HIGH TIMES Interview: Nick Diaz
BY DAN SKYE · WED FEB 17, 2016
http://www.hightimes.com/read/high-...=Feed:+HIGHTIMESMagazine+(HIGH+TIMES+Magazine)
Early in his career as a mixed-martial-arts fighter, Nick Diaz was tagged as someone who had problems with the media. Diaz rolls his eyes and scoffs at the assertion. “I don’t like people in my face when I’m getting ready for a fight — constantly trying to get a story, asking how I feel, trying to get a quote,” he says.
He also isn’t too fond of fans who pull out cell phones to take a selfie when they meet him. “I just need my space,” he explains.
And yet, at his Stockton, California, home, Diaz is self-possessed, relaxed and pleasant. He sips a beer while talking about his recent ordeal with the UFC and the fight life in general. He’s been fighting since 2001, and he’s earned a reputation as one of the most ferocious competitors in the sport. In September, he was fined $165,000 and suspended by the UFC for five years following his third positive test for cannabis, after his January 2015 fight with Anderson Silva. It was seen as a career-ending punishment — one harsh enough that the cannabis community mounted a White House petition drive to have the ban lifted.
Outrage over the penalty has been so intense, in fact, that as we go to press (In November 2015) the Nevada State Athletic Commission is reconsidering its decision due to public pressure.
At the eye of the hurricane that the UFC has created for itself, however, Diaz seems amazingly serene. He’s certainly not done fighting—and he certainly won’t be changing his ways.
It’s been a month now since the suspension. How are you feeling?
I’ve just had some good time off, from the time of that fight until now. I didn’t expect to fight anytime between then and now—so I’ve just been trying to make some ends meet, standing outside of the whole fight world.
Are you still angry? Because you were pretty angry after the verdict came down.
Yeah, well, I’m always real angry. But I don’t take it as a loss. I haven’t taken any fight as a loss in the UFC—it’s hard to come back from losses. Defeat is only a state of mind, and I’ve never come to that state of mind.
It’s not like I purposely failed my test, but I purposely did not give a shit. I’m more focused on giving more of a shit about the fight.
You seem somewhat philosophical about this, not all that bitter.
Everything has been a gamble for me. Money and everything [that goes with it] is really a big liability. I could have been a regular guy. People from where I’m from don’t make a hundred grand a year.
At the time, I was upset. It felt like everybody was really putting it to me; I was kind of at a loss for words. I mean, I heard one of the commissioners owns cannabis dispensaries, and I’m suspended for five years? They don’t suspend guys for steroids—but I get five years, and this guy owns dispensaries.
The whole thing is—I don’t even wanna say the word, but it sounds like a setup … like the whole thing was just set up for everything to go down the way it did. It’s such a joke.
Do you think the test was rigged?
I knew that if I was tested, I’d come up under 15 nanograms—which I did. I knew I wasn’t going to come up over 100 nanograms, which was their level. Then I was tested five days later and came back seven times higher. They’re full of shit. Whatever happened is bullshit: I never got tested that many times—at least five times from when I got to Vegas, before the fight and after.
Do you dwell on this?
What am I gonna do? As far as being suspended, I have to fight, you know what I mean? The ups and downs of life, they’re going to come; I’m just kind of along for the ride. Life chose me. The upside is, I might not have to fight. A lot of these guys in the MMA and all other fighters out there will say they love to fight. I’m going to tell you all that I’m a nonviolent person—I’m not somebody who loves to fight. I fight because I have to. If there was any quit in me, I never would have made it this far. So it’s kind of hard. It’s kind of a curse.
What do you mean, you “have to” fight?
I use to live in, like, some pretty slummy areas around Stockton. I was getting in fights in first and second grade with Mexican kids, Asian kids, black kids. You’d get in fights—everybody would. Out here, you get in fights when you’re a kid, unless you go to a private school—and I didn’t go to a private school. This led me to want to do more martial arts. I was a huge Jean-Claude Van Damme fan: I’d act like him, do kicks like him, do the splits. I was a Van Damme wannabe!
But nobody supported that. My parents weren’t like: “Oh yeah, he loves Van Damme.” Nobody really supported that, but my uncle did aikido, so it was easy for them to sign me up. Anything they could do to get rid of me for a little while, you know?
When did you start training seriously?
I started really training and fighting at 15 or 16. I stopped going to high school my sophomore year. I wasn’t making good attendance. I had a really attractive girlfriend, a cheerleader, and she had a boyfriend before I got to high school. I got into fights with him and the whole football team. I wanted to play football, but that wasn’t going to work out. I was a pretty good swimmer, but I didn’t want to swim in high school because I didn’t think it was very cool. So my social life was all screwed around. I didn’t have a good base, like friends or a squad or anything like that. I went to three or four different grammar schools—see, my parents moved around Stockton and Lodi. I had a lot of anxiety about jumping into another classroom. They were always putting me in special ed. But I was smart; I wasn’t like these kids in the special-ed classes. But it would make me feel a little bit stupid. Then I’d go back into the smart-kids class the rest of the day, and they’re like: “Hey, you know you’re in the retarded class?”
So I’d be behind. Then they’d try to put me on drugs. I had a lot of energy—hyperactivity. But if my energy had been used, I could have excelled. I would have progressed. Nobody ever found me something to do for the day. So I was always just wound up, running around breaking shit. I was pretty destructive.
Did fighting give you a sense of worth?
Oh, yeah, I got that right away. I always thought it’s what mattered. It always had something to do with the girls, the women—even in first grade, I was getting into fights over them. I had a hard time being impressive any other way.
When did you start thinking about becoming a professional fighter?
I found out that this stuff was right in my backyard. I’d rent tapes from the special-interest section at Blockbuster video—Pride FC tapes. I’d watch [UFC Hall of Famer] Royce Gracie’s fights in the UFC. I found out that [UFC Hall of Famer] Ken Shamrock was from around here. I was lifting and getting strong, but I wanted to start training. A friend of mine’s brother was training at the Lion’s Den—it’s a fight school. So I just joined and started learning jujitsu. I did two or three days a week there. It was a fitness gym, too, so I had everything.
I started full-time training and I was really focused, and I found that it was easy for me. I didn’t have a job yet. I didn’t go to school anymore. I just decided that I was going to train harder than guys who were training to fight.
What do you bring to this sport that nobody else does?
I keep it real, that’s for sure. A lot of fighters have problems and issues, but they should just tune it out the way I do. I’ve had all these fights; I don’t dabble in other stuff—I don’t have any interest. Training is more important for me, enhancing my sense of security—because at the end of the day, I’ve got a fight coming in a couple months. It’s always been that way. Now, 14, 15 years later, you realize that there’s more to life. I started to come to some understanding about who I am and where I come from—and the demographic that I’m reaching out to.