Ali vs. Inoki (24 page)

All-time great UFC middleweight Anderson Silva lost by technical knockout on December 8, 2013, at UFC 168 when his left leg fractured below the knee because Chris Weidman timed an inside leg kick with a perfect counter check. That sort of thing is not unheard of.

As he progressed as a martial artist and a pro fighter, Smith added tools to his arsenal. Kickboxers have eight
weapons at their disposal—both hands, both feet, both elbows, and both knees—compared to boxers who use just two. Mixed martial artists, understandably, have many more. Smith labeled Ali a “specialized fighter” because, despite an expanding knowledge base, he had been called one himself. The businesses of mixed-style fights and their interpretive dance,
puroresu
, have boomed in Japan during the years since Inoki drew Ali. In that way, the bout in 1976 was a big success and influence. During a bus ride around Kobe City ahead of Smith's first mixed bout on November 8, 1993, for the nascent Pancrase organization, which was built from the legacy of Ali–Inoki, the one and only Ken Shamrock turned to the kickboxer and shared a thought.

“Maurice,” Shamrock said, “you're not a fighter.”

Smith looked back at Shamrock, who less than a week later would be in Denver to participate in UFC 1, and thought,
I've been a champion for two years. What's that mean, not a fighter?
Smith had stepped into the ring to kickbox more than thirty times before Pancrase gave him a shot at MMA. Fighting with hands and feet is incredibly difficult to do at a high level over a period of several years, so Smith, perturbed, asked Shamrock what he meant.

“Because you're a specialized fighter,” Shamrock replied. “You only fight kickboxing.”

“What the hell you talking about?” Smith shot back.

It took guts on Ali's part to get in the ring against a grappler, even though he stacked the deck against Inoki as far as the rules went. And it took guts for Smith to move beyond his comfort zone of kickboxing into the MMA realm. “No matter what, it's a business decision to keep your name going,” Smith said. “But it's a big gamble.” As far as Ali's
foray, “obviously they didn't practice against low kicks and this kind of fighting. They knew they were fighting a wrestler but they didn't know what he was going to do.”

Smith thought about what Shamrock said and conceded he had a point. A specialized fighter only competes a certain way. And at that moment, the description fit him, as it had Ali in 1976.

Ali was “kind of, sort of afraid of martial artists,” said his taekwondo coach, Jhoon Rhee. “Martial artists kick and punch. He didn't know how to kick.” They grapple, too, but the point remains the same: what you don't know can be scary if you're forced to face it head-on.

When Rhee was a kid in Seoul, Korea, where he was born in 1932 during the Japanese occupation, he was enamored with martial arts. By the time he was fourteen, having realized the value of taekwondo, he opened his own school and had visions of bringing an art reliant on flexibility, speed, and kicking to the United States.

“I fell in love with American blondes and thought I would find one when I come here, but I found a blackhaired Korean woman,” he joked. “When I made taekwondo famous in America it became famous all over the world, and soon it became an Olympic sport. I am very proud of that.”

Rhee has been profusely honored throughout his life. The same year as the Ali–Inoki contest, the Washington Touchdown Sports Club, as part of its selection of five sports figures for the Bicentennial Sports Awards, named Rhee its “Martial Arts Man of the Century.” Also honored were Ali as “Boxer of the Century,” Wilt Chamberlain as “Basketball Man of the Century,” Joe DiMaggio as “Baseball Man of the Century,” and Jim Brown as “Football Man of the Century.”
Over 2,000 people attended the black-tie awards dinner. Bob Hope served as the master of ceremonies, and the then secretary of state Henry Kissinger received an award for “Man of the Century.” These were the circles Rhee moved in as he created a taekwondo empire. In the year 2000, the National Immigrant Forum, in conjunction with the Immigration and Naturalization Service, named Rhee as the only Korean among the two hundred most famous American immigrants of all time.

Rhee's prominence led him to many opportunities, including a deep friendship with Bruce Lee that furthered the expansion of both their martial arts repertoires. Nine months after stoking Gene LeBell to fight Milo Savage in Salt Lake City in December 1963, Ed Parker debuted his famous International Karate Championships in Long Beach, Calif. Both Lee, making his introduction to the martial arts world, and Rhee offered demonstrations. Lee was not an easy person to get close to, but Rhee's bond with him quickly became strong. They made sure to visit at least once a year, either in Washington, D.C., or at Lee's home in Los Angeles. Lee's Hong Kong film producer, Raymond Chow, cast Rhee in the leading role of
When Taekwondo Strikes
, based on a synopsis Rhee wrote about Koreans fighting for independence from the Japanese occupation. On July 19, 1973, Lee called Rhee from Hong Kong with news that the movie was ready to be released. The following day, Lee tragically passed away.

“People realize today that there is no one great martial art,” Smith said. “Everything combined is the one great martial art. MMA, you could say. Mixed martial arts. But back at that time, in the '70s, they were all separated. You had karate, gung fu, you had taekwondo, boxing, judo. You
didn't hear much about jiu-jitsu or judo too much, but they were there.”

For the first time the term “mixed martial arts” was readily used in conjunction with a fight. Vince McMahon Sr. sold pro wrestling events all over the U.S. as “mixed martial arts,” and called it that while offering Chuck Wepner a chance to meet Andre the Giant at Shea Stadium for $25,000.

“Me boxing and Andre wrestling,” Wepner said. “They were gonna try it. Years later, Donald Trump called me. He wanted to do the first MMA cage match in Atlantic City. I was gonna fight Tex Cobb. It was one of those first MMA fights when I'd saw the cage matches. And I turned it down. It wasn't a fight. I was fifty-two years old. I thought I could've beat Tex Cobb. Even in a mixed match. Even though I lost 14 out of 147 amateur and pro bouts in the ring, I was a good street fighter. But they didn't want to pay us no money.”

McMahon's mixed martial arts concept was driven by Inoki's mission that had been inspired by Rikidōzan's success—to prove pro wrestlers could and should fight, and be the best in the world at doing so. In Japan, this was one of the most appealing elements of Ali–Inoki. Headlines built up the clash as boxing versus wrestling, but the layers were far more textured than that. The sport was rooted in barroom brawling and refined, scientific, well-reputed disciplines. Seeing how they meshed, and elevating the methods that prevailed, initiated a renaissance for martial arts.

“You have to be familiar with another person's sport to be competitive,” Smith said, pinpointing the thinking that put him in position to defeat Mark Coleman at UFC 14 in 1997, a feat informed by revelations about martial arts that manifested from the Ali–Inoki contest.

Ali knew by agreeing to fight Inoki, a seed could be planted. He was aware Milo Savage had been choked cold by the grappler Gene LeBell fought. The question about what happens when a boxer fights a wrestler had been asked and answered enough times. Yet Ali still had to know.

“When you're talking history it's bullshit,” Pacheco said. “Who was the boxer? Who was the wrestler? The fact is an equal boxer with an equal wrestler, the wrestler gets killed.”

This is what Ali thought, too. It didn't matter what rasslers had done to boxers in the past because they hadn't done it to him. If you didn't have Ali no one would have cared. But Ali fighting Inoki, that's different. Ali opened the door and he knew he was going to open the door. Ali was incredibly competitive, and the appeal of testing himself was an easy yes.

More than a year before the bout, when he began training with Jhoon Rhee at the Deer Lake compound ahead of the third Frazier bout, Ali sent a clear signal that his interest rested in more than the potential of boxing's richest purses.

During that time Ali credited Rhee with teaching him to punch as fast as he could think. Ultimately Ali fought Inoki to prove to himself that he was the greatest fighter of all time. But if he could also pay for mosques in Chicago and London, why not? Ali expanded the reach of Islam perhaps like no person but the Prophet Mohammad himself. He wasn't the most famous Muslim on the planet. He was the most famous person on the planet.

ROUND FOURTEEN

F
our decades after Muhammad Ali and Antonio Inoki participated in the highest-profile example of mixed martial arts the world had seen, the professional sport that rose in part from their escapade sits in a well-formed, growing global niche. In some ways, this style of combat was always global, at least as long as human civilization existed. Unique peoples from disparate places somehow produced similar wrestling and fighting techniques, yet it wasn't until technology brought us together that methods were proven and honed, then shaped into big business.

The emergence of the Ultimate Fighting Championship was a watershed moment in martial arts. November 12, 1993, began a literal arms race that influenced how humans best knew to defend themselves. While the Octagon was not combat sport's first petri dish, it certainly cultured our notion of what functions best in a fight, which many people wrongly felt they already knew. Inside the UFC's fenced-in,
trademarked area that was conceived with the help of legendary Hollywood producer John Milius, the styles that didn't work were crushed.

Much of the fundamental growth among MMA tactics and skill is owed to knowing what the hell to do when you're on the floor because some lessons, like Royce Gracie's four master classes on grappling, rebooted history and opened the world's eyes in a way Inoki totally did not. The expansion was rabid, and disparity in
newaza
—judo's word for ground-based fighting—closed fast. Others took from that and were inspired to innovate in distinct ways, like adapting boxers to deal with grapplers or kickers (stances and distances all repurposed from the sweet science Ali showed up with in '76). Any fighter who preferred to stay standing followed a sprawl-and-brawl mindset, a term Ali might have enjoyed. Ground-and-pound was built to foil everything, and it evolved as wrestlers learned to stymie the guards of jiu-jitsu men after Dan Severn tapped to Royce Gracie's triangle choke at the fourth UFC.

Art Davie didn't set out to change martial arts so much as make money from them, but because he wanted to do it in a way that respected truths of the past while resolving some of their failures, cage fighting—anything-goes one-onone hand-to-hand combat—became more than packaged barbarism. Style versus style, maintaining lines; these were dogmatic and superficial boundaries, felt Davie. The rules and regulations for UFC were in keeping with “creating the best and fairest fights possible,” Davie explained in his book. He claimed to seek an equal chance at victory for all fighters by removing limitations on their games. Whether they came from Gracie-branded Brazilian jiu-jitsu, gung fu, boxing,
sumo, you name it, the intention was to promote fighters who felt they were being treated fairly. That was the only way that this thing was going to work.

Fight proposals fell apart all the time because of rules that made mixed-style bouts awkward even when they happened. A basic principle behind the UFC was removing any semblance of those hurdles. Sure, use your style if you want, but just be aware that the other guy is free to do whatever he wants.

Davie's original idea was to promote a one-night singleelimination tournament with “no rules.” Well, that's how it was marketed but technically speaking there were plenty of rules and regulations, listed A to J, with subsections and notes. So what happened? The day before Davie was set to see four years of work come to fruition, an argument broke out between fighters about the rules—exactly what he'd aimed to avoid. In Davie's book,
Is This Legal?
, which was optioned for a feature film in 2015, the fighter's meeting is recounted as the pivotal point of the whole thing.

Men diffuse in styles, temperaments, and cultures found common ground in the notion that the “anything goes” UFC showcase was set up for the younger brother of the rules director to win. Tensions rose as Rorion Gracie didn't allay their concerns, and it wouldn't have taken much more for guys to pull out of their fights. The attitude in the room degenerated towards a brawl.

“Getting martial artists to agree to the details is like asking two pit bulls how to cut up a steak,” Davie said.

Beyond eliminating the cruel stuff in D, Subsection 6, Note “a”—eye gouging, biting, and groin strikes were mentioned as fouls worthy of disqualification—the only rules
that mattered were E, “all punches, kicks, knees and elbow strikes, joint locks and/or chokes are permitted,” and F, they could be targeted everywhere but the eyes and the groin. That got kickboxer Zane Frazier to chime in. Kenpo karate allowed groin strikes, he argued, but Rorion quickly shot him down. (UFC rules allowed for groin strikes in later events, leading to some ridiculous outcomes.) Things began to boil over in regards to rule G, section 1, which stipulated in part, “taping of the wrist must end 1 inch away from the knuckle.” Conversation heated up around the taping issue and nearly boiled over when 420-pound Hawaiian sumo wrestler Teila Tuli said his piece.

“I don't know about you guys,” Tuli blurted out, “but I came to party. If anyone else came here to party, I'll see you tomorrow night at the arena.”

Onto the table in front of him Tuli slammed a signed release form with his name at the bottom. The fighter's meeting agenda, which doubled as indemnification for the promoters, was dated November 11, 1993. The room broke into claps and cheers. It was on. As real as it gets.

Without interventions like this one, said Davie, when the martial artist had a determining role in setting up a challenge match, those opportunities often unraveled. Davie watched Ali–Inoki on tape in 1977 and kept its lessons in his mind as he built the UFC. Early discussions between Davie and Campbell McClaren, Semaphore Entertainment Group's Vice President of Original Programming, touched on what they did and didn't want the UFC to be.

Almost everything about Ali–Inoki, LeBell–Savage, and Andre the Giant–Wepner—“nothing more than oddball one-offs,” Davie said—was on the no-thanks list. “What we
did with the UFC was avoid that. That was the success of our event.”

The previous night's camaraderie at the fighter meeting had evaporated and laughs were sparse inside the McNichol's Arena. And any audible ones emanated from nerves or shock. During the first televised UFC bout, the sumo wrestler who came to party absorbed a kick to the mouth from six-foot-five Dutch Kyokushin karate stylist Gerard Gordeau. In twenty-six seconds a tooth went flying into the crowd, a face had been rearranged, and Tuli's enthusiasm led him to the wrong side of history.

One fight in and no one could condemn the UFC to a reputation of not being action-packed or violent enough. Ali versus Inoki this was not. Inspired by pankration, Davie envisioned a portal to Olympia. With some luck an exalted fighter would emerge for Davie to promote. His own Polydamas, perhaps, one of the great pankrationists. If another emerged, a rival, then he would really be in business.

In some sense Davie was looking to revive a franchise through rebranding. The record shows that people watch this form of entertainment when given the chance—in Ancient Greece; in Paris at the turn of the twentieth century; throughout America before World War I; in packed Brazilian stadiums and living rooms; at venues around the world showing satellite images live from Tokyo—and that's what the UFC set out to claim on pay-per-view.

“That was seminal research for me in the years 1991, 1992, and 1993 when I was putting together the business plan for the Ultimate Fighting Championship,” Davie said. “I knew that there was a long history in grapplers versus boxers, yes.”

Making another nod to the past, Davie wanted Gene LeBell to referee UFC 1. He went to his partner, Rorion Gracie, and mentioned that LeBell had shared the ring with Ali and Inoki. But Gracie wasn't interested because he and LeBell had butted heads on the set of ABC's
Hart to Hart
. (The judo man did stunts and the jiu-jitsu man filled in as an extra on the mystery television series. The crux of their dispute stemmed from working with officers from the Los Angeles Police Department and quarreling over the best technique to teach for handgun-retention defense.)

As he made the rounds with television executives, Showtime's Jock McLean, HBO's Lou DiBella, and ESPN's Michael Aresco never brought up Ali–Inoki as a reason why they weren't interested in broadcasting UFC 1. “What they brought up was the demise of PKA Kickboxing and that martial arts, in their minds, was basically
Karate Kid
movies,” said Davie. “Fantasy shit.” The success and subsequent failure of PKA Karate on cable was something that was waved at Davie. “It had a high point. It sagged and faded. It's not selling today,” the executives told him. “That martial arts shit, that karate shit don't sell.”

With martial arts, like fashion, what's old is new and old again. The key to leaving a mark is the where and the when.

“I believe there was some spiritual forerunners to the UFC,” McClaren said. “That match with Muhammad Ali really was a spiritual forerunner. Its effect on the UFC was limited except to say we didn't want it to be like that. It was more what we didn't want. People said we were crazy to do no rules. No! If you actually try to figure out how to make rules, martial art versus martial art—because that's what it was, it wasn't MMA when it launched—what rules do you
use? I saw it more retroactively. But I was aware how convoluted the rules were, and that's what influenced me and the UFC. The only way we could do this was if we ‘don't have rules.'”

In 1976, McClaren was making grades at Berkeley in an “elevated state.” He didn't care much about it but was nonetheless aware of that summer's Ali–Inoki showdown, which is easy to understand considering all the press it received. Any major daily worth reading in the U.S. featured coverage of the match in the months leading up to the fight, and most sent reporters to Tokyo to report on it live during fight week. Because of how big Ali was at the time, and how many papers he sold, the match received global media coverage, the scope of which was more intense than any mixed-style bout before or after.

Forty years after the match, fighters during UFC's Zuffaera of MMA dominance have grown accustomed to receiving plenty of headlines and being treated like any marketable mainstream athlete. Under the vision and resourcefulness of UFC's second ownership group, Las Vegas casino owners Frank and Lorenzo Fertitta, and their minority partner and face of the company Dana White, Zuffa made an American, Ronda Rousey, and Irishman, Conor McGregor, the most popular mixed martial artists on the planet in 2015.

Being the woman who brought women to the Octagon and quickly emerging as the first mixed martial artist, regardless of gender, to transcend the UFC brand into popculture stardom aren't comparable to Muhammad Ali's legacy, of course, but more people have heard of “Rowdy” Ronda Rousey than any mixed-style fighter before her— other than of Ali, of course—and that means something.

William Viola Sr., then a twenty-six-year-old martial artist and part-time kickboxing promoter out of Pittsburgh, was heavily invested in the Ali–Inoki media coverage. Before premium cable, pay-per-view, and the internet, Viola always found a way to stay up-to-date on the fights. For Ali, the superhero trained in the sweet science, to fight Inoki, a mystery martial artist with several disciplines to rely upon, well, Viola was enthralled.

On Wednesday nights Viola ran an open class out of his dojo, meaning anyone of any style could show up to train. Judo guys, jiu-jitsu guys, boxers, full-contact fighters. “We had the full gamut of all the different arts,” he said. “We didn't call it mixed martial arts. We just called it combined martial arts. We just combined things.” They figured knowing one style was good, but not nearly as good as knowing several, especially when that meant harmonizing striking and grappling skills.

This martial arts interplay added a great deal to Viola's Ali–Inoki intrigue.

“To me Ali was a hero,” Viola said. “He was a champion of champions at that time. I remember Ali was shooting his mouth off about either a Japanese or Chinese man couldn't beat him. That really got the martial arts community excited. Since we trained all the different people the big question in my dojo was who would actually win: Muhammad Ali, Bruce Lee, or Bruno Sammartino?”

Then the match happened.

“It was a dog and pony show,” Viola said bitterly. “The martial arts community, they knew it was a disgrace. For a
great athlete of that stature to lower himself to do that, it was pitiful. It was humiliating. I actually felt humiliated for him myself. He was a great boxer. I don't know why he had to do that. I knew it was real but I couldn't believe it. Inoki had no chance to win. It's like a race car, but he wasn't allowed to get out of first gear. That's exactly how I look at that. How could you change the rules the day or night before the fight? And the loser was the people like me that bought tickets.”

Three years after watching a wrestler literally and figuratively flop against a boxer—setting the stage for a rare moment when Ali made people feel like they didn't get their money's worth—Viola set out to do mixed fighting his way. Style versus style was dated, he thought. Viola wanted to pit competitors with varied skills against one another. It should be about the best fighter, not style, because one discipline wasn't going to make the cut. With Frank Caliguri, Viola established CV Productions, which they claim is the first MMA-based promotional company in American history. Viola took to codifying standards that aren't far from the Unified Rules governing MMA in 2016, and used them over 130 times under a sanctioning body they established, the World Martial Arts Fighting Association.