I have never gotten over this fight. They say poker players can always remember their biggest losses, and can never remember their biggest victories. Well, this goes double when you are an MMA agent.

I have also been highly criticized for booking this fight. We had just had a huge win beating Efrain Escudero. Jim Miller had also won on the same event. Charles’s coaches really liked the matchup. Jim Miller was on a five-fight win streak, and beating some big names.

Charles was 19 when the fight was booked, and wanted to push his dream of being the youngest UFC Champion. During negotiations it was made clear that if Charles beat Jim Miller, he would be on deck for a title fight. I was pushing for a lesser opponent, but at the end of the day we all agreed we wanted Charles to fight Jim Miller. I have always gauged decisions by risk versus reward. In every UFC fight there is always risk. All I have to say is we were taking a huge risk for a huge reward. Charles actually had a chance to be the youngest UFC champ.

The risk was huge too. Charles had never lost an MMA fight. Every fighter handles their first loss differently. Charles was young and undefeated. A loss could have had a big effect on him and his future.

The event was UFC 124: Georges St-Pierre vs. Josh Koscheck II, at the Bell Centre in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. Georges St-Pierre was the hottest fighter at the time, and Josh Koscheck was the super villain. The crowd was so big and loud it literally made the cage shake.

The travel to Quebec was terrible for Charles — delays, layovers, customs, and immigration. In the UFC, travel is always tough. The biggest thing was Charles was coming from the heat of Brazil to the snow of Canada. Charles had never seen snow before. It made for a difficult time acclimatizing from heat to snow.

This was also the first time both camps were talking a lot. Charles’s camp said Jim Miller was not a real Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu black belt, and Miller’s camp said Miller was going to take the young Charles’s heart. Which is the worst thing you can say to a Brazilian fighter.

Want to know what happened when the cage door closed?

This is one story from my book — the real, behind-the-scenes account of building a UFC champion from the inside, fight by fight, decision by decision. Subscribe to get the next chapter, and every story after it. I have other chapters in the post section.

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“I find myself in a place in which I am not supposed to be. A place where the most wicked people want me out. A place where the most powerful people want what is mine. The place is only for the pretty and the privileged. This place is not made for me. I will have to do extraordinary things to stay.”

A man, towering at over 6’6” but walking slouched and looking much shorter, got into his older Nissan Altima compact car with surprising ease. He drove down a deserted 6-lane road in the early morning. His size made the car look almost comically small, but the vehicle was in surprisingly good condition. The tape deck, an older custom Alpine model, played a Nirvana song, the familiar hiss of the tape and the turning of the cassette comforting, a throwback to simpler times.

The front seat of the car was cluttered with cassette tapes from the 80s—Judas Priest, Depeche Mode, Iron Maiden—and a few fast food cups scattered on the floorboards. In contrast, the back seat was meticulously organized, resembling a mobile office. Cabinet drawers, ingeniously designed to be accessible from the front seat, held neatly arranged documents. On the back dash, an elevated dog bed sat pristine, a cozy spot for his small dog, a Chihuahua.

The man stopped at a four-way intersection. It was a large multi-lane crossing, but there was no traffic. The stores around were dark, and nothing stirred on the street. He waited through two red light cycles, hoping for a sign of life, but the world remained still. He was waiting for something, but nothing ever came.

He drove into a large strip center parking lot, choosing a spot far from the small coffee shop with an illuminated “Open” sign. Despite plenty of empty front row parking, he chose a parking place much further away. He let the Nirvana song finish before shutting off the car. As he approached the coffee shop, he noticed the adjacent department stores, dark and adorned with recent Christmas sale promotions, remnants of bustling holiday crowds now gone.

Entering the coffee shop, the man was greeted by the glow of a modest little Christmas tree. He stood straighter, a rare smile breaking his usually hunched demeanor. Suddenly, the overhead lights snapped on, and a barista yelled, “If you are homeless, you need to get out! We do not give away anything for free.”

The man stuttered, “I am not homeless. I just want some coffee and Wi-Fi.”

Without asking for preferences, the barista poured a cup labeled “Christmas blend” and demanded $3.89. The man retrieved his bulging wallet, full of papers and bills, and found a five-dollar bill. She put the coffee on the counter, gripping the cup over the rim. The barista, turning her back, dismissed him with “Take it, Merry Fucking Christmas,” assuming he couldn’t pay.

Despite the harsh words, the man smiled and sincerely thanked her. Discreetly, he placed several hundred-dollar bills into the tip jar while she had her back turned. She continued to bark at him, telling him to leave after finishing his coffee.

The man sat near the small, sparsely decorated Christmas tree. He adjusted the fallen ornaments before sitting down. Checking his phone, he found no calls or social media activity, no replies from Eharmony. Lost in thought, he reflected on his life:

Bullied as a short, fat kid Mocked because of his girly voice Stuttering during a high school oral report Missing prom, consoled by his dad His dad’s early death Struggling with talking to girls and stuttering as a young adult

His phone rang, displaying a photo ID of a victorious Brazilian MMA fighter. The man smiled at the picture but let the call go to voicemail. Moments later, texts appeared from the legend, a renowned Vale Tudo fighter known as “Macaco.” The three texts came in with several minutes in between:

“HELLO HELLO HELLO” “MERRY CHRISTMAS” with several emojis “I LOVE YOU, MY BROTHER!”

The man smiled at the messages, feeling a rare moment of connection. He looked back at the Christmas tree with an awkward smile.

After a few minutes of staring blankly at his phone, he opened his email. Another rejection: “Thank you for applying. You’re very qualified, we’re prioritizing diversity.” The next email was no different: “You have the experience we’re looking for, but we’re focused on inclusivity.” Even the one from an equal opportunity campaign read, “You do not qualify.” He was also shocked by the threat of being reported because of using blunt facts and logic that was now labeled as “aggressive and toxic speech,” something that needed to be reported as mansplaining. He sighed, opening one last email—a book review: “No one wants to hear about an old white guy.”

The words hit hard. He knew no one would help. In fact, most people would try to make him fail in this new culture. Everything felt stacked against him, not just the rejections but the attitudes, the snide comments that made it clear he didn’t belong. He wasn’t just fighting to survive; he was fighting a system that was built to shut him out with the goal of cancelling him.

In this world, it was clear—he had no chance of being happy or successful unless he did it all on his own. Despite his talent, he didn’t check the right boxes to belong in the world of the pretty and the privileged. No matter what he brought to the table, he wasn’t wanted. It wasn’t about his skills or experience; it was about who he wasn’t. And who he wasn’t was someone they saw as worthy.

Maybe I was born in the wrong time, he thought bitterly. A few decades earlier, maybe things would have been different. Maybe being good at something would have been enough. Things seemed to be heading toward survival of the unfittest, a reverse evolution. But in today’s world, he was invisible unless someone wanted to criticize him, or mock him.

Curiosity—or maybe masochism—got the better of him, and he did a quick Google search of the people who landed the jobs he didn’t. Their bios popped up, complete with polished headshots. Fresh faces, all smiles, with titles that sounded impressive but with qualifications that, frankly, didn’t. They checked the boxes, though. The right backgrounds, the right appearances, the right affiliations. Most of them sported sporty neck tattoos, visible in every photo, as if that ink alone signified their belonging to some exclusive club. They had little experience—barely a few years under their belts—but there they were, occupying the positions he was the best qualified for with practical experience.

He recognized some of the names, too. The same faces kept popping up in his searches—people who seemed to glide effortlessly from one opportunity to the next, riding the wave of their superficial qualifications. They had the look, the connections, and the buzzwords down pat. And even though they didn’t have the experience or the track record he did, they were the ones getting the opportunities. It was infuriating, but what was worse was knowing he’d cross paths with them again, watching them succeed where he’d been shut out.

The rejections didn’t stop at his qualifications. Some employers were bold enough to claim his language was “too blunt, too focused on facts,” and—most tellingly—”very masculine.” Apparently, honesty and logic were no longer strengths—they were red flags. He tried to be polite, even kind, but it seemed like kindness only made things worse. The more polite he was, the more it marked him as a target. In this world, kindness was seen as weakness—something to be exploited or dismissed, not respected. They thought that if you were kind, it was because you were too soft, too afraid to fight back. Now, kindness has no value.

They called him privileged, but in today’s world, that label was less a mark of advantage and more of a target. It gave others permission to dismiss him, cancel him, and slander him without consequence. Privilege had become a weapon—something that could be wielded against him at any moment, no matter how much he struggled. No one cared about his hardships—because perception, not reality, was what mattered.

Curiosity—or maybe masochism—got the better of him, and he did a quick Google search of the people who landed the opportunities he didn’t. He recognized them all. They were cut from the same cloth—smooth talkers, fluent in buzzwords and fancy vocabulary, with a knack for telling people what they did without ever doing it. They drifted effortlessly from one opportunity to the next, riding trends and connections while leaving actual work behind. Their skills could get them any job; they just couldn’t do any job.

They also had skills he didn’t. And in this time, their skills were perfect. Fluency in small talk, self-promotion, and performance over substance were exactly what was needed—and they wielded those skills to perfection.

And then there was Jessica—the one who had betrayed him the most. She had landed the opportunity he wanted, and she hadn’t just taken it—she’d slandered him in every way she could to get there.

But it wasn’t just rejection that weighed on him—it was the knowledge that his words could be used against him. Public speaking had always been his greatest fear, but now the stakes were even higher. Every word could be twisted, every hesitation magnified, and every stumble seen as a weakness. Speaking wasn’t just difficult—it was dangerous. His voice, which had always felt clumsy in front of others, had become something others could weaponize against him.

He wasn’t wanted—not in their world, not in their circles. And maybe that was okay. If he wanted to find happiness, he’d have to do it alone, on his own terms. Because they’d made it clear: no matter how hard he tried, they’d never let him in.

Chapter 2: K’IHAP TALK IS EVERYTHING© THE PEACOCK IS NOW KING

“I have always been judged by my public speaking.” “Even a lie is believed if it is spoken with confidence.”

K’ihap is a Korean term used in traditional martial arts for the shout uttered when performing an attacking move. In Japanese, it’s Kiai.

The parking lot in front of the martial arts school was busy. Fancy cars fought for the front spots so Jr. wouldn’t have to walk far to enter the Tae Kwon Do school. SUVs even took up the handicapped spaces, just to get closer. The cars were packed so tightly near the entrance that when the kids opened the doors, they inevitably dinged the vehicle next to them. The look of the cars told a story of years of such treatment—a club of BMWs and Cadillacs, where the rank was measured in dings on the doors.

In stark contrast, a single car was parked far from the entrance. It was an older vehicle, but in great condition, with no dings to its name. Inside sat a father and son. They both wore the expression of people who had already lived through several battles. The dad, although calm, clearly felt his son’s pain.

The boy entered the dojo in a plain white gi. There were no flashy designs, no logos or embellishments. His uniform was as simple as his presence—he and his father were here for one thing: hope. Hope to stop the bullying. Other kids wore fancy uniforms decorated with dragons, pit bulls, and brightly colored patches that screamed ego. The vanity mirrors reflected an atmosphere more like a department store than a place to train.

The boy approached the mat and went straight to work, practicing his Tae Kwon Do reverse punch on a heavy bag. The rest of the students filled the air with aggressive K’ihaps, their shouts loud and commanding. The boy remained silent, his focus only on the bag in front of him, the same bag he had been hitting for days.

The boy was around 11 years old and had already learned that he wasn’t cut out for team sports. He had failed at them all—not for lack of trying, but because of the body he inhabited. He was short, fat, with a high-pitched, squeaky voice that only invited more teasing. And when he got nervous—which was often—he stuttered. That combination had been a death sentence in traditional martial arts. His body wouldn’t start maturing until he was nearly 25, but for now, it felt like the world was moving on without him.

Martial arts, though, had seemed different. He first saw Choi’s Tae Kwon Do school on TV, and the idea of becoming like Bruce Lee, who he idolized, was a dream worth chasing. Unlike team sports, martial arts were individual. If he failed, he wouldn’t let anyone else down but himself. It was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance to end the bullying. And with the bullies gone, happiness seemed possible. The boy had hope.

The boy loved that first day of class. He wore his white belt proudly, and he worked harder than anyone else. His technique was solid, even at such an early stage. He had his sights set on earning a colored belt—the recognition that would set him apart, maybe even put him at the front of the class someday. With that colored belt, everything would change. He’d have friends, respect, and, most importantly, no bully would mess with a guy who had a colored belt.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

In traditional martial arts, the testing day is a major event. Everyone comes, families sit in the audience, and the instructors watch carefully as the students demonstrate their skills. It’s a stark contrast to the practical martial arts world (like MMA) where the ability to look tough often matters more than actually being able to fight. This is where the idea of “peacocks” versus “lions” comes in.

That night, the boy gave it his all. His technique was sharp, his focus unwavering. He even managed to break his board on the first try—something that had eluded him during practice. His dad cheered from the sidelines, and the boy felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He had done it. This was his moment.

The next day, the results were posted on the dojo wall.

The boy scanned the list, expecting to find his name near the top. But it wasn’t there. He looked again. And again. His name was at the bottom.

Everyone else in the class had been promoted—except him. Even Jessica, who cried during sparring and quit halfway through, earned her colored belt. It wasn’t real crying—it was calculated. She knew playing the sympathy card could work in her favor. Even in Tae Kwon Do, aggression was frowned upon. In big adult tournaments, competitors could even be disqualified for being too aggressive. Acting like her opponent was sparring too hard, pairing that with a well-timed, pretty face in tears, became her key to promotion. Years later, she’d perfect that same skill for future use.

His parents were confused too. He had done well during the test—his technique was solid. He was one of the few who broke his board on the first try. Why was he the only one left behind?

They approached Master Choi, the Korean Grand Master, for an explanation. He wore a black and red gi with a golden dragon embroidered on it—a constant reminder of his self-proclaimed greatness. His answer was swift and cold: the boy’s K’ihap was weak. “Too girly,” Choi had said to the parents.

The boy didn’t understand. How could a shout be more important than the skills he had worked so hard to perfect?

But in traditional martial arts, it was. Looking the part mattered. Sounding tough mattered. The actual ability to fight or defend yourself? That came second. The peacock was king in this world, not the lion.

Years later, the boy would understand the deeper lesson. It wasn’t about being tough or fighting well—it was about appearing tough. About talking like you could fight. The kids who passed the test? They grew up to be the kind of people who succeeded in life. They became politicians, CEOs, or married into privileged families. They were the ones who knew how to talk the talk.

He didn’t realize it then, but that was the first time he learned that it was better to look capable than to be capable. And in a world that only cared about appearances, people like him—people who did the work but didn’t have the presence—were left behind.

And the truth of it all? Those same kids from his class were probably still out there, leading comfortable lives, admired and successful. They were part of the world of the pretty and the privileged. A world that didn’t want anything from him, except maybe to watch him fail.

The damage caused by that rejection had carved itself deep inside him, a scar that would take years to fade. In that moment, the boy had been left to wonder: if you couldn’t even win at pretending to be tough, what chance did you have in a world that worshipped the peacock?

The man sitting at the coffee shop, staring at his phone, still didn’t know the answer. He’d spent years trying to fight his way through that reality. Society didn’t want people like him. They wanted the ones who could shout the loudest, look the best, and appear to have it all together. The world didn’t want the lions anymore. It was the peacocks who ruled now.

Chapter 3: THE ORDINARY© A STORY FROM MMA AGENT

“I compete against the most elite competitors every day in the cutthroat world of MMA sports entertainment. There’s no formal training for this; there’s no college to learn these skills. I guess I was just born to do it. My competition has every resource available to them—private jets, sports cars, women, and VIP status everywhere. I have a rescue Chihuahua with a heart murmur.”

“Sometimes, it’s better when no one knows your name...”

Dreaming of the ordinary while doing the extraordinary.

Martial arts has always been a great hobby for me. Most kids who don’t like team sports are usually drawn to martial arts. From a very young age, I loved martial arts. Even when I found out that Tae Kwon Do doesn’t work, I stayed passionate. How do I know it doesn’t work? Thank you, Mario Lopes, the bully from 7th grade.

I trained hard in Tae Kwon Do, got my green belt, broke boards, and learned the names of the moves in Korean. What I didn’t learn was how to fight. Martial arts instructors always say martial arts are for self-defense, not fighting. Let me tell you, if you can’t fight, you can’t defend yourself. Mario taught me that when he took my best reverse side kick, smiled, and then beat me up again. I got pissed at Tae Kwon Do, but not at martial arts. I knew there was more—a martial art that would teach me how to fight.

I never guessed that passion would turn into a career.

I was training in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu and MMA in Houston, Texas, at Gold Team gym, under the head instructor Jorge “Macaco” Patino. Macaco is an MMA/Vale Tudo legend, a true pioneer of the sport. Training with Macaco was incredible. I remember watching his fights on bootleg VHS tapes—back when fights weren’t just sports, they were wars. Fighters had to win three times in one night to be called a champion. Back then, it was a real fight. Now, MMA is just a sport.

I wasn’t very good at Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, but I loved it. Nerds seem to thrive in this individual sport, where failure doesn’t drag anyone else down. Sparring with Macaco was like playing one-on-one with Michael Jordan. He’d let you think you were doing well, give you hope of victory, then tap you out. “Almost, my friend, almost.”

After class, we talked. I mentioned I managed fighters and had put Mike Patt into the UFC.

Macaco was smart, with a degree in engineering. He was emotional but logical, treating everyone the same. He valued people who could get things done, people with experience in their craft. That made us a perfect match. I didn’t check the right boxes—wrong demographic—but Macaco valued actions over appearances. In a world where public speaking is king, and accomplishments mean nothing, Macaco saw value in what I could do.

He didn’t care about my awkward speech or my stutter. He didn’t see kindness as a weakness. Macaco saw me differently than the world did. Macaco gave me hope.

One day, he mentioned a fighter named Charles Oliveira, the future of Gold Team. Charles was 14-0, beating big names in Brazil at 155 lbs, most wins by submission. He was only 17 and had been fighting since he was 15.

I’ve heard it all before—everyone has “the next big thing.” I always checked Sherdog.com, the official database of all MMA fights. Guys claimed to be 10-0 with all knockouts, but Sherdog would show they were 2-8, or they’d never fought at all. So when Macaco told me about this 14-0 kid, I expected to find out he was 8-4 or something.

I was shocked—Charles really was 14-0, with 13 finishes. His OCR (Opponents’ Combined Record) was off the charts. Most of the fighters he beat had winning records and more than five fights. But the most important thing was that Charles was undefeated. Nothing in this sport markets better than an undefeated record. Even the guy with the Affliction shirt at Hooters understands that. I always tell fighters: the difference between 10-0 and 9-1 is light years.

Losses don’t come with excuses. No one cares about 9-1. 9-1 has no mystique. But 14-0? That’s different. This was my opportunity. This could make my life happy. This was my hope for victory.

But something didn’t add up. Why wasn’t this kid already in the UFC?

The next day, I showed up at the gym early—before Macaco even arrived. I couldn’t wait to talk about Charles. I referred to him by name, not just his record and weight class. Back then, promoters only cared about two things: weight and record.

When Macaco pulled up on his Ducati motorcycle, I ran to meet him. I had the golden ticket. “Macaco, Charles Oliveira is incredible. He should be in the UFC. Why isn’t he there already?”

Macaco bit his lip. “Well, Charles has a lot of things surrounding him. A lot of drama.”

I quickly learned Charles was a special fighter. His Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu was unreal. Many fighters have great BJJ, but they can’t make it work in MMA. Striking changes everything. There’s an old saying: “You hit a BJJ fighter, and you turn him from a black belt to a brown belt, and then to a purple belt.” But Charles was different. He fought like a black belt—every time. I must have watched all his fights on YouTube a hundred times. My gut told me this kid would be a UFC world champion someday. He hadn’t even hit his potential yet.

I told Macaco I’d help get Charles into the UFC. This was my fight.

I called the UFC matchmaker, one of the most powerful people in MMA. Making this call gave me immense fear and anxiety. I struggle with anticipation anxiety—when something important is coming, the fear builds until it’s paralyzing. But this wasn’t about me; this was for a kid from the Brazilian ghettos. I could quit on myself, but I couldn’t quit on him.

“Hey Wade, how are you doing?”

“I’m great.” His calm tone put me at ease.

“I have a fighter I want you to take a look at.”

I had prepared a whole promo on Charles. The matchmaker already knew of him. Before I could even finish saying “Oliveira,” he interrupted. “There’s too much drama around him. Altra claims he manages him.”

I knew Altra well—he had ties to terrorist groups and was a former MMA fighter with the most intimidating stare in the business. This was going to be a fight. Altra believed he managed every fighter in Brazil.

I convinced the matchmaker to give Charles a chance. I promised no drama. That promise would be broken many times.

Macaco was thrilled when I told him about the UFC deal. Charles signed with me and agreed to talk to the UFC to confirm it. Charles was shy. Fighting in a cage was easy—talking to UFC brass was hard. Macaco couldn’t understand that. Charles would speak in English, which stressed him out. We decided Charles would say, “Speak Wade” or “Speak Way Jee” (how he pronounced my name) when the UFC called.

Everything seemed perfect. Charles signed with the UFC. He was the youngest with the best record. The plan was for him to be the youngest UFC champion. Everything was amazing.

Then Macaco called.

“Wade, I have to talk to you.” When Macaco said that, bad news always followed.

“Altra called. ‘Who is this Waaaade?’” Macaco said.

My happiness disappeared. Altra knew my name now.

“Wade, he said he’s going to kill you.”

It’s very different in Brazil and the USA. In the USA, it’s common to hear “I’m going to kill you” thrown around as trash talk—not meant literally. In Brazil, it’s different. When someone says, “I’m going to kill you” in Brazil, they literally mean they’re going to kill you.

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Chapter 4: DREAMS AND JEANS©

“MY ACHIEVEMENTS ARE WRITTEN IN THE SAND, MY FAILURES ARE CARVED IN STONE.”

Charles Oliveira’s host hotel for his fight was next to a mega mall. Macaco, Charles’s coach, was a true leader, a real general. Macaco was a cross between General Patton and Rocky Balboa’s cranky coach—the Brazilian version. He took complete control of Charles’s camp and fight week. He scheduled everything: when we eat, when we sleep, and when we train.

There are always distractions for a fighter during fight week, and the coach’s job is to keep his fighter focused. This can be especially challenging for someone like Charles, experiencing the USA for the first time. Macaco made it clear: our job was to help Charles stay focused and get his rest.

But fight week in America is chaos. It’s full of scheduled interviews, photo shoots, open workouts, and distractions only found here—making it hard for anyone to stay grounded. Charles never complained; he always did what was asked of him. But one thing kept pulling his attention: the mall.

The mall was impossible to ignore. Every time you stepped outside the hotel, there it was. The hotel lobby windows framed it like a display case, and Charles’s room had the best view of it in the entire building.

Macaco kept promising Charles that after the fight, there would be plenty of time to visit the mall. Charles even had a list of things to bring back to his family and friends in Brazil. What I didn’t realize then was just how limited and expensive products were back home. The mega mall next door, filled with every product he had only ever seen in magazines and on TV, became an unavoidable temptation.

Weigh-in day went smoothly, which was a relief. The weigh-ins always stress me out as much as the fight itself. Once Charles had eaten and hydrated, we sat together in the lobby. Charles went to his room to rest, and Macaco turned to me with a grin:

“WOW, the medicals, paperwork, and making weight is hard; the fight is easy.”

Then his face turned serious. “Wade, I’m going to rest. You stay here and make sure Charles doesn’t go to the mall.”

There was something surreal about this request—a Vale Tudo champion asking me, just a regular guy, to stop one of the most talented fighters in the world from going shopping. Macaco was serious. “I know he’s been trying to sneak out; I’ve caught him several times. Now it’s your turn to watch him.”

I stuttered, “There’s no way I can stop him.” Macaco’s response was firm. “You must.”

Just as Macaco stepped into the elevator and the doors began to close, the elevator next to his opened—and out walked Charles. It felt like the climax of a horror movie, with me trapped in the worst possible moment.

I jumped to my feet, unsure of what to do. Should I run after Macaco? Should I block Charles from leaving? Panic paralyzed me. Charles must have noticed my confusion because he picked up his pace toward the exit doors.

“Charles,” I called out weakly, “I think Macaco wants you to stay in your room and rest.”

Charles smiled, the same polite smile I’d seen many times before. “No problem, my friend.”

Then, without missing a step, he made a beeline for the mall.

I stood there pacing the lobby, torn between running to Macaco’s room or chasing after Charles. I knew no matter what I chose, it wouldn’t end well. Charles was almost out of sight when the elevator doors opened—and there was Macaco, furious.

I tried to explain, but Macaco cut me off.

“I know, Wade. You let him go to the mall. If he loses his fight, it will be your fault.”

Macaco stormed toward the mall with determined speed. I followed behind, realizing just how massive and crowded the place was. It felt like we were flying the Millennium Falcon toward the Death Star. I could almost hear Han Solo saying, “That’s too big to be a space station.”

“Macaco,” I whispered, “we’ll never find him in this crowd.” But Macaco didn’t respond. He marched straight into the mall, his focus sharp, as if the crowd didn’t even exist. If Charles had been standing right next to him, I don’t think Macaco would have noticed.

Suddenly, Macaco made a sharp turn into The Express. The store was divided into sections, almost like a maze. Macaco walked straight to the men’s jeans department, and there was Charles—holding up a pair of jeans to the light.

Charles didn’t notice Macaco until he was right behind him. “HEY!” Macaco yelled, and Charles nearly dropped the jeans in surprise. Macaco barked at him in rapid Portuguese, but Charles remained calm. He held up the jeans and said a few words. Whatever he said, it worked—because within seconds, both of them were calmly examining the jeans together.

The walk back to the hotel was much slower. Macaco scolded Charles gently, telling him, “Put the jeans down. You need to rest—you fight tomorrow.”

That was the plan, but on the way back, they made a pit stop in the men’s underwear section at The Limited. The sight of all the bright colors and styles made me nervous. As a Texan, I wasn’t used to seeing underwear on hangers. I quickly made my way out of the section, hoping not to bump into any racks.

I glanced back to call the guys—but they weren’t following me. They were window-shopping.

“Come on,” I called softly.

They laughed. “Hey, Wade, come here! They’ve got some great stuff!” I walked out with my face burning red, and they howled with laughter.

After what felt like forever, we finally left the mall. But before heading back to the hotel, Charles wanted to stop at a high-end jewelry store. He examined fine watches and jewelry like he was studying them for a test. It was clear that he knew the brands and their value, but I had a feeling this might be his first time seeing them in person.

Charles’s fascination with new things didn’t stop at the mall. I remember securing him a sponsorship deal with Dethrone, an MMA apparel company. The deal was simple: Charles would wear only Dethrone shirts in exchange for monetary sponsorship.

When the shipment arrived—a box of 36 brand-new shirts—you would’ve thought I’d handed Charles a box of gold. He couldn’t believe it was all for him.

He opened the box slowly, carefully pulling out one shirt in a sealed plastic bag. He held the bag by the corners, staring at it like it was the Holy Grail.

“Try it on,” I told him, reaching for another shirt.

“No, no,” Charles said, smiling. “I’ll open this one.” He searched for a razor blade, determined to open it like a surgeon. When he finally tried the shirt on, it was only for a moment—then he folded it carefully, placed it back in the bag, and returned it to the box.

I tried to explain that he needed to wear the shirts regularly. “We can get more if you need them,” I told him. He nodded politely, but I could never get him to wear them during practice.

Later, I learned why. That was the first new clothing Charles ever owned. He wanted to bring the shirts back to his family and friends in Brazil. He carried that box around everywhere like it was filled with treasure.

As we walked back to the hotel, I reflected on how far we had come. Charles, a 19-year-old kid from the favelas, had placed his trust in me—a Texan—to make his dream come true. And in doing so, he became part of my journey too.

Our success might not last forever, but the bond we formed and the lessons we learned would stay with us. This moment was written in the sand—but if we failed, it would be carved in stone.

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Chapter 5: TO BE OR NOT TO BE… AN ALPHA FRAUD Nice is the New Creepy

“All I’d need to do is buy the T-shirt.”

Talking is everything, and yelling is even better.

The only thing standing between me and success is a T-shirt.

I remember the first time I walked out with a fighter at the UFC. I was hyper aware of everything around me. Sometimes, I’m too aware. I thought it was a one time thing, but I’ve learned that no matter how many times I walk out with fighters, there’s always a few of them. At first, just one or two. Now, there are three, maybe four.

Alpha Frauds.

They stand by themselves, with big muscular upper bodies, skinny legs, and tattoos on their faces—and no cardio. I know they have no cardio because they’re gassed just from yelling. Yelling seems to be their strength. And in today’s world, talking is everything, and yelling is even better.

They wear Affliction shirts with skulls and pit bulls on them, blending into the crowd but standing just behind the rails. Everyone else is cheering, supporting the fighters, but not these guys. They’re yelling at the fighter I’m walking out with, spewing venom I’ve heard too many times to count.

“I’ll kick your ass, you F-ing P---y!”

They say this only because they know there’s no chance of the fighter jumping over the rails—he’s too focused on the real fight in the cage.

It’s like a scene from a zombie movie. Alpha Fraud virus is spreading fast, and it’s as contagious as COVID. It’s trending now—these cowards with their big talk, making themselves feel like kings of the cage just because they shout loud enough. A 2.0 version of talking.

I see them at Hooters, bragging about how they threatened a UFC fighter—and how the fighter “didn’t do a thing.” Of course, they leave out most of the details.

“I told that UFC fighter I’d kick his ass, and he didn’t do a thing!” they boast, while the Hooters girls believe it as truth, oblivious to the reality.

I always knew how easy it would be to become an Alpha Fraud. I could sell out. It’s not that hard. I’ve watched them long enough to know the playbook.

Step 1: Stop being a nice guy.

Today, being nice is seen as weakness. The moment you’re kind, you’re opening the door for disrespect. Men see kindness as weakness; women see kindness as creepy. Both see it as a target.

Nice is the new creepy. Open a door for a woman, and it’s offensive. Smile, and you’re creepy.

My sister once told me, “It’s better to hear something nice from a bad guy than to have a nice guy actually do something nice.” Maybe that’s why women go back to the guys who treat them like trash—they’ll cherish the few kind words in between the abuse.

I haven’t made the jump to stop being nice, but I’ve thought about it more than I care to admit. It’s not hard to imagine a world where being a nice guy makes you a target.

But I’d really like to take a class on being a narcissist. I think I’ve gone too far the other way; I need to get closer to the middle.

Step 2: Look like a fighter, not train like one… Buy the Affliction shirt.

There’s a saying in MMA gyms: When someone isn’t training hard enough, we tell them to buy an Affliction shirt and quit. You can buy them at discount stores now. It’s a lot cheaper to look tough than to be tough.

Everyone wants to look like a fighter, but no one wants to train like one, or live the lifestyle. I always thought it was crazy when guys in the gym would let their ears cauliflower on purpose, just to get the look. At least they earned it. Cauliflower ears are very easily prevented with head gear or common sense.

But now, some people who don’t even train in martial arts are deliberately cauliflowering their ears to look like fighters. The same way guys take their belts and scuff them up to look worn and battle-torn, like a black belt that’s trained for years.

Instead of earning it through training and competition, they’re rubbing blue belts on steel wire like they’re starting a fire without matches. I know I could get huge repercussions for exposing the Alpha Fraud secret. But I can already see it—a class coming soon, teaching people how to cauliflower their ears and age their belts without ever stepping on the mat.

Step 3: Master smooth talking, with amazing vocabulary.

I’d need to practice arrogance. Learn to talk big. I wouldn’t actually have to do anything great—just talk about it. I’d tell people stories about all the amazing things I’ve done—or could do.

It’s not about action; it’s about talk.

Alpha Frauds never walk the walk—they just talk the talk.

Step 4: Get a lifted truck—or some kind of look at me car.

It’s got to be a lifted truck with a custom loud exhaust—maybe some flame decals.

I’d make sure my tattoos matched the bumper stickers.

And every time I walked into a room, I’d need to make a big entrance—fists clenched, chest out, arms stiff, scanning the room with quick head jerks.

It’s the same thing my Chihuahua, P-Diddy, does when I let her out into the front yard. She puffs up like she owns the world.

Step 5: Tell everyone I’m 200-0 in street fights.

I’d make sure everyone within 10 feet knew that I train UFC and have a 200-0 street-fight record. I’d start bench-pressing heavy weights to bulk up my upper body—because luckily, skinny legs are practically a requirement for Alpha Frauds.

Forget about cardio. That’s for people who actually want to fight. It’s all about the look. You don’t see cardio, you see muscles.

When introducing myself, it’d be simple:

“I bench 400 pounds. What do you bench?”

It would be easy. So easy.

I could become exactly what people value now.

What women want, what men fear, and what others respect. The target would be gone.

But there’s one thing I’ll never do. One step I’ll never take.

I’ll never trade P-Diddy for a Pit Bull.

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Chapter 5:

Nice is the New Creepy

“All I’d need to do is buy the T-shirt.”

Talking is everything, and yelling is even better.

The only thing standing between me and success is a T-shirt.

I remember the first time I walked out with a fighter at the UFC. I was hyper aware of everything around me. Sometimes, I’m too aware. I thought it was a one time thing, but I’ve learned that no matter how many times I walk out with fighters, there’s always a few of them. At first, just one or two. Now, there are three, maybe four.

Alpha Frauds.

They stand by themselves, with big muscular upper bodies, skinny legs, and tattoos on their faces—and no cardio. I know they have no cardio because they’re gassed just from yelling. Yelling seems to be their strength. And in today’s world, talking is everything, and yelling is even better.

They wear Affliction shirts with skulls and pit bulls on them, blending into the crowd but standing just behind the rails. Everyone else is cheering, supporting the fighters, but not these guys. They’re yelling at the fighter I’m walking out with, spewing venom I’ve heard too many times to count.

“I’ll kick your ass, you F-ing P---y!”

They say this only because they know there’s no chance of the fighter jumping over the rails—he’s too focused on the real fight in the cage.

It’s like a scene from a zombie movie. Alpha Fraud virus is spreading fast, and it’s as contagious as COVID. It’s trending now—these cowards with their big talk, making themselves feel like kings of the cage just because they shout loud enough. A 2.0 version of talking.

I see them at Hooters, bragging about how they threatened a UFC fighter—and how the fighter “didn’t do a thing.” Of course, they leave out most of the details.

“I told that UFC fighter I’d kick his ass, and he didn’t do a thing!” they boast, while the Hooters girls believe it as truth, oblivious to the reality.

I always knew how easy it would be to become an Alpha Fraud. I could sell out. It’s not that hard. I’ve watched them long enough to know the playbook.

Step 1: Stop being a nice guy.

Today, being nice is seen as weakness. The moment you’re kind, you’re opening the door for disrespect. Men see kindness as weakness; women see kindness as creepy. Both see it as a target.

Nice is the new creepy. Open a door for a woman, and it’s offensive. Smile, and you’re creepy.

My sister once told me, “It’s better to hear something nice from a bad guy than to have a nice guy actually do something nice.” Maybe that’s why women go back to the guys who treat them like trash—they’ll cherish the few kind words in between the abuse.

I haven’t made the jump to stop being nice, but I’ve thought about it more than I care to admit. It’s not hard to imagine a world where being a nice guy makes you a target.

But I’d really like to take a class on being a narcissist. I think I’ve gone too far the other way; I need to get closer to the middle.

Step 2: Look like a fighter, not train like one… Buy the Affliction shirt.

There’s a saying in MMA gyms: When someone isn’t training hard enough, we tell them to buy an Affliction shirt and quit. You can buy them at discount stores now. It’s a lot cheaper to look tough than to be tough.

Everyone wants to look like a fighter, but no one wants to train like one, or live the lifestyle. I always thought it was crazy when guys in the gym would let their ears cauliflower on purpose, just to get the look. At least they earned it. Cauliflower ears are very easily prevented with head gear or common sense.

But now, some people who don’t even train in martial arts are deliberately cauliflowering their ears to look like fighters. The same way guys take their belts and scuff them up to look worn and battle-torn, like a black belt that’s trained for years.

Instead of earning it through training and competition, they’re rubbing blue belts on steel wire like they’re starting a fire without matches. I know I could get huge repercussions for exposing the Alpha Fraud secret. But I can already see it—a class coming soon, teaching people how to cauliflower their ears and age their belts without ever stepping on the mat.

Step 3: Master smooth talking, with amazing vocabulary.

I’d need to practice arrogance. Learn to talk big. I wouldn’t actually have to do anything great—just talk about it. I’d tell people stories about all the amazing things I’ve done—or could do.

It’s not about action; it’s about talk.

Alpha Frauds never walk the walk—they just talk the talk.

Step 4: Get a lifted truck—or some kind of look at me car.

It’s got to be a lifted truck with a custom loud exhaust—maybe some flame decals.

I’d make sure my tattoos matched the bumper stickers.

And every time I walked into a room, I’d need to make a big entrance—fists clenched, chest out, arms stiff, scanning the room with quick head jerks.

It’s the same thing my Chihuahua, P-Diddy, does when I let her out into the front yard. She puffs up like she owns the world.

Step 5: Tell everyone I’m 200-0 in street fights.

I’d make sure everyone within 10 feet knew that I train UFC and have a 200-0 street-fight record. I’d start bench-pressing heavy weights to bulk up my upper body—because luckily, skinny legs are practically a requirement for Alpha Frauds.

Forget about cardio. That’s for people who actually want to fight. It’s all about the look. You don’t see cardio, you see muscles.

When introducing myself, it’d be simple:

“I bench 400 pounds. What do you bench?”

It would be easy. So easy.

I could become exactly what people value now.

What women want, what men fear, and what others respect. The target would be gone.

But there’s one thing I’ll never do. One step I’ll never take.

I’ll never trade P-Diddy for a Pit Bull.

CHARLES OLIVEIRA TRAINING

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Everyone wants to be a champion, but no one wants to train like a champion.

It was Houston, Texas, 2010. I had secured Charles a UFC contract. Jorge Macaco Patino brought Charles to Houston to do his camp. I still remember the day I first met Charles. He was a tall, skinny 19-year-old who was very shy. He came in with a wrapped present that he presented to me. That present, and the appreciation he had for what I did, is what really makes the job worth it.

The present was one of his Team Oliveira t-shirts that I loved. It was the wrong size, but it did not matter. Being a manager, you very rarely get any appreciation, only blame.

I was very interested in seeing this MMA prodigy train. My imagination went wild. I was sure it was going to be training that I had never seen before. Super-special training that only MMA prodigies do.

The first time I watched his training, I kept waiting to see some type of secret special training. It never came. I thought maybe later in his camp it would come. It never came.

All of Charles’s training I had seen before: the drills, the techniques, the conditioning, the strength training. I had seen it all.

But something I had not seen before was the focus Charles had in his training. He was always the first one on the mats and the last one off. His focus and seriousness toward every detail in training was something I had never seen. He approached everything in training 100 percent. He was always the first one to start the drills and the last one to finish them.

CHARLES OLIVEIRA GUILLOTINE

Charles has five guillotine wins in the UFC. It has been a very long time since I rolled with Charles, but his version was pretty devastating and usually made for a quick tap.

Today, Charles’s guillotine is like a vice. He does focused training specifically on his guillotine, including a bunch of secret ninja training that I cannot share. But I will say one drill involves holding yourself up with your feet on a wall while maintaining the exact grip used for the guillotine. He can create a tremendous amount of 360-degree pressure.

I have battled bullies and shyness my entire life.

Martial arts helped me with bullies and the damage they caused. I think I may have finally found the solution for shyness.

When my agent told me I should start writing on Substack, my first reaction was simple: no way.

I suffer from a fear of public speaking. I hate talking about myself. I’ve always avoided sharing personal stories about my life. Call it extreme shyness, call it being an introvert. If I could come up with a three-letter acronym, they would come out with a pill to take—whatever it is, I’ve had it since I first heard my own voice on a tape recorder.

I can’t fully explain the fear I felt right before publishing my first story on Substack.

So I came up with a plan. I always have a plan A, plan B, and plan C...

If too many people started reading it, I would delete it.

I’m a numbers guy, so I made a rule: if the story gets more than ten readers, I’m deleting it. To me, going viral would be a nightmare.

I remember watching the reader count like it was a scoreboard.

When it hit three readers, I thought, this isn’t so bad. It felt like dipping my toe into an ice-cold swimming pool.

Three readers wasn’t bad.

Maybe ten wouldn’t be so bad either.

When it finally hit ten, I realized something surprising: this wasn’t as terrifying as I thought. My foot was already in the cold water. Now 1,000 kind of looks like a shark’s fin in the ice-cold pool. I will have to face a huge fear if I’m going to get in.

I’m a logical person, but I still don’t fully understand why this worked. I just know that it did.

One thing I’ve learned for sure:

The fear of fear is always worse than the original fear itself.

Something strange happened after that.

I went from trying to make sure my stories didn’t get more readers… to actually doing things to promote them.

Writing became its own kind of therapy.

In the same way martial arts helped me deal with bullies growing up, writing on Substack has helped me deal with shyness.

Martial arts taught me how to defend myself.

Writing is teaching me how to communicate with others. The fear of the fear is going away.

And when I say martial arts helped me, I should say MMA. Tae Kwon Do did not. All it did was take my dough—or maybe I should say my parents’ dough. More stories on this coming soon. Tae Kwon Do would also have a huge effect on me becoming more introverted. The chapter “KiHap*” coming soon.

* KiHap: the yell you make when doing TKD

I still have trouble speaking in front of more than eight people.

But maybe next time…

I’ll try nine.

I’m currently writing a book about my life managing fighters and working behind the scenes in the early days of mixed martial arts, including stories about working with fighters like Charles Oliveira and navigating the wild early years of the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

If you enjoy these kinds of real behind-the-scenes stories, consider subscribing. I’ll be sharing more chapters.

PS: In my next story, I’ll explain how I accidentally became a fighter manager… for ten dollars.

“I have always been judged by my public speaking.”

“People who say ‘don’t judge’ are often the most judgmental.”

“Even a lie is believed if spoken with confidence.”

“Ego can make lies believable.”

“Bragging with a prideful look has become the pinnacle.”

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K’ihap is a Korean term used in traditional martial arts to describe the sharp, focused shout made when executing an attack. In Japanese, it’s called Kiai. The value placed on the K’ihap often outweighs the action that follows it.

The parking lot outside the martial arts school was bustling. Luxury cars jostled for front-row spots so Jr. wouldn’t have to walk far to the Tae Kwon Do studio. SUVs even occupied handicapped spaces just to get closer. The vehicles were crammed so tightly near the entrance that whenever a child opened a door, it inevitably dinged the car beside it. The scratches and dents told their own story—a parking lot club of BMWs, Suburbans, lifted trucks, and Cadillacs, where rank was measured in door dings.

In stark contrast, one car was parked far from the building. It was older but well-maintained—no dents, no damage. Inside sat a father and his son, both with expressions shaped by hardship. The father, though composed, was clearly feeling his son’s pain.

The boy entered the dojo in a plain white gi. No flashy designs, no dragon patches, no bright logos—just a simple uniform that mirrored his quiet presence. He and his father were here for one thing: hope—hope to stop the bullying. Other kids wore designer uniforms adorned with dragons, pit bulls, and loud, colorful patches that screamed ego. Soon these images would involve into matching tattoos.

The vanity mirrors reflected a scene more fitting for a department store than a training space. In fact, the mirror was the most used piece of equipment in the dojo.

The boy approached the mat and began practicing his Tae Kwon Do reverse punch on the heavy bag. Around him, other students filled the room with loud, aggressive K’ihaps—shouts meant to intimidate and command. But he remained silent, focused solely on hitting the bag—again and again, just as he had for days.

At around 11 years old, the boy had already discovered that team sports weren’t for him. He hadn’t failed due to lack of effort, but because of the body he lived in—short, overweight, and with a high-pitched, squeaky voice that made him a magnet for ridicule. And when he got nervous, which was often, he stuttered. That combination had been a death sentence in traditional sports. His body wouldn’t begin to mature until nearly 25, but for now, the world was moving on without him.

Martial arts felt different. He had first seen Choi’s Tae Kwon Do school on TV, and the idea of becoming like Bruce Lee—his idol—was a dream worth chasing. Unlike team sports, martial arts were individual. If he failed, he wouldn’t disappoint a team—just himself. It was supposed to be a clean slate, a way to finally end the bullying. And with the bullies gone, happiness finally seemed within reach.

He loved that first day of class. He wore his white belt with pride and worked harder than anyone else. His technique was impressive, even at an early stage. He dreamed of earning a colored belt—the sign that he was progressing, that maybe one day, he’d be standing at the front of the class. That colored belt would change everything. He’d gain respect, maybe even friends. And most importantly, no one would dare bully a kid with a colored belt.

At least, that was the hope.

In traditional martial arts, testing day is a big deal. Families gather, instructors observe closely, and students put their skills on display. It stands in contrast to the world of practical combat sports, like MMA, where appearance often outweighs ability. This is where the concept of “peacocks” versus “tigers” enters the scene.

That night, the boy gave it everything he had. His movements were precise, his concentration sharp. He even broke his board on the first attempt—something he’d never done in practice. His dad cheered from the sidelines, and for the first time, the boy felt the weight lift off his shoulders. He believed it was his best performance yet, one of the top among the white belts.

The next day, the test results were posted on the dojo wall. The boy searched for his name, expecting it near the top. But it wasn’t there. He looked again. Still nothing. Finally, he found his name—at the bottom.

This list, unofficially, would determine the kids’ futures. And unless he focused on looking the part and mastering the K’ihap, he’d be left behind.

Everyone else had been promoted. Even Jessica—who had cried during sparring and quit halfway through—earned her colored belt. But it wasn’t real crying. It was calculated. She knew how to play the sympathy card. She was figuring out that talk is more important than action. Even in Tae Kwon Do, aggression was frowned upon. Competitors could be disqualified for hitting too hard. By pretending her opponent had been too aggressive and shedding a few well-timed tears, she manipulated the system. Years later, she’d refine that same skill to open even more doors.

The boy’s parents were confused. He had done well—his technique was solid, and he was one of the few to break his board cleanly. Why was he the only one who didn’t advance?

They approached Master Choi, the Korean Grand Master, for answers. Dressed in a black and red gi with a golden dragon stitched across it—a symbol of his self-styled greatness—his response was swift and cold:

“His K’ihap is weak. Too girly,” he told them.

The boy didn’t understand. How could a shout be more important than the skills he had worked so hard to master?

But in traditional martial arts, it was. Looking the part mattered. Sounding tough mattered. Real skill? That came second. In this world, the peacock ruled—not the tiger. Even a lizard that could puff up its neck to look bigger could rule the jungle.

Years later, the boy would grasp the real lesson. It wasn’t about being tough. It was about looking tough. Talking tough. Accomplishments meant nothing, only the prideful look and boastful talk. The kids who passed that test became the types who thrived in life: politicians, professors, state jobs, and teachers, people married into wealth. They knew how to talk the talk. Walking the walk didn’t matter.

He didn’t know it then, but that was the moment he learned a painful truth:

It’s better to appear capable than to be capable.

And in a world that values appearance over substance, those with talent but no showmanship are left behind.

The same kids from that dojo? They’re probably still out there—comfortable, admired, successful. They live in the world of the pretty and the privileged. A world that wanted nothing from him—except maybe to steal his future achievements.

The damage from that rejection became a scar etched deep inside him. In that moment, the boy was left to wonder:

If you can’t even succeed at pretending to be strong, what chance do you have in a world that worships the peacock?

“MORE IMPORTANT TO LEARN TO BARK THAN BITE”

TODAY BRUCE LEE WOULD SAY- BE A PEACOCK MY FRIEND

This is my foreword to my book- THE GUY WITH CHIHUAHUA TATOO (unpublished) please subscribe so you know when the book gets released.

FOREWORD

“I’ve never known if it’s the right time to dance or if it’s the right time to fight- and sometimes, I wonder if I ever will.”

“You may be the worst writer in the the world, but you have an incredible story that must be told” - Gersh Agent

“I have a deeply complex story that must be told in the simplest way, my fear of speaking has kept it a secret too long.”

“Passion is better then any Harvard degree”

Public speaking rules the world.

If you’re not a good public speaker, you’ll never be president of the United States or hold any other influential position. It’s the most important skill for getting ahead—integrity and substance are far down the list. People think public speaking shouldn’t be the most important thing, but it is. The other people are silenced. Let me introduce you to the unexplored world of the silent. You have to find them, they will not come to you.

I had a meeting with one of the biggest book publishers in the world. Sitting across the table, the publisher told me, “This is one of the best stories I’ve ever read, but we’re not in the great story business. We’re in the book-selling business.”

In other words, it didn’t matter how good my story was. The story itself meant nothing—only the storyteller. “The best story” from someone like me had no value. They were only interested in the storyteller—the pretty, the privileged. I did not qualify.

I see many examples of this in life. Like how car salesmen talk you into financing a car you can’t afford, or how professors convince you their abstract theories are somehow practical. There’s the guy with the tattoo on his neck, convincing everyone he’s 200-0 in street fights. Or the college professor, like the traditional martial arts with black gi with gold dragons on it and a bear gut, student, believing extraordinary claims that have never been tested in the real world. They all love hearing their voice, and want to share that with everyone, they will find you to tell you. People believe what they see, because of the way someone looks, talks, and dresses. The neck tattoos don’t hurt either. It’s all about the packaging. The world listens to those who fit the image, not those who have the most substance to share. If you’re not the right demographic, nothing you do seems to matter. You could have the best story, the greatest idea, or the skill of getting things done—and it still wouldn’t be enough.

We live in a world where people judge a book by its cover—where it’s easier to get ahead by talking a big game rather than accomplishments. But that’s not what this book is about. This story is about action—about living your dreams and helping others live theirs. It’s not about making empty promises or looking the part.

This is the story that has never been told. This story will never find you, you will have to find it. This is the story from the silent. This is the story from no one.

Now, please sit next to the high school kid with nothing to say, sitting by himself in the cafeteria. He has a story to tell you.

I really feel like Quint in the movie JAWS, when is hauling the shark back to shore and yells out “the mayor is not going to believe what I brought him” I don’t think the world is going to believe what I bringing them with this story.

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I will be adding to this story. There was a lot of drama that as a manager for Charles Oliveira had to deal with. Dana White did not approve Charles walk out music, Charles sponsorship t-shirts got locked out of venue. This was also Charles first time on event poster, and on billboards -Efrain did not want to make weight. - Will be updating soon.

The Flying Spider Monkey—some called it the Flying Spider Web. I believe the move had never been done before in the UFC.

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It happened at UFC Fight Night 22 in Austin, Texas, on September 10, 2010, inside the Frank Erwin Center, where the Longhorns play. Charles was fighting Efrain Escudero. Out of all of Charles Oliveira’s fights—and he’s pulled off some unbelievable techniques—this is my all-time favorite. If you haven’t seen it, go watch it first… because no description really does it justice.

But I’ll try.

Charles hits an arm drag and takes Escudero’s back—but that’s not the crazy part. As he climbs on, he traps one of Escudero’s arms with his leg.

Picture this.

Charles is on his back, legs locked in like hooks, riding him like an unwilling piggyback. But one leg isn’t just holding position—it’s pinning Escudero’s arm tight against his own ribs.

Now Escudero has a problem.

Normally, he could peel that leg off with his free hand. But he can’t. That hand has to fight the real danger—the choke.

Charles has both hands attacking the neck. Escudero only has one to defend.

It’s over.

The odds are completely stacked against him—and he knows it. Escudero taps… standing up.

IF YOU ARE NOT PRETTY- NO ONE CHEERS
They call me the poor man’s Jerry Maguire; that started as the poor man’s Karate Kid.
A martial artist trains only in defense; a bully trains to damage people.

I was in my early 30s and started to see how pretty and privileged people live. I was getting a taste of what it was like to live in their world, but I expected I would not be welcome for long. I never felt like I belonged.

I had some success in promoting MMA events. I saw I could possibly be happy in the future. I was struggling with money because of my new venture promoting MMA, but I could see hope. A TV deal or global sponsorship could really change my life. People started to want to be around me. I was allowed to go places that I was not before. I have always been socially awkward, but now I was more conscious of it hanging with pretty people.

I was training very hard for an NHB match in Mexico. It really gave me focus. I threw myself into MMA training to deal with the stress of life. I did see that the better I got in MMA, it would help me with these present fears and awkwardness, and really help me deal with my damage of being a bullied kid.

The MMA gyms were really taking notice of my improving skills. I was tapping out everyone, and word spread very fast in the small town of Corpus Christi.

Another rising star in the local scene was Rafa. He was a 265 lb monster that everyone thought used special supplements/steroids. He was very known for his love of hurting people. His signature move was throwing people on their heads, then fully cranking a leg locks to hurt others.

Rafa—I felt inferior to him in every way. He was bigger and stronger. He was a rich kid who drove a brand new yellow Corvette with a Superman logo on the back window. He was always the center of attention, and his crew would make Jay-Z jealous. The crew consisted of a bunch of tattooed guys who could bench press 400 lbs but would have trouble doing one squat with their skinny legs, or running 20 feet because they did not believe in cardio—just bench press. When not with his crew, he was always with the most foul-mouthed stripper.

I drove an old Pontiac with no AC and was still very much that shy kid who was scared of girls. He was like a hybrid of the bullies who used to bully me—the 2.0 version. I feared him in every way: physically, mentally, financially, and socially. The hybrid bully brought with him a hybrid fear. The rivalry was much bigger than Johnny vs. Daniel in Karate Kid. I had no Mr. Miyagi to guide me, no Ali Mills for support—I had loneliness. I trained MMA to deal with my demons, and Rafa trained MMA to hurt people.

The talk in Corpus soon became about who would win if Wade and Rafa went at it. The majority of people said that Rafa would kill Wade, judging me more by my shy, nerd personality than by my actual MMA skills. They could not believe that someone who did not talk tough, act tough, or drive tough could actually be tough. Martial arts could never beat steroids. But some of Wade’s training partners who actually knew his skills said Wade might have a chance?

I never acted like a fighter. I was the nice guy. I had no tattoos, no Affliction T-shirt. In my small town of Corpus Christi, it was way more important to talk tough than actually be tough. I could never be the favorite. The harder I trained, the more weight I lost—I was around 190 lbs, and Rafa was 265 lbs. I heard that Rafa wanted to make sure he was the best in town. When I heard this, I knew what it meant—that he wanted to hurt me so badly that no one could say anything different. I avoided Rafa by making sure his yellow Corvette was never in the parking lot and by going in late. One thing good for me a yellow Corvette is easy to spot.

I was training early one morning, knowing the chances that Rafa would be there on a Saturday morning were very small. I knew Rafa liked to street fight, and Friday night at the local bar was a great place to find one. The only problem was not many talented guys trained on Saturday mornings—they took that day off. The class had just three young guys in their early 20s. We trained for about two hours, then started sparring.

The young guys were beginners and were all trying to heel hook each other. Bad coaches teach heel hooks to new students, which is cheating the student because he tends not to learn anything else, focusing only on one move that guarantees a win in training. I had to say something. I scolded the younger guys about trying to learn something new instead of focusing on heel hooks. I even said you should not use heel hooks in training, only in competition. I even made the statement that I never use heel hooks in training.

Heel hooks are very dangerous because they cause great damage to the knee, and do not give much warner pain to let you know you need to tap. It goes from 1 to 10 very fast.

As soon as I finished my speech, Rafa came in with his stripper girlfriend. I was shocked by how fresh they looked on a Saturday morning—I guess they stayed in Friday night. Note—it’s not very honorable to come in late and fresh when everyone else is worn out, and most gyms ban girlfriends because fighters do crazy things to impress them—especially stripper girlfriends.

Rafa immediately approached me as his girlfriend found a place to watch. He asked if I wanted to go. The fear set in, and I quickly thought of excuses—I had been training for two hours, and he was fresh. I told him another time, knowing it would give me more time to avoid him—or maybe move out of town.

He gave me a “whatever” look. I even saw disappointment on his girlfriend’s face—confirming he came here for one reason: to hurt me. I sat down and started taking off my training gear, putting on dry clothes to help shield myself from the situation. I just wanted to get out of there.

Rafa asked the younger students to go. I am not sure if they knew Rafa’s background, but they agreed. He quickly beat them and made it as painful as possible, using moves with a high risk of injury. The exact opposite of how I trained. His girlfriend seemed almost excited watching him hurt them, adding foul-mouthed commentary during sparring.

Something strange happened—I stood up and told Rafa, “Why don’t you go with me?” After I said it, I could not believe it. This was unlike me. Maybe it was for those beginners—I would stand up for others but not for myself.

I tried to think of an excuse, but it was too late. His girlfriend was smiling more than ever.

I don’t know how I got myself into this, but there was no way out. I had to face this fear.

Rafa quickly took me down and went for a heel hook. I countered and put in a reverse heel hook. I was not even very efficient with heel hooks and was shocked when Rafa tapped. He immediately wanted to go again—and I finished him again.

This time he said nothing. He just got up and walked out. His girlfriend gave me a confused stare, then followed him.

I was shocked at what I had done. I had faced my fear—and won. What I thought was impossible turned out to be easy.

Like people who say their life flashes before their eyes, I saw my past—but with me facing my fears instead of running. How different my life could have been. I saw violence as a solution. Violence could have changed my life with bullies. I wondered if I acted only because Rafa was hurting others—would I act for myself?

For the first time in my life, I felt confident. I stood taller, walked with my head up instead of down. I even had a Ric Flair strut walking back to the young training partners. I imagined the praise—maybe someone would finally call me the best.

I stood in front of them, waiting.

One spoke in a nasally voice:
“I thought you said not to use heel hooks in training.”

The others agreed.

I lowered my head and walked away.

I wanted to explain to them- that was fighting. That when someone wants to destroy you its not training. I took my unseen victory and left. Just thinking they must only cheer for you when you are pretty and privilege.

PROVERBS 15:1 - A gentle answer turns away wrath..

I have always felt pain more intensely than anything else. I am not talking about the quantity of pain, I am talking about the quality of pain, and that is not a good thing. I mean, when I feel pain, it is so much more than any other feeling. I can feel it in my chest, like a grasp that can never be broken.

I always get the worst calls at the worst times. I mean, this day was bad—my mom is in the ICU, I am sick, my girlfriend broke up with me. I always said you have to take the bad calls when they come in to be a good agent. Well I knew this one was going to be bad.

Well, this call comes in from a coach. He believes he should be treated like a god. He thinks if the temperature in his hotel room is too cold, that I, his manager, should come right away and adjust it. When I answer, he is screaming at me, saying he is not being treated right, and if I do not fix it immediately, he will destroy the hotel room the promotion paid for.

I wait until he stops screaming and calling me names. I do not even have the energy to respond, but in a very calm way, I do.

“Look, you are not in California. You are in Texas. You can destroy the hotel room if you want, but when a Texas cop shows up, it will not be like California. He is not going to ask about your feelings—he is simply going to arrest you for vandalism, and you will spend the night in a Texas jail cell.”

Not really caring what happens to him, I later find out from the fighter, “I don’t know what you told him, but you really scared him.”

It was nice to solve the problem, but now I wonder—how can I stop my pain and feel happiness?

Silenced by fear
Incompetence, corruption, or common sense

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In 4th grade, I was separated from my world. A teacher from the “other side” of the school walked into my classroom. She taught the kids with learning disabilities, kids we only saw at recess, keeping our distance as if their challenges were contagious. They even came to school in the special short bus. When she called my name, my stomach dropped, and every classmate’s stare—some smirking, others whispering—confirmed this was bad news. I still wonder if this was incompetence or corruption. I would think it was a small chance of ignorance, but when your entire 4th grade class understands what this means, I assume the teachers and counselors had some common sense of what they were doing.

She said, “Come with me.” The walk to her room felt like stepping into the cage for a fight I didn’t sign up for, across the school to a dark world of colorful signs that read “Dream it” “Achieve it,” with cartoon cutouts that looked a little evil to my young eyes.

She led me to a tiny table where four kids sat, one wearing a padded helmet. A grossly overweight teacher with a t-shirt that read “Dream it Achieve it” perched on a creaking small chair. The big lady in the tiny chair pointed to another tiny chair that was already pulled out and stated, “Take a seat.” It was almost like volunteering to sit in the electric chair. I would find out the chair would do more damage than an electric chair could ever do. I wish I could go back in time and grab that little boy and take him out of there. The label of the program was much different than what it was.

She slid a colorful book with the same cartoon characters that seemed to laugh at me. “We’re here to help with your speech,” she said slowly, assuming I could not understand her if she spoke at a regular pace, “specifically the ‘th’ sound, like in ‘the.’” I’d never been told I mispronounced anything, and if I had, the other kids would’ve pounced on it for ridicule. She continued in a slow-paced voice, “Please tell us something about you.”

In that moment, a seed of fear was planted: if I couldn’t speak “right,” I couldn’t go back to my old class, separated from my friends. It was like walking a 2x4 board on the ground—easy enough—until it’s raised 300 feet in the air, with the stakes of falling into the wrong world. Pronounce “th” correctly, and I could return to my regular class; fail, and I’d stay at that little desk with the kid in the padded helmet. She asked me to read from the book, which 5 minutes ago would have been very easy for me. Now, with these stakes, it was almost impossible for the young boy.

“Dream it Achieve it” is what the teachers called it, created by someone over-educated and under-intelligent with a string of degrees. It didn’t matter how much damage it did to children—no one would be held accountable or step in to stop it. Success did not matter, nor that it had any logical concepts, just that it came from someone with too many degrees, the right demographic privileges, and was full of cool college vocabulary words that would make the other teachers call it amazing, but the common-sense janitor would know it’s a bad idea. It wasn’t about helping children; it was about fitting us into boxes, often for extra funding. That label—learning disabled—did more damage than any speech issue, sowing a phobia that would shadow me for life. The creator of the concept could write overpriced books that college kids were required to buy. He could give paid honorarium speeches to tell others how amazing it was. His love for his own voice and vocabulary was more important than any type of results. All you need is a prideful look and bragging, and the sheep will agree.

I shared this story with a school speech therapist when I was out of college. Her eyes welled up as she admitted it still happens—schools labeling kids for funding, not for their benefit. Her tears suggested she knew the system was broken, but chose not to do anything. That moment confirmed the label wasn’t a mistake; it was part of a bureaucratic game played by people whose success came from polished words, not results or merit. The school janitor could have come up with a better way.

After college, I came up with the genius line, “I work at the grocery store,” a quick jab to fend off my deepest fear. It’s my perfect counter, like an overhand right shutting down a lazy jab in the ring. The pitying look I get stops any follow-up questions—a big victory for someone with a crippling phobia of public speaking, especially anything personal. In truth, I’m a Mixed Martial Arts agent, a Jerry Maguire for MMA fighters. My job isn’t hard; it’s the stakes that make it tough. Admitting what I do opens the floodgates to questions and expectations to speak confidently, thrusting me back into that high-stakes fight where one wrong word could land me in a place that I fear.

As an MMA agent, I’ve never had trouble talking for my clients. Negotiating a UFC title fight contract comes naturally when I’m helping others. But for myself, I still can’t ask for a fresh cup of coffee. The fear only affects my personal life, not my business life. At least in business, I can be happy.

The fear started in that 4th-grade room but grew through years of social awkwardness. Maturing late left me with a high-pitched, nasally voice through high school, amplifying my self-consciousness. Every conversation felt like a potential knockout punch. My mouth dries up, my tongue swells, my palms sweat, and I stutter—symptoms most associate with lying, but for me, they come with telling the truth.

In school, I mastered dodging the spotlight, carefully researching classes to avoid oral reports and curating a schedule that kept me in the “safe” world. I could usually skate by, acing written assignments to offset any zeros for presentations. But my senior year English class threw a curveball: an oral report on Shakespeare’s Macbeth that carried most of my grade. No report, no graduation. Standing at the front of the class, my notecards shaking in sweaty hands, my voice cracked and stumbled over every word. It felt like drowning—my throat tightening, my breath shallow—while classmates smirked or whispered. Overwhelmed, I walked out, unable to face the fear any longer. From that day, public speaking became a suffocating panic, each word a current pulling me under. I was on a path chosen by fear.

What makes waterboarding such brutal torture is the fear of it happening again. One taste is enough to make you do anything to avoid it. For me, public speaking is the same. I’ll say I work at the grocery store, dodge conversations, or avoid any spotlight—anything to stay in the safe world and keep from drowning in the other.

… I promise Charles Oliveira is coming

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WHAT QUALIFIES YOU©

When Getting It Done Doesn’t Count

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T-shirts, bumper stickers, tattoos, and degrees.
If you accomplish something but were not qualified to accomplish it, can it happen?

I have always been good at doing things—and always bad at telling others what I do.

Degrade, then achieve.

I have never seen myself as qualified to do anything of importance, but being naïve can be a great skill to have. The success I have had in this sport came straight from not knowing I was supposed to do things like that.

Early morning at the coffee shop is a circus. I park far from the entrance, my Nissan Altima tucked into a corner with a skybox view of the parking lot chaos. I don’t mind the walk, but it doesn’t spare me the madness of drivers circling like vultures. Expensive cars—jacked-up trucks, Jeeps, European sports cars, SUVs with bumper stickers and vanity plates. The culture of T-shirts, bumper stickers, and tattoos has risen to be more important than actions.

Cars idle in the aisles, claiming handicapped spots, online pickup zones, or straddling curbs, all waiting for a closer space. Plenty of spots sit empty farther out, but proximity is king. One driver, in a gleaming white Range Rover, blocks the entrance. I pull up, needing just a few inches to pass. She locks eyes with me, her gaze sizing me up and dismissing me as insignificant, then turns back to scanning for her prize spot, unmoving. That sting of being unseen hits like a jab, echoing old fears of not belonging.

I swing around to the far lot where Uber Eats and Favor drivers park—gig workers with no time for this game. Crossing the lot feels like passing an invisible line into the land of privilege, where cars, bumper stickers, tattoos, and T-shirts all scream the same curated identity. I am always shocked by what the person looks like when they get out of these cars.

The cars, bumper stickers, and tattoos tell you who they are—and who they aren’t.

I get to the entrance, where spaces are for the extreme elite. I’m perplexed as one jacked-up 4x4 truck is parked in the handicap spot, with handicap vanity plates that read MR PRESS400 and a sticker reading “Death Before Dishonor.” I would have guessed it belonged to a very short man with matching tattoos.

The man jumps out—covered in skulls and pit bull tattoos. He’s not that short, but he has an extremely muscular upper body and skinny legs. He uses the side steps to get out of the truck. He has workout gear on and seems to have no visible handicap except for his skinny legs.

But the king spot—the highly coveted first handicap spot—is a huge fluorescent yellow Jeep with red rims and off-road tires, with matching bumper stickers and vanity plates that read BE KIND. But in much bigger letters on the back window it reads: Fierce! I know it’s probably not a man’s Jeep, because he would be labeled toxic for having “Fierce” on his car—but a woman would be called empowered or liberated for using the word.

I take the side route that cuts through the patio, avoiding the usual crowd at the front entrance. Two baristas are huddled by one of the outdoor tables, their attention fixed on something. When I get closer, I see it too—a pentagram made of stones laid out neatly across the tabletop.

One of them wants to clear it away, but the manager steps in.
“You can’t do that,” she insists. “That could be part of someone’s culture. We have to respect it.”

It always shocks me which cultures they choose to respect, and which ones they dont.

This is the same manager who once told me my “Merry Christmas” was aggressive, who called me an extremist for wearing a cross. Another time, while I was talking to a friend about Christian values, she slid a card onto our table with a sharp look. The card read: Please refrain from discussing that subject.

The coffee shop loves to advertise diversity and inclusiveness—just for the ones they deem righteous.

I am waiting in line for my coffee when my friend yells, “There’s the MMA guy—he’s sitting with a beautiful lady.”

He was perfect for me in the coffee shop—loud and loved attention. With him around, it took all the attention away from me… but today would be a bad day for trying to avoid attention.

She wears an executive business pantsuit with a shirt underneath that reads BE KIND in rainbow letters. She sizes me up in the first few seconds of seeing me—the same way the lady in the Range Rover did. She knows everything she needs to know about me just by looking at me. She has judged me by looks alone, and that’s all she needs to know.

I have always had issues speaking with new people. When she heard me speak, it confirmed it—pretty privilege club. My lack of a prideful look or a bragging voice is almost seen as a target. The talk of royalty is like a prince waving a war sword who has only known privilege. They love to say words that are almost code for “I am better than you.” All the vocabulary they taught you in college makes you sound like you know how to do something—without doing it.

A huge contrast to my awkward speech and humble talk. It’s her job to make sure I know I’ll never be allowed to be pretty or privileged.

She soon wants to degrade me with a smile, letting me know that she’s pretty and privileged, and I’ll never be in her world because I don’t act, speak, or look like her.

My friend insists on me telling her what I do. At first, I used the old reliable, I work at the grocery Store. This does not shut my friend down, and she is looking locked and loaded.

Tell her about Charles Oliveira. In a very humble, awkward way, I say I helped him get out of Brazilian favelas and become a UFC Champion. My speech and look were the exact opposite of a boastful and prideful look.

After this comment, she goes on the offensive. She gets serious when she stands up, turns her chair around, and sits back down in a very masculine style, legs spread. It’s called toxic when a man does it—but when she does it, it’s called fierce.

She looks me in the eye and says, “How are you qualifies you to do this?”

I say,
“ I am able to get things done,” again with my awkward speech.

But she presses,
“What college did you go to? Do you have a law degree?” What Ivey league college did you go to?

“No,” I reply, I went to local college,“but I have a practical law degree,” I say it with a smirk.

She insists,
“But how are you qualify to do this?”

I detect that she is getting angry now.

I counter,
“Do you ask a mechanic who’s just fixed 100 cars what qualifies him to fix them after he’s already done it? Sounds like he gets it done.”

The statement she hates, but does not respond to with a mean look.

I’ve learned this: getting it done is now one of the biggest triggers in the modern world.

We’ve created a culture of participation trophies, padded résumés, and performance vocabulary. Its more important on how you tell someone you’re going to do something, rather than accomplishing it. It’s more important to have the tattoo, T-shirt, or bumper sticker to replace actual qualities.

A friend told me: if you accomplish something in front of a feminist who can’t do it, they get offended. Looking at her, she looks very offended and angry.

The same goes for the new woke community. You doing something real—even something they’d never try—makes them uncomfortable. It challenges their illusion. Your action, your accomplishment, does it—you don’t even have to tell them.

And for the professors, bureaucrats, traditional martial artists, 200–0 street fighters, and state commission folks?

It’s even worse.

They hate the entrepreneur who gets it done without using the proper vocabulary.
They hate the doer who doesn’t bow to their systems.
They hate the result that proves them unnecessary. Their focus is degrade, then achieve.

You become a target for them when you do—and you’re not a member of their club.

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I’m starting a series ranking my top nemeses. There’s no debate about #1—boxing and MMA commissions. I’ve got the stories to back it up, and I’ll be sharing them

The difference between commissions and organized crime? One is organized.

It was funny—after I thought about posting this story, a scene from The Godfather came up on my social media. The senator is shaking down Michael for a gambling license. He wanted $250K and 5% of the gross for a $20K license.

This was the same senator who was always around the family—at parties and weddings—eating their food, drinking their drinks, taking everything they had to offer. Then, when the time came, he wanted to cash in.

I watched The Godfather as a kid with my dad. Back then, I thought it was just a movie. I didn’t think there was any truth to something like that. The senator felt like Darth Vader—a fictional villain.

I would later find out, in my adult life, that these “Darth Vaders” are much worse in the real world. The state commission environment is where they really know how to take advantage. They have no integrity. They are the kind of people who only respond to blackmail, threats, and bribes—just like Michael had to deal with when he was getting shaken down.

I learned these stories were far more real than I ever wanted to believe. These politicians and state commissions are places where people go to gain power and make money. And the damage? It falls on people like Billy Collins and his family—and even Luis Resto and his family.

I was thirteen when I saw true incompetence in action.

My dad and I were watching Luis Resto vs. Billy Collins Jr. on TV. I hadn’t been a boxing fan for long, but even I knew something was off.

Resto’s gloves had no padding in the front. His hands were wrapped in plaster-like bricks. As has been widely documented, the entire New York State Athletic Commission—with all their credentials and expensive suits—let it happen.

You see these people at major events. They wear sports jackets and badges, pretending they know what they’re doing.

They are so focused on looking like they know what they’re doing that they cover up the fact that they have no clue.

Collins’ career ended that night. His eyes were too damaged to ever fight again. A few years later, he was dead.

But the commission?

They still had their jobs. Their pensions. Their paychecks.

They were the ultimate frauds. They looked professional, powerful, and important—they all have a prideful look and a boastful mouth—but when it came time to actually do their jobs, they failed. And they’re still failing.

Inspectors today often sign off on gloves without closely watching the wrapping process. They stand ringside pretending to be in charge, but they wouldn’t notice a loaded glove until someone’s face caves in. Billy’s dad was the one who caught the loaded glove.

They love the status of authority—but not the responsibility that comes with it.

This was my first experience with the incompetence of boxing and MMA commissions. Ask anyone who has dealt with one, and they’ll share a similar story.

And if you dare suggest privatizing it—replacing them with real professionals who actually know what they’re doing—they lose their minds.

Because real accountability would mean losing their cushy jobs.

They appoint commissioners who know nothing about the job—only that they know someone, or someone in power owes them a favor.

So they attack people like me—people who actually get things done. People who understand it doesn’t matter how you look or how you talk, as long as you get it done right. Or just make sure you watch the boxer when he puts on his gloves.

Before his death. Panama Lewis has been reported to still be involved in boxing in some capacity—even though he was banned for what he did with the gloves and plaster.

But the real damage is done to regular people who don’t know how to play the system. It destroyed the Collins family—and damaged the Resto family as well.

People ask: Why do these horrible things happen?

It’s simple—greed and money.

Resto has stated that Panama was working with a big-time bettor who had a lot of money on that fight. I’m sure Panama was paid well enough to keep himself in designer warmups, jewelry, sunglasses, and watches—while everyone else suffered.

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Note: I am currently not represented by a literary or talent agency. I’m actively exploring the right partnership for my story and future projects.

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FIRST TRIP TO PARADIGM AGENCY

I am talking about the Paradigm Agency that represents Stephen King and Laurence Fishburne. A film/TV entertainment agency.

Jen Good, a literary agent from Paradigm Agency, had heard about my story and was considering taking me on as a client. I had never been to Los Angeles, so I decided to go out for a visit and see what Jen Good had to say. I have to admit, I thought I would hate Los Angeles, but I really fell in love with it.

I had booked a hotel in Culver City. I saw that it was very close to Beverly Hills, where Paradigm Agency is located. I have never really looked the part of an MMA agent or someone who had a meeting at Paradigm Agency. This story goes to show that.

My appointment was for 3 p.m. the next day. When I was getting an Uber ride from the airport to my hotel, I asked the driver how long a ride from Culver City to Beverly Hills would take. He replied anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours.

Oh wow. I have always been good about showing up on time, and for this important situation I thought I better leave two hours and ten minutes early to make sure I got there on time. I also wanted to take a look around Beverly Hills.

The next day I logged onto the Uber app and put in my destination: Paradigm Agency, Beverly Hills. A very young female Uber driver picked me up. Below is how the conversation went—

UBER DRIVER – Where are you going today?

ME – Paradigm Agency.

UBER DRIVER – You know that is an entertainment agency?

ME – Yes.

UBER DRIVER – Oh.

Well, that was not a big boost of confidence, but that is how my life has always gone. She dropped me off in front of Paradigm Agency, and I was very impressed. Another moment of feeling like I didn’t belong.

Of course, we got there in less than twenty minutes. The Uber driver even commented that it was the fastest she had ever gotten to Beverly Hills from Culver City.

I had over two hours to kill, so I started to look around. I went into a corner store to get some water. There was a very pretty lady working there.

LADY – Did you just get done with a doctor’s appointment?

ME – No. That’s a funny thing to say.

LADY – Most people who come in just got done with their doctor’s appointment. What are you up to today?

(I thought that since I was single in LA, I would try to impress her.)

ME – I am going to Paradigm Agency.

LADY – You know that is a film and TV agency?

ME – Yes.

LADY – Oh. (rolling eyes in disbelief)

So it was time to go in for my appointment. Paradigm is very impressive, with a huge courtyard, a pyramid, and a fire pit. I really was not feeling confident, and after the encounters with the Uber driver and the store clerk, I was expecting worse when I went in.

To add more stress, I noticed one of the most beautiful women was walking in behind me. She was everything that made me feel like I didn’t belong.

As I got closer to the main entrance, I saw two beautiful receptionists and a mean-looking security guard in a suit. I couldn’t help but visualize him throwing me out by the boot loop because I didn’t belong.

As I got closer, I started to rehearse what I was going to say. I would try not to stutter or sound stupid.

As soon as I opened the door, I was shocked by what I heard. One of the receptionists looked up and said, “Hi Wade, Jen Good is expecting you. Would you like to take a seat in the lobby?”

I WAS SHOCKED. Did I mishear her? She called me Wade? Everyone who knows me knows I like to be called Wade—not Sir, not Mr. Hampel—just Wade. I also fine my guys a nickel every time they call me sir. Frank Trevino owes me about $3.35 in nickel fines.

I sat down and quickly looked back to see what was going on with the beautiful woman behind me. I mean, she was either a movie star or a model—or both.

I eavesdropped on the conversation. It went like this—

BEAUTIFUL LADY – Hi, I just need to run this up to Mr. Smith.

RECEPTIONIST – Ma’am, you cannot see him without an appointment.

BEAUTIFUL LADY – I just need to give him this. (points to folders)

RECEPTIONIST – Ma’am, you cannot leave anything here or see Mr. Smith without an appointment.

The lady went on for a bit, but finally realized she was not getting in and would not be able to leave anything.

I thought to myself:

THIS MUST BE THE ONLY PLACE IN THE WORLD THAT THIS NERD CAN GET INTO… AND THAT BEAUTIFUL WOMAN COULD NOT.

One win for the nerds.

If you're an agent, producer, or publisher and this story resonates, feel free to reach out. I’m building something bigger than just a book.

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THE GUY WITH THE CHIHUAHUA TATTOO(unpublished)

Chapter Two

K’IHAP TALK IS EVERYTHING©

THE PEACOCK IS NOW KING

“I have always been judged by my public speaking.”

“People who say ‘don’t judge’ are often the most judgmental.”

“Even a lie is believed if spoken with confidence.”

“Ego can make lies believable.”

“Bragging with a prideful look has become the pinnacle.”

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K’ihap is a Korean term used in traditional martial arts to describe the sharp, focused shout made when executing an attack. In Japanese, it’s called Kiai. The value placed on the K’ihap often outweighs the action that follows it.

The parking lot outside the martial arts school was bustling. Luxury cars jostled for front-row spots so Jr. wouldn’t have to walk far to the Tae Kwon Do studio. SUVs even occupied handicapped spaces just to get closer. The vehicles were crammed so tightly near the entrance that whenever a child opened a door, it inevitably dinged the car beside it. The scratches and dents told their own story—a parking lot club of BMWs, Suburbans, lifted trucks, and Cadillacs, where rank was measured in door dings.

In stark contrast, one car was parked far from the building. It was older but well-maintained—no dents, no damage. Inside sat a father and his son, both with expressions shaped by hardship. The father, though composed, was clearly feeling his son’s pain.

The boy entered the dojo in a plain white gi. No flashy designs, no dragon patches, no bright logos—just a simple uniform that mirrored his quiet presence. He and his father were here for one thing: hope—hope to stop the bullying. Other kids wore designer uniforms adorned with dragons, pit bulls, and loud, colorful patches that screamed ego. Soon these images would involve into matching tattoos.

The vanity mirrors reflected a scene more fitting for a department store than a training space. In fact, the mirror was the most used piece of equipment in the dojo.

The boy approached the mat and began practicing his Tae Kwon Do reverse punch on the heavy bag. Around him, other students filled the room with loud, aggressive K’ihaps—shouts meant to intimidate and command. But he remained silent, focused solely on hitting the bag—again and again, just as he had for days.

At around 11 years old, the boy had already discovered that team sports weren’t for him. He hadn’t failed due to lack of effort, but because of the body he lived in—short, overweight, and with a high-pitched, squeaky voice that made him a magnet for ridicule. And when he got nervous, which was often, he stuttered. That combination had been a death sentence in traditional sports. His body wouldn’t begin to mature until nearly 25, but for now, the world was moving on without him.

Martial arts felt different. He had first seen Choi’s Tae Kwon Do school on TV, and the idea of becoming like Bruce Lee—his idol—was a dream worth chasing. Unlike team sports, martial arts were individual. If he failed, he wouldn’t disappoint a team—just himself. It was supposed to be a clean slate, a way to finally end the bullying. And with the bullies gone, happiness finally seemed within reach.

He loved that first day of class. He wore his white belt with pride and worked harder than anyone else. His technique was impressive, even at an early stage. He dreamed of earning a colored belt—the sign that he was progressing, that maybe one day, he’d be standing at the front of the class. That colored belt would change everything. He’d gain respect, maybe even friends. And most importantly, no one would dare bully a kid with a colored belt.

At least, that was the hope.

In traditional martial arts, testing day is a big deal. Families gather, instructors observe closely, and students put their skills on display. It stands in contrast to the world of practical combat sports, like MMA, where appearance often outweighs ability. This is where the concept of “peacocks” versus “tigers” enters the scene.

That night, the boy gave it everything he had. His movements were precise, his concentration sharp. He even broke his board on the first attempt—something he’d never done in practice. His dad cheered from the sidelines, and for the first time, the boy felt the weight lift off his shoulders. He believed it was his best performance yet, one of the top among the white belts.

The next day, the test results were posted on the dojo wall. The boy searched for his name, expecting it near the top. But it wasn’t there. He looked again. Still nothing. Finally, he found his name—at the bottom.

This list, unofficially, would determine the kids’ futures. And unless he focused on looking the part and mastering the K’ihap, he’d be left behind.

Everyone else had been promoted. Even Jessica—who had cried during sparring and quit halfway through—earned her colored belt. But it wasn’t real crying. It was calculated. She knew how to play the sympathy card. She was figuring out that talk is more important than action. Even in Tae Kwon Do, aggression was frowned upon. Competitors could be disqualified for hitting too hard. By pretending her opponent had been too aggressive and shedding a few well-timed tears, she manipulated the system. Years later, she’d refine that same skill to open even more doors.

The boy’s parents were confused. He had done well—his technique was solid, and he was one of the few to break his board cleanly. Why was he the only one who didn’t advance?

They approached Master Choi, the Korean Grand Master, for answers. Dressed in a black and red gi with a golden dragon stitched across it—a symbol of his self-styled greatness—his response was swift and cold:

“His K’ihap is weak. Too girly,” he told them.

The boy didn’t understand. How could a shout be more important than the skills he had worked so hard to master?

But in traditional martial arts, it was. Looking the part mattered. Sounding tough mattered. Real skill? That came second. In this world, the peacock ruled—not the tiger. Even a lizard that could puff up its neck to look bigger could rule the jungle.

Years later, the boy would grasp the real lesson. It wasn’t about being tough. It was about looking tough. Talking tough. Accomplishments meant nothing, only the prideful look and boastful talk. The kids who passed that test became the types who thrived in life: politicians, professors, state jobs, and teachers, people married into wealth. They knew how to talk the talk. Walking the walk didn’t matter.

He didn’t know it then, but that was the moment he learned a painful truth:

It’s better to appear capable than to be capable.

And in a world that values appearance over substance, those with talent but no showmanship are left behind.

The same kids from that dojo? They’re probably still out there—comfortable, admired, successful. They live in the world of the pretty and the privileged. A world that wanted nothing from him—except maybe to steal his future achievements.

The damage from that rejection became a scar etched deep inside him. In that moment, the boy was left to wonder:

If you can’t even succeed at pretending to be strong, what chance do you have in a world that worships the peacock?

“MORE IMPORTANT TO LEARN TO BARK THAN BITE”

TODAY BRUCE LEE WOULD SAY- BE A PEACOCK MY FRIEND

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I SO MUCH PREFER THIS PICTURE OF ME(my hands only). One of jobs I enjoyed holding up the banner, when you can only see my work not me!

Below is a link to a story about me. Fun fact this is one of the few pictures taken of me. I always tried to avoid the spotlight, and hated my picture taken. I guess I got caught up in moment of victory.

Rmag

Bullied As a Kid, He Became an MMA Agent

Wade Hampel (left) with fighters, Flavio Alvaro (center) and Jorge Patino "Macaco" (2012). Hampel was one of the first Americans to sign Brazilian fighters to MMA, including UFC Champion, Charles Oliveira…

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5 months ago · 3 likes · Gill Schor

update 3/21/2026 - Well just had a picture of myself posted on article. Have to say I don’t like it… but Substacks therapy has made it tolerable. =)

I have battled bullies and shyness my entire life.

Martial arts helped me with bullies and the damage they caused. I think I may have finally found the solution for shyness.

When my agent told me I should start writing on Substack, my first reaction was simple: no way.

I suffer from a fear of public speaking. I hate talking about myself. I’ve always avoided sharing personal stories about my life. Call it extreme shyness, call it being an introvert. If I could come up with a three-letter acronym, they would come out with a pill to take—whatever it is, I’ve had it since I first heard my own voice on a tape recorder.

I can’t fully explain the fear I felt right before publishing my first story on Substack.

So I came up with a plan. I always have a plan A, plan B, and plan C...

If too many people started reading it, I would delete it.

I’m a numbers guy, so I made a rule: if the story gets more than ten readers, I’m deleting it. To me, going viral would be a nightmare.

I remember watching the reader count like it was a scoreboard.

When it hit three readers, I thought, this isn’t so bad. It felt like dipping my toe into an ice-cold swimming pool.

Three readers wasn’t bad.

Maybe ten wouldn’t be so bad either.

When it finally hit ten, I realized something surprising: this wasn’t as terrifying as I thought. My foot was already in the cold water. Now 1,000 kind of looks like a shark’s fin in the ice-cold pool. I will have to face a huge fear if I’m going to get in.

I’m a logical person, but I still don’t fully understand why this worked. I just know that it did.

One thing I’ve learned for sure:

The fear of fear is always worse than the original fear itself.

Something strange happened after that.

I went from trying to make sure my stories didn’t get more readers… to actually doing things to promote them.

Writing became its own kind of therapy.

In the same way martial arts helped me deal with bullies growing up, writing on Substack has helped me deal with shyness.

Martial arts taught me how to defend myself.

Writing is teaching me how to communicate with others. The fear of the fear is going away.

And when I say martial arts helped me, I should say MMA. Tae Kwon Do did not. All it did was take my dough—or maybe I should say my parents’ dough. More stories on this coming soon. Tae Kwon Do would also have a huge effect on me becoming more introverted. The chapter “KiHap*” coming soon.

* KiHap: the yell you make when doing TKD

I still have trouble speaking in front of more than eight people.

But maybe next time…

I’ll try nine.

I’m currently writing a book about my life managing fighters and working behind the scenes in the early days of mixed martial arts, including stories about working with fighters like Charles Oliveira and navigating the wild early years of the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

If you enjoy these kinds of real behind-the-scenes stories, consider subscribing. I’ll be sharing more chapters.

PS: In my next story, I’ll explain how I accidentally became a fighter manager… for ten dollars.

Written by Wade Hampel- MMA Sports agent 3/12/2026

https://substack.com/@wadehampel

Over the years I’ve had charities reach out asking for help. Fighters get injured. Families struggle. Someone needs money for medical bills or a fundraiser. People ask if I can help spread the word. I have always tried to help.

But when one of my own fighters got cancer, I learned something that surprised me.

When people really need help, most people disappear, including cancer charities.

Bruno Ferreira was one of the most positive human beings I’ve ever met in my life.

When I signed Bruno, he was 8–0 as a professional mixed martial artist. Every win was a finish, and every finish came in the first round. He had talent, but what stood out even more was his attitude. He had a quiet belief that things were going to work out.

The first week I signed him, I got him a contract with what was then a major promotion for rising fighters, Legacy FC.

For most fighters the dream is the UFC.

For Bruno, the dream was simpler.

He wanted to fight in the United States.

He once told reporters he had never even seen an airplane before. For someone who grew up in Brazil with very little, the idea of traveling abroad to fight felt like something out of a movie.

Bruno was from São José do Rio Pardo, Brazil. Earlier in his career he had moved to Campinas to train and pursue fighting seriously. For a while he lived inside the gym while building his record.

By the time he reached 8–0, he had finally managed to rent a small one-bedroom apartment with his wife.

Then everything changed.

Bruno had been dealing with severe back pain for months. He believed it was kidney stones. Eventually the pain became so bad that he went to the hospital several times in one weekend and pushed doctors to run more tests.

They did a scan.

Instead of kidney stones, they found cancer.

The cancer had started in one of his testicles and had already spread into his abdomen.

Bruno later said it felt like he had gone from heaven to hell in the same week. One moment he had signed the biggest contract of his life. The next moment he was fighting for his life instead of fighting in the cage.

The treatments were brutal.

Six rounds of aggressive chemotherapy. Multiple surgeries. Long hospital visits. At one point he even lost his voice for months because of complications during treatment.

He once said the chemotherapy almost killed him.

But even during treatment, he still found ways to train when he could. When his body had enough strength, he returned to the mats for light jiu-jitsu sessions with teammates who took it easy on him.

Fight day- cancer did not stand a chance!

Even a short training session made him feel alive again.

Eventually doctors told him the cancer was under control.

And Bruno came back to me with the same dream he had before all of it started.

He still wanted to fight in the United States.

While preparing for that opportunity, he returned to the doctor again.

The cancer had come back.

I spoke with his coach about what we should do. We were worried about him, but his coach said something that stayed with me.

“We don’t have the right to stop Bruno from living his dream.”

(The event poster from Bruno’s fight in USA. His opponent, Tony Gravely, went on to the UFC. After the fight I witnessed a very special moment between Bruno and Gravely, almost the same as the BMW driver- Bruno sincerely appreciated Gravely’s part in helping him live his dream. The outcome of the fight did not matter.

Bruno understood the risks. He knew what he was facing.

But he still wanted to fight.

Does this look like a guy who has cancer? This is the day before fighting at the weigh-ins. I remember this day because Ricardo Ramos’s corner got mad at him because he wanted to take a picture with the announcer of the event. His coach needed him back to the hotel to rehydrate from a big weight cut. Like all ring announcers, he like to talk, and after the picture proceeded a long 1 sided conversation with Bruno- it did not matter, Bruno did not speak English- Bruno just smiled and nodded.

Before the fight, Bruno and I texted often while we handled logistics for the event—interviews, posters, sponsors, and medical paperwork.

One message from him stayed with me.

I told him we had secured a small sponsor for him worth $100.

His response came right away.

“100 dollars of sponsorship? Thank you very much my friend.”

Most fighters complain about small sponsors.

Bruno was grateful.

That was the kind of person he was.

When Bruno arrived in the United States for the fight, I met him in Tennessee.

One moment from that trip has stayed with me ever since.

We ordered an Uber and the driver arrived in an older BMW.

Bruno’s reaction was pure excitement.

He was genuinely happy for the driver. He kept congratulating him and patting him on the back, telling him how great it was that he owned a BMW.

There was no jealousy. No resentment. Just happiness for someone else’s success.

He insisted on taking pictures with the driver in front of the car.

To Bruno, riding in that BMW felt like something special.

The night of the fight was difficult.

The cancer had taken too much from him physically. He fought hard but took a beating in the first round before the fight was stopped.

But what happened afterward is something I’ll never forget.

Bruno gave a speech that shocked everyone in the building.

He said that even though he had lost the fight, he had already won his fight against cancer.

And he was happy.

His face was badly swollen and bruised, but he kept smiling.

After the fight, two fans named Holly and Scott came over and gave him some money to help him out. Bruno thought it was coming from the promoter and started counting the money right in front of them.

His coach quickly told him it wasn’t the promoter.

Bruno immediately felt embarrassed and asked me several times to apologize to them for him and explain that he meant no disrespect.

I kept asking him if he needed anything for pain.

Ice.

Aspirin.

Anything.

He kept telling me the same thing.

“No pain.”

Which was hard to believe looking at his face.

But he stayed happy the entire night. He was happy that he lived his dream.

Before he returned to Brazil, the last thing he told me was that he was excited to go home and see his family.

Bruno fought one more time after that.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how advanced his cancer really was.

Months later, Bruno Ferreira passed away.

He left behind his wife and his daughter.

I still think about him often.

Not because of the fight.

But because of the small moments.

The way he was genuinely happy for a stranger who owned a BMW.

The way he was grateful for a $100 sponsor.

The way he insisted on paying me my 10 percent even though he barely had money himself.

Meeting Bruno reminded me a lot of my father.

Both of them faced cancer the same way—not by letting it define them, but by continuing to live their lives.

Bruno didn’t ignore the disease. He took the chemo. He saw the doctors.

But once those things were handled, he went right back to chasing his dream.

Cancer never stopped him from living.

And in the end, that might be the real victory.

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THE GUY WITH THE CHIHUAHUA TATTOO©

FOREWORD

“I’ve never known if it’s the right time to dance or if it’s the right time to fight- and sometimes, I wonder if I ever will.”

“You may be the worst writer in the the world, but you have an incredible story that must be told” - Gersh Agent

“I have a deeply complex story that must be told in the simplest way, my fear of speaking has kept it a secret too long.”

“Passion is better then any Harvard degree”

Public speaking rules the world.

If you’re not a good public speaker, you’ll never be president of the United States or hold any other influential position. It’s the most important skill for getting ahead—integrity and substance are far down the list. People think public speaking shouldn’t be the most important thing, but it is. The other people are silenced. Let me introduce you to the unexplored world of the silent. You have to find them, they will not come to you.

I had a meeting with one of the biggest book publishers in the world. Sitting across the table, the publisher told me, “This is one of the best stories I’ve ever read, but we’re not in the great story business. We’re in the book-selling business.”

In other words, it didn’t matter how good my story was. The story itself meant nothing—only the storyteller. “The best story” from someone like me had no value. They were only interested in the storyteller—the pretty, the privileged. I did not qualify.

I see many examples of this in life. Like how car salesmen talk you into financing a car you can’t afford, or how professors convince you their abstract theories are somehow practical. There’s the guy with the tattoo on his neck, convincing everyone he’s 200-0 in street fights. Or the college professor, like the traditional martial arts with black gi with gold dragons on it and a bear gut, student, believing extraordinary claims that have never been tested in the real world. They all love hearing their voice, and want to share that with everyone, they will find you to tell you. People believe what they see, because of the way someone looks, talks, and dresses. The neck tattoos don’t hurt either. It’s all about the packaging. The world listens to those who fit the image, not those who have the most substance to share. If you’re not the right demographic, nothing you do seems to matter. You could have the best story, the greatest idea, or the skill of getting things done—and it still wouldn’t be enough.

We live in a world where people judge a book by its cover—where it’s easier to get ahead by talking a big game rather than accomplishments. But that’s not what this book is about. This story is about action—about living your dreams and helping others live theirs. It’s not about making empty promises or looking the part.

This is the story that has never been told. This story will never find you, you will have to find it. This is the story from the silent. This is the story from no one.

Now, please sit next to the high school kid with nothing to say, sitting by himself in the cafeteria. He has a story to tell you.

I really feel like Quint in the movie JAWS, when is hauling the shark back to shore and yells out “the mayor is not going to believe what I brought him” I don’t think the world is going to believe what I bringing them with this story.

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I have always feared having the focus on me — public speaking, having pictures taken of me, seeing my name in publications. The spotlight has always been something I ran from. I know this sounds funny, but I sometimes think if I could just take narcissist classes it might fix me.

Before you read this story, there is something you should know.

This story was written with the help of Selena, a barista at the coffee shop where I have worked from my laptop for years.

Selena helped me shape this story and gave me feedback about how the staff actually saw me during that time. Many of the details come from her perspective and the perspective of the employees who watched the quiet guy sitting in the same corner every morning, working on his laptop.

For a long time, I had no idea what they thought about me. Please enjoy this story Quick, Google His Name.

This is the story they saw.

Please use the link below to subscribe for more stories and to be notified when my book is published.

Quick, Google His Name

The Crazy Corner

I am not sure how long he has been coming into the coffee shop, but I am pretty sure it has been a long time. He comes in every day around the same time. A couple of times when I have been working the cash register, I have taken his order. He seems pretty shy, a little strange, but always very polite. He has trouble making eye contact.

I notice that he has more trouble talking with women when he gets his coffee, but he always notices a beautiful woman. Sometimes he comes up in conversation with my coworkers. No one really knows anything about him, but all of us know who he is.

Employees sometimes joke about him, and the corner he sits in is cruelly called the “Crazy Corner.” The Crazy Corner is where a homeless guy named Ricky, with a hoodie, comes in to sleep every morning after a hard night. Curtis, a structural engineer who was laid off, keeps telling the same story about how much money he used to make as an engineer for the government and how he saved a SEAL team when he was enlisted in the Navy. Then there’s Frank, the guy who has done everything you have done—but better—and has no problem telling you about it.

They have all migrated to the corner of the store that the employees call “The Crazy Corner.”

Some joke that he might be a serial killer. This would be easy to believe, but every time I have talked with him he has been very nice and polite, always cutting the conversation short. He always dresses awkwardly—non-matching clothes, sandals, and misbuttoned shirts.

I find myself waiting for him to come in during the morning. It is always about 6:15 a.m. I am always curious about him. He does have a strange presence. Will he have matching clothes on? Will he misbutton his shirt? Will he miss a spot shaving?

He seems very friendly but passive with others. I have seen people cut in front of him, bump into him, and he always just awkwardly smiles. Sometimes he looks like he would really enjoy being part of the conversations others are having.

I notice that when he works on his laptop he is always very intense—almost like he is someone else. He even physically looks like someone else. I thought he might be an accountant doing his work, but the emotions he shows on his face are very intense. Intense looks that do not fit a shy, passive guy like himself.

Being totally baffled, I ask my coworker,
“What do you think that guy is doing over there?”

She gives a bewildered look and says,
“You mean that guy in the Crazy Corner?”

“Yes.”

She replies,
“Looks to me like he is looking at… porn.”

I did not think it was porn, but he had to be looking at something between complex accounting, computer coding, or maybe… porn.

So now we are both curious about what is making this guy so intense on the laptop in the Crazy Corner. We notice that he gets up a lot to make phone calls. He always goes outside to not disturb others, or maybe he just does not want others to listen.

We decide that we have to find out what this guy is looking at.

So I pretend to be bussing tables around him. I have never been afraid of him, but now I think that if he were violent, he might get very angry at me peeking at what was making him look so intense on his laptop. I begin to feel very nervous and think that maybe this is not a good idea.

But I just have to find out what is on his laptop.

Making my way over, I trip over a chair and knock it down right behind him. I am terrified, but to my surprise he does not even move. Whatever he is looking at has really captured all his attention.

I look at the screen and it is just a white screen with black text. It looks like he is just reading emails. I watch him for a long time. He never raises his head and is just going through emails and writing emails.

The intensity he has is the complete opposite of his passive demeanor.

Now I have to find out what he does. What is in those emails? Is he FBI or some kind of spy?

I start my investigation. I ask some of the other shifts about him. Everyone knows who he is, but no one knows what he does.

One of the assistant managers tells me to ask Larry about him. Larry talks to all the weirdos in the Crazy Corner.

I heard Larry tell some lie about him getting back from Russia. Come on, that loser has never been out of Texas.

She also adds that she is too busy to notice him at work, but sees him every weekend in the park by her house. He is quite a sight there too. He is very tall, and he has the smallest white Chihuahua with him. They take long walks, and then they both eat on a bench. He really likes that little dog.

Sometimes when it is cold they have matching hoodies.

He is a true wacko, and that dog must be his only friend.

It really is a surreal sight. I used to think it was him yelling at that little dog, but it was him yelling on his cell phone. He seems to have a lot of intense conversations in the park.

I cannot picture him yelling at anyone. And a guy that tall with a Chihuahua is strange.

Now I have to find out what this guy does. I bet he is in the KGB. But are KGB agents allowed to have Chihuahuas?

I have to talk with Larry to find out more.

Larry has talked with him. I want to know about this guy.

I go to Larry and ask him about him. Larry knows exactly who I am talking about and says he is very shy and does not like to talk about himself, not like the others from the Crazy Corner.

“He has always encouraged me and asked me about what’s going on in my life,” Larry says. “He is very different from the others from the corner. He just does not like to talk about himself.”

“I assure you he is just a normal, nice guy. If you ask him what he does, he will tell you the truth.”

“I know he does not like talking about himself, but he does like talking about his Chihuahua named PDiddy. And I do know he travels a lot. He brought me some souvenirs from Russia.”

Weeks go by and he becomes comfortable talking to me—as long as it is about PDiddy or simple subjects. If it ever gets close to something personal, he quickly ends the conversation and goes back to his laptop.

My investigation becomes the talk of the employees.

One day the coffee shop is busy when he walks in. He sees that I am working the counter and smiles.

He gets to the counter with the exact amount for his coffee.

From behind me David yells so the whole store can hear:

“Hey! What do you do for a living? What do you do on that computer?”

His smile disappears immediately.

He looks down.

He starts to stutter.

“Um… ah… what?”

David steps forward and says louder:

“WHAT DO YOU DO?”

Everyone is looking now.

In a very awkward manner he stutters out,

“I am an MMA agent.”

“What?” David says.

“I am an MMA agent.”

David laughs.

“An MMA fighter? You don’t even have any tattoos.”

“No… I am an MMA agent.”

David smirks.

“Well… do you have a card?”

In a very awkward fumbling way he pulls out his wallet and hands him a card.

Then he quickly leaves the store, bypassing The Crazy Corner.

I grab the card from David’s hand.

Everyone gathers around.

“What does it say?”

It reads:

Wade Hampel
Big Fight Management

Someone yells,

“Quick — Google his name.”

Suddenly everyone is staring at their phones.

I don’t see anything about him.

Wait- here is something with “Wade Hampel UFC”

WOW- “Wade Hampel Charles Oliveira” is about him managing Charles Oliveira.

Another about Francisco Frank Trevino, Ben Wall, Ricardo Ramos, and Thomas Almeida.

The quietest person in the room was living the biggest life.

****

*

**“I’ve always feared speaking. I hated the sound of my own voice and hated seeing my name on the internet. My instinct was always to stay off the radar and avoid the spotlight.

But at some point, you have to face the things you fear.”**

***