Mom and Dad knew quite well I already had some business experience, including an epic business catastrophe on my résumé. I’d built a huge downline that was definitely down on me. I was burned out on that rat race. I told myself, “I have no business doing business.”
For lack of anything better to do, I got involved in Brazilian jiujitsu (BJJ) at a gym in Metairie, Louisiana. If it was true I had no money and no clue where I was heading, I did carry a two hundred eighty-five-pound body, one filled with nervous energy, restlessness, and frustration. The gym was a good place to work all that stuff out of my system.
Let me put it this way—I was wrestling with my future and decided my future was wrestling. At least for the time being.
Pulling people down to the mat and grappling with them was surprisingly satisfying. BJJ is designed to help the smaller guy leverage his resources to hold up against a larger attacker. In most of our matches, of course, I was the larger attacker, but I enjoyed the precision and skill of martial arts, and, as with every other talent, I went after it with passion and a determination to excel.
My teacher had trained with the Gracie family. Carlos and Hélio Gracie, the founders of BJJ, adapted the techniques of judo, developed them into something new, and trained their family and followers, such as my teacher. It was all about taking the fight down to ground level, which in some ways felt like the story of my life. I was grappling with something, that’s for sure.
I aspired to be in the UFC, the Ultimate Fighting Championship of mixed martial arts. In those days, the late nineties, the UFC was only five years old and a far smaller operation than it is today. There were “War of the Worlds” international competitions where you might see a Brazilian jiujitsu master take on someone from the world of kickboxing or karate, along with mixed techniques from other fighting disciplines. In time, its popularity exploded and led to big TV contracts, but when I was involved, none of us had health insurance. Your fight payout wasn’t enough to pay your medical bills after the fight. I never fought professionally, only matches in the dojo with guys my size training for fights.
So one Saturday night I was at Tony Angelo’s with my parents, trying to figure out what came next for me. The answer was Gene.
He was a man who walked into the restaurant, sized me up, and introduced himself. Gene said, “You’re a big guy, and I’m guessing you know how to handle yourself. I don’t know what you do for a living, but I have an idea that might be worthwhile for both of us.”
I said, “Tell me more.”
“Robby, you ever been uptown during Mardi Gras?”
I laughed. “Always.”
“Well, if you don’t have a problem throwing guys out of a bar for causing problems, then you may be the man I’m looking for. I need a head bouncer for my nightclub.”
He described the job, the hours, and the pay, and all I could say was, “A job where I’m paid to fight? I’m in.”
My life at the time was all about two things: hanging around bars and fighting. Now a guy walks up and says he wants to pay me for doing what I’m already doing. This was the start of the wildest season of my life, which is saying something.
Gene didn’t want me to be a bouncer; he wanted me to hire a few other guys to build an army of head-crackers. I went back to the dojo where I trained and asked my biggest, craziest buddies whether they wanted to make enough money to pay their doctor bills and actually have a little extra—guys like Duane, who was bald with a full goatee and a striking resemblance to Stone Cold Steve Austin.
Lots of nights could be crazy, but one particular night things were five steps beyond crazy. Maybe it was a full moon. I don’t remember that, but I do know we needed reinforcements.
One brawl was going on in the bar, and another in the parking lot. My earphone was going crazy. I was told to come to the bar, where these two guys were bothering a couple of young women and wouldn’t stop. I brought Duane with me to ask the guys to leave. They refused, so we grabbed them and pushed them along to the door.
But these troublemakers wouldn’t give up. Now they were pounding on the outside of the door, shouting, still making a scene. We realized they weren’t leaving on their own accord. They needed an escort to the parking lot to get them off our premises.
We hauled them out to the lot, with them kicking and screaming and cursing at us. After they were dumped at their car and warned one last time to leave and not come back, one of them suddenly pulled a nine-millimeter pistol from under the driver’s seat. “Now tell me what to do! Go ahead, say it one more time!”
The guy was drunk, raging, and I realized with great clarity that my whole life, my whole story could end right here, in a puddle of blood and stupidity.
I saw the gun before Duane did, and I pulled him back. Time screeched to a halt for a moment, a standoff—and then all four of us heard the beautiful music of a police siren.
The police had been called, and they arrived with impeccable timing. The two trouble-makers ditched the gun and took off on foot with the police in hot pursuit. Duane and I just looked at each other and resumed breathing.
The two guys were actually caught, and all’s well that ends well.
Sort of.
I kept thinking back to the
