The short review: DON'T MESS WITH RONDA ROUSEY.
The details: SERIOUSLY.
The actual review: I haven't seen a single Ronda Rousey fight. I'm scared to. I can barely handle movie fights. Given that I had to cringe-skim the descriptions of fights in this book, I'm not sure I'm up to seeing the real thing, even on a tiny computer screen with the volume on low.
So why did I want to read this book?
I've heard Rousey interviewed, and I've heard a lot of interviews about her. They all say the same thing: she's badass. She's breaking boundaries. She never flippin' loses.
What really made me want to read her story, though, is my curiosity about her family, especially her parents. I'd heard that her dad committed suicide, and her most recent opponent was stupid enough to trash-talk about that. (Don't cry, Bethe Correia.)
(Update: Okay, I just watched the Rousey/Correia fight. It was a pretty awesome 34 seconds, not at all gory.)
Anyway. I'd also heard that Rousey's mom was a total badass. In an interview with an L.A. morning radio show, Rousey mentioned breaking a toe in a judo match when she was a little kid and having her mother tell her to get back out there. I believe the phrase she used was, "You've got nine more."
Rousey sounded unruffled, even amused by this anecdote. So far as she was concerned, her mother was teaching her to be a champion rather than a loser who limps out of the ring after the first owwie.
So far as I was concerned, either her mom ought to be brought up on child abuse charges or there was something I wasn't hearing.
So when I heard Rousey had written an autobiography, I figured that was the place to go for answers.
And it was. Ronda Rousey's mom is practically the main character of My Fight. She's arguably the most entertaining, sympathetic, and inspiring one.
The toe anecdote is much more nuanced than that interview led me to believe. For one thing, it happened at a practice, not during a match. For another – well, let me let Ronda tell this part:
When I was twelve years old we were at practice when one of my teammates twisted her ankle. She limped off the mat, and both of her parents descended upon her in concern. Her dad rushed out to their car, returning with a pillow. With her mom massaging her shoulders, my teammate sat with her foot propped up. Less than twenty minutes later, I jammed my foot doing randori, the judo version of sparring. I limped over to my mom, who was running the practice.
"I hurt my toe," I said. "I think it's broken."
"It's a toe," she said dismissively.
"But it hurts," I said, crying. "Do you have a pillow for me?"
My mom looked at me like I had lost my mind.
P.S. Ronda didn't get the pillow. Instead, she got to run laps. Because mean mommy. Or maybe because:
"You know why I did that?" my mom asked.
"Because you hate me."
"No, it was to show you that you could do it," my mom said. "If you want to win the way you say you do, you need to be able to compete, even when you're in pain. You need to be able to push through. Now you know you can."
Ronda's mom, AnnMaria De Mars, was a judo champ herself – the first U.S. competitor (of EITHER sex) ever to win at the World Judo Championships. She knew what it takes to be, quite literally, a world-class competitor. And she knew how much her daughter wanted to be such a competitor.
And guess what? There's no comfy pillow on that ride. Sorry, Ronda.
But if you work your hardest and earn her respect, that badass mom will be there for you all the way.
If you get hurt during a match, she'll let you sulk around the house for a week after your knee surgery, and then she'll make you get off your ass and stop feeling sorry for yourself:
"Didn't you hear the doctor?" I snapped. "I'm not supposed to overdo it with my knee."
"Yeah, well, what about your other leg?" she asked, rhetorically. "Do some leg lifts. What about your abs? Last time I checked sit-ups didn't involve knees. Do some curls. Those involve arms, which last time I checked are not knees."
If you plan to fight in a particular tournament but you show up in the wrong city weighing the "wrong" amount, you can call this badass mom in the middle of the night and wake her from a sound sleep and she'll tell you exactly what you need to do, including who to call and what to say:
"Tell Valerie to go to the coach's meeting tonight and move you up to seventy kilos. Linz is not that far from Vienna. You are going to go to the airport in the morning and get a ticket. You will go to the tournament, and everything will be fine."
"But they'll all be bigger than me," I said, still crying.
"Well, no, apparently, they'll all be seventy kilos, which is what you are now," my mom said. "You might feel like this is a terrible thing, but this isn't the worst thing that could happen. You've been in the top ten at sixty-three kilos for years, so all these girls are training for you. Nobody at seventy kilos is expecting you. Just go out and fight. There are no expectations."
And when you medal at the Olympics, this mom will wave the American flag that had been put on your dad's coffin, and then you'll go on to write about it and make your readers cry. In a good way.
My Fight/Your Fight is a fun, fast, engaging read. There are a lot of photos, but they don't feel like filler. There are also a lot of memorable moments, both from Rousey's professional life and her personal one.
Practical tip for men: If you're lucky enough to date Ronda Rousey, do right by her. She forgives mistakes because she's made plenty of her own. She forgave a boyfriend for stealing her wallet and her car, because he brought them both back and then he went into rehab the next day.
However, cheating on her is not a "mistake." Neither is taking pictures of her naked body without her knowledge or consent and downloading them onto your computer. If you do either of those and you're lucky, all you'll get is a chapter in her autobiography and a really humiliating pseudonym. If, however, you're under the illusion that those naked pictures could be explained away, and you try to physically force her to stay and hear your side of the story, you'll learn what it's like to fight Ronda Rousey and you won't even have a shot at a medal and some prize money.
One aspect of this book I particularly appreciated is the dollars and cents. For a long time, Rousey was the kind of broke that seems harder to survive than 10 rounds in the Octagon.
I was touched when she talked about finally landing a Strikeforce fight. Those paid a lot more than what she'd been making, and she was ecstatic. She was also shopping at Rite Aid when she got the call, and decided she could finally afford to splurge. So what did she get?
An electric toothbrush. Expensive whitening toothpaste. Eyeliner. Nail polish. I didn't even know how to put nail polish on, but I threw it in with everything else. I grabbed the nice, soft toilet paper.
I've never lived as mean as Ronda's had to, but I still have times when I have to wait until payday to buy a jar of instant coffee, and I'm still buying the cheap t.p.
There were other places I found it surprisingly easy to relate to Rousey's life. She talks in this book about struggling with an eating disorder, a depressingly natural consequence of spending her life trying to attain an unnaturally low weight:
Virtually no athlete competes in a division that is actually their weight. Most athletes walk around considerably heavier than competition weight in daily life. In the UFC, I fight at 135 pounds – and for about four hours a year, I weigh 135 pounds. My actual weight is closer to 150.
"Making weight" – that is, being the weight you want to compete at when you step on the scale at the official weigh-in before a fight – may be something that, as Rousey says, all fighters struggle with. But it strikes me as an awful lot like the pressure that's on women to be slim even if that means running around feeling hungry all the time, which is something else Ronda describes that I can relate to.
It was a relief when, later in the book, she got some help – not from a therapist, but from a man who works with lots of fighters as a nutritionist:
When I started working with [Mike] Dolce, I felt guilty for being so full all the time. Then one day, it clicked: Oh, I'm supposed to be full. For a long time, the feeling of being full and the feeling of guilt were synonymous to me.
(Second update: I just watched another fight. The clip was included in a Jimmy Kimmel interview on YouTube. This was the 14-second fight, whichever one that is. It turns out that watching Ronda Rousey do her magic is easier than reading about it, because you can't tell by watching that she dislocates elbows with that arm bar. It just looks amazing. Also, I now have an official crush on Rousey's arms.)
As I was reading this book, southern California was (and still is) suffering from a brutal heat wave. I don't have air conditioning, and I live in an uninsulated second-floor apartment. Even after leaving all possible windows and blinds open all night long, the temperature in my bedroom has been 80+ degrees at 6 in the morning, and it's depressing to watch it climb steadily upward as the day progresses.
My family thinks I'm nuts – possibly dangerously so – for continuing to work out in this heat. I did give in and cut way down on jogging; but on what would have been running days, I swapped in a rigorous indoor workout, including a three-day-a-week triceps challenge. (Hey, our living room has a decent standing fan. It's amazing how cool its blast can feel when you work up a really big sweat, which isn't difficult at all lately.)
Ordinarily I would have felt more than justified in taking a day or two off until the temperature learned to behave itself. I have a tendency to get medically dehydrated, and that's no fun at all. I'm just getting over a fun bout of that. (My lips were burning for days. Even putting Chapstick on hurt. Woohoo!)
But this week, I just couldn't give myself that break. Every time I started to feel tempted to go back to bed and skip the workout, or just sit around sipping iced beverages all day, I'd remember Ronda Rousey. Or rather, I'd remember her mother:
Growing up, Mom hammered into me how much harder champions worked than anyone else. When I complained about going to practice or when I hit the snooze on the alarm instead of getting up to go running, my mom would say casually, "I bet [whoever my archrival at the time happened to be] is training right now."
She had me stay after practice and work on drills. Whenever I pointed out that no one else's mother made them stay, she simply informed me, "Champions always do more."
Exasperated, I whined, "Mom, I've been here for an extra fifteen minutes. Everybody's already left. I've already done more."
She simply told me, "Champions do more than people who think that they've done more."
(Final update: Just watched Ronda Rousey demonstrate the armbar on Jimmy Fallon. I've never seen a grown man so terrified in my life. Makes me want to give ju-jitsu another shot – I loved how surprised guys were when I was a bitsy little 16-year-old and could slam them down on the mat without breaking a sweat. I should start taking classes again, when I can afford to. For now, I think I'll shop around online and see if I can find a "WWRRD" bracelet.)