Mixed Martial Arts (MMA) is a full contact sport, where an array of fighting techniques and styles are integrated and demonstrated among some of the top fighters in the world. Some who watch MMA fights on television find it to be brutal, anger driven, and barbaric; others may think that these fighters are grown-up high school bullies, the troublemakers of society, or just men with attitude problems. What they don’t know is that these men are the total opposite of what the sport portrays. In fact, most of them are your average blue and white-collar workers who battle for the simple love of the sport.

Enter the world of professional MMA fighter, Bobby Stack, a charming, low-key guy with a sense of humor and a mean right hook. Once he steps inside the “Octagon,” or fighting ring, he says he switches his mindset to become the baddest son-of-a-bitch in the world.

March 12, 2008 (5:48 p.m.) Training Day: Fairtex Gym

Amazing photographs of Muay Thai fighters line the hallway of Fairtex Gym in San Francisco. Some pose with trophies, while others are caught in the action of the fight. In the boxing ring, a man and woman spar each other, neck-to-neck in full contact while rap artist 50 Cent plays on the stereo. To the left of the ring is an array of fighters, more men and women partnered up, wearing pads on their arms. With heavy exhales into every punch and kick, sweat hits the mat. To the right of the ring is a wrestling area, where Bobby Stack is working on his Jiu-Jitsu with trainer Denny Prokopos, the 2007 Jiu-Jitsu No Gi World Champion (Mundials) in the Brown Belt Category. “Today what I want to work more on with Bobby is to sharpen his Jiu-Jitsu,” says Denny. “So he can be more improved and prepared going into his fight come Saturday.”
Bobby steps in the ring to spar against another fighter who is also training for his fight on March twenty-second.

“C’mon baby, you got it, Bobby! Atta boy, work that kid!” yells out trainer Jake Shields, who is one of the top three MMA welterweights in the world.

“Throw your arms. Just throw your arms!” Jake shouts to Bobby.

“A minute forty-five left, Bobby! C’mon, finish strong! Who wants it, boys…ten seconds left, guys! C’mon, push, push, push!” he continues. “THREE-TWO-ONE…Time, guys! Good job. That’s the way to push it! That’s what we want!”

Both fighters break away from one another. Pacing around the ring, they breathe in deeply from exhaustion and remove their mouthpieces.

As Bobby leans against the ropes exhausted, he takes a big breath of air.

March 14, 2008 (7 p.m.) Half a Pound: the Weigh–Ins

Bobby finally arrives looking calm and mellow. Fighters, trainers, commissioners, promoters, models, press, friends, and family gather here to witness the day of the weigh-ins. Fighters size one another up, taking note of who they’ll be up against in the Octagon.

If Bobby doesn’t make the weight, his opponent, Clint Coronel, can opt to fight or he can ask for more money from Bobby’s paycheck after the fight.

Bobby steps on the scale, but notices that something is wrong.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says, looking up in disbelief. “I’m a fucking half-a-pound over.” He runs out the door to his father’s dark green truck, wraps his body in black plastic garbage bags, throws on a bright green sweatshirt, black sweat pants, white sneakers and takes off running in the parking lot to sweat off the half pound.

Time is crucial. Bobby has only been running for two minutes now and the promoters are calling him in to do the official weigh-in in front of the crowd. “Shit, man! You can’t be serious,” says Bobby. Both fighters strip down to their compression shorts and again take turns weighing themselves. The promoters announce each of their weights to the crowd—Clint at 155 1⁄2 and Bobby at 156. They are still allowed to fight.

March 15, 2008 (6:07 p.m.) The Locker Room

You can feel the tension in the air. Twenty-two fighters wait in the locker rooms of Kezar Pavilion, eleven on the blue side and eleven on the red at the Gladiator Challenge. Blood, sweat, tears, and sacrifice drive the fight tonight. Novice fighters and veterans mingle. The smell of stale sweat thickens the air while photographers snap shots of fighters and trainers wrapping their protégé’s hands. Fighters wait, listening to their iPods, and the sound of punches hitting focus mitts bellows throughout the shallow hallway that leads to the yellow, metal-caged Octagon—where a fighter either walks away proud or is carried off on a stretcher. Unscathed or bludgeoned; victorious or defeated.
March 15, 2008 (9:32 p.m.) Releasing of the Butterflies

“Bobby Stack. You’re up next,” says one of the California State Commissioners to Bobby after nine matches pass.

“Let’s go, baby! Showtime!!!” Bobby shouts with a smirk on his face.

It’s Bobby’s turn to once again enter the Octagon where he has been victorious three times and defeated only once. He throws the hood of a black sweatshirt over his head, walks out the door and waits in the hallway. He rocks back and forth in anticipation and his stomach is filled with butterflies.

The ring announcer paces steadily in the ring. He breathes into the microphone and hollers, “Now everybody put your hands together for Bobby Stack!”
The crowd roars.

9:47 p.m. Round One - GAMETIME!

As both fighters stand in their corners of the ring—Bobby in blue, Clint in red—pandemonium strikes the pavilion, and the opponents stare each other down.

“Are you ready?” says the referee to Clint. “Are you ready?” he says to Bobby. “Let’s go!”

As the fight progresses, Bobby’s corner supporters scream out tactics and strategies to him.

“Hands up, Bobby, keep those hands up,” shouts trainer Gilbert Melendez, the 2008 Strikeforce lightweight champion.

“Double jab, shoot, Bobby,” shouts trainer Jake Shields.

The crowd begins to chant, “BOB-BY! BOB-BY! BOB-BY!” as Bobby slams Clint on the mat and tries to dominate from a top position. The ten-second warning sounds and Gilbert grabs a sitting stool, a bucket of water, ice, Vaseline, and a towel for Bobby.

The bell rings and Gilbert runs into the octagon to assist Bobby with his bruises and cuts. “Bobby, when you’re going to secure the mount, watch out ‘cause he’s gonna’ try and go for the heel hook if he tries to bridge you,” shouts trainer Nik Theotikos, who is a well known fighter in the world of MMA.
Ten more seconds until the next round starts.

9:53 p.m. Round Two

After the first round, each fighter is now more certain of what the other wants to do strategically. Bobby strikes at Clint’s legs as he did in the first round, picks him up in the air, and slams him down powerfully on the mat.

“Elbow, Bobby, elbow, elbow, elbow!” shouts Denny Prokopos.

Bobby now has his opponent on his back and is mounted on top. He throws punch after punch as Clint tries to block his blows.

“He’s grabbing the fence! He’s grabbing the fucking fence, ref!” screams Gilbert to the referee. Clint is grabbing the fencing on the Octagon, which is against the rules, while trying to fight off Bobby.
The bell rings again.

Gilbert massages Bobby’s arms to loosen up tension. “Hey Bobby watch the arm too. He’s trying to attack your arm,” says Jake. “Anytime he sits up, he’s going for a Kimora sweep”—a defensive Jiu-Jitsu move.

10 p.m. Final Round
Bobby hops up and down, shakes his arms out, and cracks his neck, anticipating his victory. The fighters come together in a clinch, and Bobby yet again picks up Clint and slams him to the mat.
“Keep poppin’ him, Bobby! Break his spirit! On your heels!” shouts Nik.
“Hammer fists, Bobby, hammer fists,” shouts Denny.

Both fighters are exhausted. When the final ten-second warning bell sounds, they boost their energy up one last time to impress the judges before the final decision is made. No one wants to lose, but someone will take that role.

“Hands up! C’mon, put ya hands up, Bobby, you won!” shouts Nik as the crowd chants Bobby’s name one last time before the results are read. The announcer reads the results, and it’s a unanimous decision. “Bobby Stack!” yells the announcer to the crowd. The referee lifts Bobby’s arm in victory. Chaos takes over the stadium and cheers from the bleachers erupt like a volcano.
Bobby busts his signature back flip.

10:37 p.m. TIME TO PARTY!

Bobby’s huge smile lights up the room. “I’m satisfied, man. The hard workouts paid off well,” he says. “I was able to go all the rounds, get the win, and everything I did, I was planning on doing. It was a good night.”
The night is his. He gathers his things and gets ready to enjoy the evening with family and friends. He heads out the locker-room door. “I’m gettin’ drunk tonight. Its St. Patrick’s Day, boys,” says Bobby. “It’s my time to shine.”