boxing promoter Dana White (Manchester) as its president that MMA was exposed to a much-different media world than a decade earlier.
A Brazilian fighter named Royce (Hoyce) Gracie became the sport's initial household name, employing the discipline his family has perfected for more than a century. He won the UFC event three times on the strength of Gracie Jiu-Jitsu. It was White who took the sport to another level.
"People already forget it was Hoyce and the Gracies because all of these new guys and the leagues," said Marcio Stambowsky, a member of the Gracie family. "Short memories."
Meanwhile, those events set pay-per-view-television records, reaching an unprecedented number of households. One of those homes belonged to Clarke, who has nine professional fights. The other belonged to amateur John Cannata's family in Stratford.
They are a study in contrast between a fighter establishing himself and another learning the intricacies of the sport. Clarke is like most MMA fighters -- older, experienced across a number of disciplines, and patient. Cannata, who played linebacker at Division III Springfield College, has been a full-time amateur fighter for just two years. He is still a few years away from becoming a professional.
He lacks a key component -- patience. There are nine years between the two. Denton, who trains both, said those nine years are needed. There is also a 50-pound, 6-inch difference in stature, but Denton said it's still unfortunate that when the two walk out of the gym, they will be classified in the same category.
"A lot of people think we're a bunch of thugs. That's not what we're about. We're exposing our sport every day," Clarke said. "One day soon, MMA will be everywhere, even in this state. Once they see how much money can be made in MMA, it's going to be everywhere. It's already passed boxing in a lot of places. Guys aren't looking for boxing gyms anymore. They're looking for this."
A few boxers stroll into the Nicoll Street gym in New Haven where middleweight boxer Elvin Ayala trains. There is casual conversation, a few hugs shared. Then the banter begins.
With expected bravado, the boxers claim they are the best pound-for-pound fighter in the area. Denton corrects them.
They are only the best pound-for-pound boxer.
Fighting is something different.
THE BEGINNING
Afew weeks after Cannata graduated from Springfield with a degree in criminal justice, he wanted to know one thing. He wanted to know if he could take a punch to the face.
"It happened, and I thought it wasn't that bad. Then I saw another guy take one, and he didn't show up the next time," Cannata said. "Someone leaned over to me and said it was frustration on their part. You can't get frustrated with this. There's so much to learn. So much. And then there's emotion. That's another story."
Cannata lives in the home he grew up in and waits tables at night. Training is for the day. He makes just enough to support himself and has no qualms telling people he still lives with his parents.
When Denton told him that it may take years before he earns a paycheck fighting, Cannata was not deterred.
Two years have passed. He's still training. Patience, though, is different.
Cannata has fought three times, each time a larger letdown for Denton. In his two losses, Cannata was ahead on points after the first of three rounds. He wound up losing. When the second round began, he tried to force his opponent to submit. He wanted the submission, the grand closing, a finish with all the trimmings that show up on highlight reels and YouTube clips. Perhaps some blood. Maybe a stretcher. Instead, he was left with a loss on points. Denton knows the signs even before the fight begins. Meals are minimal the day of a fight. Weight has been cut. Cannata has sliced off as much as 20 pounds during training. Clarke once trimmed 35. Professional fighters weigh in the day before. Amateurs must the day of the fight. Maybe a tin of tuna will be enough, but the adrenaline produces something else. Every 15 minutes, Cannata must go to the bathroom. "When we cut that time to maybe once an hour," Denton said, "maybe we'll try to get him his first pro fight." Cannata still absorbs punches to the face. He trains with Araujo, a 6-foot, 150-pound Brazilian made of coil and skin, who puts Cannata in a hold. Cannata turns red, veins pop from his neck and forehead. Araujo lets go, picks up his body from the mat and pulls up Cannata, who is trying to regain his breath.
Araujo tells Cannata he's improving.
THE WAIT
The event that beamed into Clarke's living room resonated so deeply that soon the dining room in the apartment he shared with a friend turned into a padded training center. Clarke's base discipline was wrestling. He wanted to learn more. For the better part of eight years, Clarke has learned from five teachers -- from Denton's multi-discipline knowledge to Stambowsky's Gracie Jiu-Jitsu to the aesthetics of boxing from trainer Luis Rosa, who also is Ayala's corner man.
Clarke began fighting when MMA still allowed open fist, when the sport was not as organized and seemed more appealing with the bloodshed of a combative sport. Denton, 39, stated the obvious -- "Let's face it, men our age like some form of violence."
As for Clarke, he knows he is still relatively young for a fighter. Recently, he advanced to the final cut of Spike TV's "The Ultimate Fighter" reality series, but he was not included in the show's 16 finalists for airing.
There is still a degree of showmanship in the sport. Like most fighters, though, he realizes he hasn't made it yet.
"It's like you finally find something that you know you can excel at and it's right there, and with so many opportunities now, why stop?" Clarke asked. "There's this threshold. You made it this far. It's a lot of internalization. People ask you why. Is it the money? Is it the abuse? Remember, there is an art behind this. Some people just don't understand."
The Sept. 7 event, "Ring of Combat XV", begins three levels of fights, one each month, until the late-November final. If Clarke advances, he gets noticed. The draw is random. He will drive three hours, across the state line, with perhaps a small contingent. Otherwise, it's Clarke against a local fighter and a precarious future.
Clarke searches for a few wins, but really, he also searches for legitimacy in a sport which still needs some acceptance.
"The rounds are 3-5 minutes, but there's some clown out there who doesn't realize how long that really is to keep moving, to actually think about strategy and physically execute that strategy," Denton said. "It's not easy, but I train these guys to do that. You have to realize that you have to last longer than just a few minutes."
He hopes the appeal lasts longer than that, in the country and perhaps the state.
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Copyright (c) 2007, New Haven Register, Conn.