WMD’s by Brian O’Connor, Men’s Fitness

WHO IS THE NEW AMERICAN FIGHTER? For starters, he resembles Chuck Liddell: With a thick coil of a neck and a close-cropped Mohawk, the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) light-heavyweight title-holder looks like a Marine who’d take great delight in clearing a mosh pit. And that Chinese calligraphy tattooed on the side of his head? Obviously his threshold for pain far surpasses that of the average Joe—and Jim, Bill, and Bob combined.

And that’s helpful when you work inside an octagon cage for a living. As a mixed martial artist (the technical term for Ultimate Fighting Championship competitors), Liddell, aka “The Iceman,” combines fisticuffs, kickboxing, wrestling, and choke holds to either knock out his opponent or force him to “tap out,” indicating a submission. In any other context, of course, this behavior would pass for felonious assault, so being within arm’s length of Liddell for a day imparts a clarifying effect. Here’s a man not only capable of kneeing you in the ribs until you’re coughing blood, but who’d enjoy doing it. Or he could deliver a flying kick to your face that floors you, or land a haymaker with such ferocity that your brain trickles out your nose. Yes, the clarity is unmistakable: You are not a fighter, and Chuck Liddell is.

But then you start talking with Chuck Liddell, and that clarity becomes clouded. You discover he grew up in sunny, sleepy Santa Barbara, Calif., and he has a degree in accounting with a minor in business from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. And then you learn that nearly 80% of the Ultimate Fighters have at least some college education, if not degrees. Many are communications grads, engineers, and computer programmers who come from farms and middle-class suburbs. In that respect, they are just like you. “If I weren’t fighting, I’d be in the business world,” says the 37-year-old Liddell. “I did well in school, was the captain of the wrestling team and the football team, and always got along well with people, so I’m sure I would have gotten a job in the real world. I probably wouldn’t have liked that, though.”

And then it becomes clear that Liddell, like most professional fighters, has made a decision: to reject the life of the suit and the cubicle and revert to the most primal of instincts. And somewhere in the balance, he’s maximizing his youthful exuberance and finding his own sense of manhood.

“After the Spike TV show began airing, my career and the sport and the fan base changed,” says Liddell, whose $1 million purses have bought him a mansion and a Ferrari. “People accepted us and became more educated about what we do. I get noticed everywhere now, and it’s surprising who recognizes me—like this one 50-year-old lady who had a tattoo of my face on her shoulder. It’s gotten a lot crazier.”

During the hour we linger in Muggs, dozens of men drift into the bar, all somehow not working on a Wednesday at 1pm, and none of them drinking. Liddell politely tries to step toward the front door, but that’s not going to happen. The owner would like to snap a few photos; one guy has his buddy Sean on the phone—“Chuck, can you talk to him?” “Hey, can you sign this for me?” Liddell diplomatically obliges. The sound of backslapping and the hushed murmur of awe and deference fill the air.

Eventually we escape in a hired SUV that takes us to Manhattan’s Peninsula Hotel before shuttling us to a taping of Late Night With Conan O’Brien and then The Wiseguy Show on Sirius Satellite Radio ...

The SUV stops and Liddell exits toward the gilded entrance ... where a small pack of fans congregate. He calmly signs autographs, gloves, and posters ... It occurs to me that the Chinese calligraphy tattooed on his head, which Liddell translates as “place of peace and prosperity” is a self-fulfilling prophecy. He is living in the moment.

In a few weeks, he’ll return to his grueling training schedule, walking a wheelbarrow filled with 150 pounds of concrete up and down a steep San Luis Obispo driveway. And when he returns to the octagon to do battle with his next opponent, a college degree might seem inconsequential, but it’s not. He’s defending against multiple disciplines from competitors who have grown up on MMA—from Japan, Britain, Eastern Europe, and Canada—guys who are helping the sport evolve and adding new martial-arts disciplines into the mix. And they’re gunning for him. “Fighting is like chess, and boxing is like checkers” says Liddell. “You have to defend against guys who are coming at you with all sorts of new tactics, new martial arts. You must be aware on different levels.”

In many ways, then, Liddell’s job isn’t unlike yours. You’re competing in a global economy against younger guys looking to supplant you. As the world changes, so change is what a man must do to survive. Chuck Liddell has made his choice …