The southerly 263-mile drive from Rio De Janeiro to Sao Paulo took Fernando Gurgel and Marcelo Alonso almost six hours to complete, giving them plenty of time to mull over the possibilities.
Fernando’s brother, Fabio, was among eight men trained to fight later that evening, Jan. 19, 1997, in the third World Vale Tudo Championship, a single-elimination mixed-style tournament that promoted bare-knuckle brutality as sport. On the ride down, Alonso, dean among Brazilian combat sports reporters, noted that Fabio, the reigning jiu-jitsu world champion at 94 kilograms, expected to confront an American wrestler in the finals.
Following the 1996 Atlanta Summer Olympic games, a new breed—big, mean, very likely chemically enhanced—made its presence known in the mixed-fight world.
A couple years after Royce Gracie broke ground and triangle-choked super heavyweight Greco-Roman stylist Dan Severn in the Octagon at UFC 4, jiu-jitsu’s superiority was again being challenged by the longest tenured grappling form known to man.
Depending on who was talking, Mark Kerr stacked up as either the crest of this wrestlers tidal wave or, if Fabio had the chance and did his job, Exhibit A in defense of Brazilian jiu-jitsu as the pre-eminent martial art on the planet.
After arriving at the Maksoud Plaza Hotel, situated on Sao Paulo’s highest plateau, Alonso heard murmurs that Kerr was more ordinary than impressive. Talk backstage painted the 28-year-old from Toledo, Ohio, as a run-of-the-mill college wrestler. People speculated Kerr might revolt against the violence of the anything-goes format. That the sight of blood would make him quit. That despite an imposing physique and pedigree, in truth, he didn’t even want to be there.
Many wrestlers told Kerr he would make a dominant fighter. He never truly believed them. Yet here he was peering over a cliff’s edge. Richard Hamilton, Kerr’s trainer and manager at the time, generally exercised positive reinforcement around his fighters. When it came to Kerr, making threats was the only way he thought to coax the “6-foot-1, 265-pound gorilla” into the ring.
“Ten minutes before we fought in Brazil he starts whining to me that he can't fight,” said Hamilton, who yelled at Kerr that they weren’t in America and if he no-showed the Brazilian crowd might storm into the locker room and kill them.
Ticket holders waded underneath the Maksoud Plaza Hotel’s shimmering silver-leafed Grand Ballroom acoustic ceiling. Only one bout in and already the event was wild. Brazil’s Mestre Hulk advanced to the semifinals when UFC 1 veteran Zane Frazier fell though the sloppily constructed ring’s loose ropes and couldn’t continue after hitting his head on the ground.
you’re willing, clench your dominant hand into a fist. Heed the
meaty part opposite the thumb, not the knuckles—this is where you’ll
want to connect. From half a foot away, at, say, two-thirds power,
uncork a clubbing strike into your free palm.
Did the hit feel like it could smash an eye socket or mangle a nose?
Try again from the same distance and add some muscle.
Thump!
As bludgeons go, “hammerfists” function around Isaac Newton’s Second
Law of Motion. Generating hurt force in close quarters is the idea, a
quite useful and organic tool for big, strong wrestlers like Kerr.
Sitting on camera in October 2014 between the breakfast nook and living
room of his ex-wife's two bedroom apartment in a Phoenix suburb, Mark
Kerr's THUMP!! was jarring and memorable in the way blunt force
trauma always is. Watching from a yard away, Kerr, 46, mashed nowhere
near his potential. Yet: THUMP!!!
Chances are his impact was more notable than yours. It belittled
mine. If any of this is new it’s because you’re likely unaware that from
January 1997 to May 2000, Mark (The Smashing Machine) Kerr excelled at
making men bleed and quit in mixed-style prizefights, cursed by being
great at a degenerative job he wouldn’t have done were it not for the
money.
“I don't think Mark liked hurting people but he was very good at it,”
said John Hyam, director of the critically acclaimed documentary ‘The
Smashing Machine: The Life and Times of Extreme Fighter Mark Kerr.’ “I
think that was part of what his internal struggle was.”
Incredibly gifted. Enabled. Troubled. Conflicted. In more than a few ways Kerr was Jon Jones before Jon Jones.
Fans sweat and appeared agitated. The only bit of stagecraft from World
Vale Tudo Championship promoters Frederico Lapenda and Sergio Batarelli
was a medieval castle/pyramid-like cardboard structure that may as well
have been lifted from the set of a bad sci-fi flick. Crossing a
makeshift drawbridge that lowered when fighters entered the ballroom,
Kerr stepped into his new and violent world. He wasn’t confronted by
fear, as Hamilton thought. Adrenaline made him gag backstage and uneasy
anticipation felt more like excitement as 900 intense Brazilians got
their first glimpse of Kerr striding to the ring.
The English language production, packaged and sold on VHS to
underserved fight watchers in the U.S., rolled a quick introduction from
the well-spoken, mild-mannered wrestler: “Hi, I’m Mark Kerr. I’m
representing American freestyle wrestling. I’m here at the World Vale
Tudo 3 to prove it’s the best fighting style.” From Sunnyvale, Calif.,
to Sao Paulo, Brazil, 27-year-old, 6-8, 340-pound UFC veteran Paul (The
Polar Bear) Varelans stepped over the top rope to indoctrinate Kerr and
prove him wrong.
Whatever was about to happen had been set in motion years ago.
They started fast. Kerr landed a couple strikes in the clinch then
drove Varelans to the canvas with a strong double-leg takedown that made
people near the ring standup. It was a slaughter, all 126 seconds.
Knees and punches crackled Varelans’ face. Kerr’s virgin knuckles bled
too. More than a minute after Kerr politely stood up off of him,
Varelans stumbled back to his corner. In front of a taken aback crowd
familiar with all manner of viciousness, Varelans received an uneasy
round of applause and help standing.
Less than an hour later, Kerr knocked teeth loose from the mouth
of Mestre Hulk, a capoeira champion hailing from one of the
hardest favelas in Rio de Janeiro. Rather than get pummeled, Hulk
escaped underneath the bottom rope. He was disqualified in less than two
and a half minutes.