CEO fight club: Why one software exec became an MMA cage fighter

“I can totally understand what you’re feeling.”

It’s almost as if sales reps everywhere expect this generic line to magically crack the safe, giving them access to unending budgets.

“Those guys,” they say, “they don’t really get you — but it’s your lucky day! We do!”

Heard it before? We all have. But it’s one thing to say you understand your client, and another thing to get into a mixed martial arts cage fight for him.

Now, before I get too into the narrative of how I, the CEO of the Pacific Northwest’s leading mobile digital agency, running a squadron of elite programmers, somehow found myself locked in the middle of a cage match — and, of course, the “Why?!” of it all — it will be helpful for you to have just a bit of background information on me.

Bucking Tough

The first thing you should know is that I grew up in a very low-income family in a farm community on the east side of Washington state – nearly Idaho. I had a single pair of pants that would get patched until the next year, complemented by used shoes from the local secondhand (or third, depending on the pants) store. When I was seven years old, there was a tragedy in our family and I swore that my daughters, if I had them someday, would always be tough. The childhood that I experienced made me an angry kid. A fighter.

In Cheney, Washington, when you’re around 11 years old, you spend the summers bucking hay bales into trucks. By age 12, I was working full-time on a ranch – a task that earned me a great work ethic and a pretty good physique. Combine a little bit of confidence with a freshman boy discovering girls for the first time, and you’ve got a recipe for a few fights. These fights weren’t structured. They were farm-kid fights; very little technique (if any) and a whole lot of newfound testosterone.

Being an angry farm kid is one thing – but setting foot in a ring at 40 years old takes an admitted amount of ‘crazy.’ As a young and (what some would call) successful entrepreneur, I’ve gotten into a few ‘thrill-seeking’ hobbies over the years. I race cars, ride motorcycles, jump out of planes, wakeboard, snowboard — if it is fast and dangerous, I love it. As any investor will tell you, risk doesn’t always go your way. I have had more concussions than I can count, found my way through two windshields, totaled a number of sport bikes, and even managed to break my neck and tailbone in a freak skydiving accident. It may seem like a little much, but it’s an odd blend of excitement and therapy.

The FighterBonus Idea

It’s 2012 and, in addition to my work, I am a 38-year-old husband and father of four. My oldest daughter is 13, my youngest daughter is 10, and my “mini me” is a studly eight years old. I’m running a budding software agency called Gravity Jack, and the good times are rolling.

Throughout their childhood, my children have casually bounced around various martial arts styles and private coaches, but one day I come across Warrior Camp – a local MMA gym, founded by former professional MMA fighter Joel Thomas. As my kids begin training, they accelerate faster than ever, thanks to the unique blend of technique and confidence that Joel and his team instill through the program. Warrior Camp soon grows to be the largest MMA gym in the Pacific Northwest and a favorite for a number of extremely well-known professional fighters, from UFC to NBC’s World Series of Fighting.

After we’ve known each other for a few months, Joel pulls me aside and spills to me that he has an idea for an app. As the CEO of a mobile agency, I hear a lot of pitches. Everyone on our team does. Whether it’s in a restaurant, a meeting, a ball game, or the grocery store — when people find out what we do, the ideas people have just fall out. As Joel speaks to me, I think to myself: “What can this guy who punches for a living have for the digital space?”

I was wrong.

Investing 101

When I assess concepts that people bring to the Gravity Jack team, or to any of the investment groups I am blessed to advise, I consider a few main things:

1. How does it make money? Silicon Valley has bred a misguided culture of “Monetization? We’ll figure that out later.” That is toxic to young entrepreneurs today and only (rarely) works in the valley.

2. Can it scale? Another approach to this is, “Is the user base large enough? Can the model adapt to get it there?”

3. Will they use it more than once? Read: “How does it defeat attrition?”

4. Is it social? Does it make me feel a part of something, and can I communicate that feeling with others?

5. What need does it satisfy? If it does satisfy a need, is the solution valuable enough to warrant paying for? Whose problem is it to solve? The end-user or the entity funding the app? The answer to this question can be complex, but is critical.

6. Is it sexy? Is it something people want around? At times, it’s as simple as whether or not a tween will think it is cool.

7. Can I do it with my thumb? Can I use the product or app while drinking a Coke, without dropping my phone (or Coke)? Read: Is it intuitive and effortless?

8. How do people find out about it? What is the plan for marketing and UAQ (user acquisition)? This is a question you must ask at the beginning. If you ask it after you’ve already developed your project, it’s likely too late for maximum potential. Gravity Jack has a team dedicated to answering this question and they’re involved in the earliest strategic meetings and, from day one, begin planning advertising, in-app engagement, PR opportunities, and more.

Meathead Strong

As I sat and listened to my friend Joel, I immediately regretted all the meathead names I had called him in my mind.

People tend to assume that fit, protein-chugging gym-goers are nothing more than meatheads — until they start talking about computer science, marketing strategy, medicine, or physics. This professional puncher had, on his own, come up with a totally unique method to engage fans and increase entertainment in the fastest growing sport in the world – on the fastest growing platform in the world.

As he explained his plan for crowd sourced, micro-pay sponsors for every fight, I smiled and I knew he would disrupt the entire MMA sponsorship ecosystem as it stands. He explained how his idea would bring more exciting fights, better pay for underpaid fighters, and an unprecedented opportunity for fans to see exactly what they wanted.

“FighterBonus,” he called it, and he had devised bi-level marketing plans for bottom-up and top-down approaches. I was hooked.

I invested both time and cash into FighterBonus and helped Joel navigate the space of seed round financing. He did it successfully, and before we knew it, FighterBonus was off and running.

A New Idea Grows

Before long, FighterBonus had a beta website ready to launch and some big ideas. It was the middle of summer and we needed to test what we had, with a few hundred users during a live fight. In true “go big or go home” fashion, FighterBonus built a cage. A floating cage, to be exact — hovering over the water of Liberty Lake. We held an exhibition fight — and this floating summer brawl drew enough attention to garner a sponsorship from Hooters. Live MMA, free beer, food, and, yes — the world-famous Hooters girls. Put it all on top of a lake in the middle of summer and who would miss it?

It was a great night and, more importantly, the beta proved that the model worked, but the question that kept coming up was, “Hey Luke, why aren’t you fighting?”

My public reactions were instinctively, “Ha! Yeah!” — but secretly, I wondered, “If this is something everyone’s asking, what am I missing?” Could this help promote the app in some way? Would the timing be there? Could it help acquire users? A large part of me wanted to test myself too. Was I still just an angry kid, or could I learn technique, fight discipline, and control?

The Decision

As these questions grew in my mind, I turned 40. In January of 2014, the FighterBonus application was in final development. I stopped asking questions and decided to fight. I did so for a few reasons:

• The answers to all my questions were yes. I could still fight. How can a CEO of the agency creating the app hope to drive users into the ecosystem if he doesn’t participate in that ecosystem himself? I believed in the idea — it was just time to put it into practice.
• Doing this would help me serve my client better. It would give me the ability to understand not only Joel but also the project in a whole new way — through the lens of a fighter, not just a fan. If nothing else, it would prove how far Gravity Jack goes to back the work that we do and the clients we partner with.
• My oldest daughter, Abigail Richey, was going to fight. I should note, she has trained with pros, including Julianna Peña, Cody McKenzie, and other Spokane greats for years. As my kids grow older, I jump at the chance to do something with them and, despite some potential pain (okay, a lot of it), this was one of those chances. I could do this with my daughter and create a memory.
• Hell, I was 40. I am supposed to have a midlife crisis, aren’t I? I already had a chopper. And my wife is way out of my league, so I certainly don’t need a girlfriend. Every doctor I have said I shouldn’t do it. I had to do it.

Training Begins

I rolled mats into the back of Gravity Jack, so I could train privately with Joel, before work. I was embarrassed to fight with ‘real’ fighters. I didn’t want to look like I had no clue what I was doing. My younger brawls were not what I had spent the last few years watching my girls learn.

It didn’t take long before Joel told me it was time to get in the gym. “If you only learn to fight me,” he said. “I will be the only person you’re able to fight.” It was a very real truth, and I understood the need to train with others.

I sucked it up and started training at Warrior Camp — and loved it. Training with pros and amateurs who hurt you one moment and give you advice the next. For the first time, I understood why teams like CrossFit work. When you do something hard with a group, you bond with them. The high fives are genuine.

Through the year I train. After I train, I train some more. Training sessions were booked for 2 hours (and usually went longer). It was high-intensity interval training, without the intervals — like doing CrossFit for 2 hours straight, while intermittently battling other fighters (many of which were professional).

Of all the things I learned, I don’t heal fast anymore. When you’re my age and fighting twenty year olds, you realize it — fast. I had black eyes in corporate client meetings, bruises on my arms and fractures in my hands and fingers. I was out of my comfort zone.

The last month of training, it all clicked. I began seeing the mechanics of a knee coming, a punch before it had even been thrown, or someone who was poised to attempt a take down. I started to feel ready but, at the same time, I had so much to lose. I began considering things like, “What would my son think of his Dad if he lost?” Like every son, he believes I’m invincible. What Dad wants to expedite the understanding that he isn’t? Would my wife still feel safe with me when we are walking at night? Will my employees think I just wasted time? Joel? I decided losing just wasn’t an option.

On the last night of training, Joel says: “We aren’t in the cage to make friends. We aren’t there to touch gloves and be nice. You are there to bring the pain and win.”

Queue the Rocky music!

The Weight of It All

We are a week out from the fight and we have to cut salt out of our diet. All salt. It’s supposed to shed water out of our system. To train your body to flush it, you drink more.

My brain must operate on salt, because by Friday, I’m a zombie CEO. I can’t do simple math in my head and I sleep horribly. My client meetings feel stagnant and my employees, while supportive, I’m sure are all eager to get this ordeal over with.

Two days out from the fight happens to be Thanksgiving. While the rest of the nation celebrates over roasted turkey, gravy, pie and red wine, Abigail and I watch.

For fights, weigh-ins occur 24 hours before the event starts. Friday morning, we can’t drink anything. Our family, here for the holidays, seem annoyed at how restricted we are. Despite being supportive, they don’t understand why we’re so miserable.

It is finally Friday night and my daughter and I have pitiful Thanksgiving dinners, shrink- wrapped and ready to go. I arrive an hour early for weigh in, only to discover I am 4 pounds over! I get in the sauna and 20 minutes later, I have only lost half a pound. I am handed a bottle of makeup remover, which I am told to cover myself in — like some magic battle lotion. I am completely out of my element. Businessmen don’t do this kind of thing, but have come too far so I follow directions.

Somehow it works. We make weight!

As I return the next day to register as a fighter, my arms are numb and permanent chills are running up my back. I can’t help but ask the question, “Wait a minute. What am I doing?”

News comes to Joel that my opponent has dropped out of the fight. This could be an easy out, but again, I’ve come too far to let myself miss this opportunity. Joel says a new matchup has checked in for me. I can win against anybody, he says. They only briefly mention that the new guy is bigger, at 180 pounds. Of course he is.

Abby is getting wrapped and begins warming up. None other than Julianna Pena comes up to her room and wishes her luck. Our entire family roots for the “Venezuelan Vixen,” as they call her, so the fact that she made the time to come and visit means a lot to both of us.

My baby girl walks out of the room. Her arms go up and it’s show time. The crowd erupts and, to be honest, I am amazed at how much she loves this.

I have to be honest and say it was the hardest thing I have ever watched happen. Even though my daughter was the dominant force in the cage that night, everything in me wanted to go save her. I kept telling myself she didn’t need saving and, to be perfectly honest — she didn’t. She went a full three rounds and never once let up. In the second round Abby took a left to the nose and started bleeding. She hit 10th gear, on a 3 gear motorcycle. This little petite girl brought a war into the cage!

I have to be honest and say it was the hardest thing I have ever watched happen.

I don’t realize how fast the minutes are ticking by and, before I know it, Cody McKenzie (a former professional UFC fighter), is in front of me, taping my wrists. We don’t have much time, so he opts for a ‘street fight’ wrap, while assuring me this will, at the very least, protect my 40 year old wrists from breaking. I nod in nervous agreement.

At this moment it all becomes real. My shin guards are on, my mouth guard is in and Cody brings me in the back to warm me up. It’s nothing short of a sprint. Every second of preparation counts, the closer I get.

This is it.

I hear the song that I picked start and, if I wasn’t numb already – I am now. Joel tells me to just absorb the moment; The roar of the crowd. I try, but this isn’t my element. I focus on my breathing and intensity. It is all about to happen.

I walk to the cage and Joel says, “You’re going to feel some pain. Let it flow through you and channel it.” He brings his arms down and slaps me three times on the shoulders. I grit my teeth and channel it.

I climb into the cage and my nerves are off the charts. I try to act like I’m comfortable. We’ve practiced even this. I turn to the crowd and raise my arms because I want the roar I get to intimidate. Any advantage I can have, I want.

As they announce my opponent, Coach Paul yells: “Luke, we have trained but you’ve got one round in you. When it is time — and you will know it when it happens — I want you to finish this. Finish it in this round.”

“Finish it!” he yells. I agree with him. I know that my fight stamina is short. This is like nothing I’ve ever done.

I am being announced now and I do a little hamstring stretch that looks something like a bow. I think to myself, “Wait, I don’t want to bow!” I jump up and try to make it look like a move. It comes of awkward, but I forget about it.

“Ready!” the referee barks. I am so nervous. Everything is shaking, so I try to act like it’s natural by shaking my arms and wrists, bouncing around like I’ve seen fighters do before.

Ding!

I’ve heard this sound for months, but now, I hear it in slow motion. Like a gong. Like all of the sound has been sucked out of the room. The ding that signals it is on. It is time to bring pain and receive some. I charge.

He swings, but I duck and stick to my game plan. Step 1: Bully him to the cage.

But, wait! This guy is moving like a real fighter, and attempting throws. I adapt, throwing punches while I push him to the cage. I have drilled this. It works, and I get my first take down.

Step 2. Get mount. He’s scrappy, and stronger than he looks. He slips up and exposes his back. I try my hardest to get my legs to hook him, but they just won’t. I throw more punches corner him, with his head against the cage. He reaches over and grabs my head to flip me over his back. At this point, I know this fighter has trained live before.

Momentarily on my back, I scramble wide and stand up with him. I try a knee but he deflects it with his. Pushing him against the cage again, I start putting right hand hammers into his side. He returns with a few attempts of his own, as I’m able to bully him back to cage. There, I rip him down for the second time in a double leg. I can feel it hit him — and the crowds reaction proves I’m making ground.

Again I try for mount, but this time I give him space. He smells — like a fighter — and, frankly, there’s no executive boardroom with a scent that strong.

He exposes his back again but repeatedly grabs my glove, trying to stop the choke. It’s an illegal move and that frustrates me. Rules begin to blur and I yell some choice words his way (also, admittedly, illegal). Eye for an eye.

I chase him down and I slam him hard on the cage. I feel the cage rock from the impact. He feels the change in my tempo and unleashes too. For the first time, I get hit. Then, I get hit again. It doesn’t matter. I absorb it. Each punch somehow drives me harder. In a weird way, I love it. I feel alive. At this point, I feel unstoppable.

I’m in his head now, and remember what I’ve been taught: Don’t give him any room! So I charge, bringing him to the cage again. I throw an uppercut and it lands square on his chin. Someone yells, ‘Knee!’ Maybe Joel. Maybe Cody — but I hear it loud and clear. I grab him in a Muay Thai Clinch and muster as much strength as I have left. I drive my knee up. It connects and I can feel the tide moving in my favor. I do it again. His strength is gone and, all of a sudden, there’s nothing between me and the finish. It’s an open lane!

Never let up. I pull him down into a jiu jitsu guillotine choke — a move I’ve never practiced. Actually, I know darn well my chokes are terrible. Inexperienced. I ignore that, as Paul’s words echo, “Finish it — this round!” I am not sure I can choke him, so I just pull — hoping he gives.

“He tapped!” I hear. “He tapped!”

I see the ref move to stop me. Instantly, the sound in the room comes back, and I am in my body — a CEO. I lay back, and the only word I can think of is, “wow.”

Finally, this whole ride is over! The cheers are fantastic and I take a moment to soak it in.

As I walk through the crowd, everyone is happy and patting me on the back. It was a rush, unlike any of my over 1,000 skydives have ever given. I still can feel it, anytime I think about the fight and the battle to the cage!

Warrior Camp is dominant — a tsunami of pain! The regiment and training worked. In fact, it instilled so much confidence in our team that one of our fighters decides to attempt a jackpot from the FighterBonus mobile app! He fails, and the video hits the internet — quickly reaching almost half a million views. Despite his hiccup, he goes on to win his fight and a timeless place in viral internet history.

Over the course of the next few days, a knot under my eye becomes a black eye — and in just a week, I complete my dramatic makeover into something of a raccoon. It is a badge of honor. It eventually heals, along with the rest of my 40-year-old body. It reminds me of what it’s like to feel young — even if just for one minute and 29 seconds.

A few days after the fight, I took some time to speak to my daughter Abby, one-on-one. I hugged her close, and proudly told her that she proved everything during her fight. She had shown me that she would never be a victim and any further participation in MMA was completely her choice.

I am a CEO and, although the fight is over, I move on to the next challenge of driving users into the culture and ecosystem of FighterBonus. I have a new perspective; a lens I can wear to better understand and serve our client — one of a fighter, and one of determination. I understand my partners. Perhaps not on a completely professional MMA level — but I suppose there is always next year.

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Luke Richey is the CEO of Gravity Jack, a mobile app development agency. Liberty Lake native, husband, father & thrill junkie. Software, skydiving & bikes.