On January 5, 2003, Randy Eye was burrowed inside of his Rootstown, Ohio home, shielding himself from the outside world. A bearded, motorcycle-riding mountain of a middle-aged man, Eye was soaking in the remaining hours of a weekend which had only served to provide a brief recess from his hard-earned living as a skilled tradesman for Chrysler. Rootstown is exactly as the name would insinuate—a rural township named after a founding family, home to roughly 7,000 people, rife with State Routes and cemeteries alike where the chief exports are farmland scenery and circular economics. In typical northeastern Ohio fashion, the weather on this very day was a marriage of dry, blistery and swirling winds with a hint of flurries. There was a slight accumulation of snow on the frozen ground, but Mother Nature had instead provided a perfect balance of a day that was both unappealing to the eye—with brown grass and barren trees—and one that was torturous to the touch with a wind chill near zero.
As Eye’s hometown-favorite Cleveland Browns were amassing a multiple-score third quarter lead on the neighboring Pittsburgh Steelers in what was an AFC Wild Card game for the ages1 , Eye received a phone call from his 16-year-old daughter Jessica—she was stranded on a nearby road as her 1982 Dodge 600 had died. A badass boat of a car, Eye’s two-door sled had bench seats, recessed headlights and white walled tires. It had stopped cooperating. The alternator, she thought. With Browns running back William Green’s one-yard touchdown run and Steelers quarterback Tommy Maddox turning into the second coming of Terry Bradshaw serving as bookends to the afternoon, Jessica had partaken in an indoor soccer practice and stopped by a friend’s home afterwards. She was finally homeward bound on Lynn Road, the rural, wood-lined stretch that runs parallel with Interstate-76, perpendicular to State Route 44 which cuts through the heart of Rootstown. Just one turn away, she had managed to get her car to the side of the road to await her father’s arrival.
Frustrated with the day’s turn of events, Randy Eye sauntered to his 1981 Dodge Ram—a hunkering tank of a truck with a giant grid for a grill and pair of steel mirrors, one protruding from each side—roused it from a cold day’s rest, and set on to find his marooned minor. By the time he had arrived, the January day was turning into night; the sky was already grey, merely growing darker by the minute. With traffic thinning, Eye placed the front of his truck to the nose of his daughter’s car, positioning the two automobiles close enough for him to provide the disabled car with a jump. Randy told Jessica to get inside of her car as she would need to start the ignition once the conductive cables were put into place. As she walked alongside her car, Jessica reached out for her door’s handle before turning over her right shoulder to ensure proper clearance for the gargantuan door. What she would find was an old Chevy Cavalier barreling down the road with a severely inebriated man behind the wheel, the car’s headlights heading straight for the shoulder on which she and her father were stranded.
Hitting the driver-side quarter panel at full speed and deflecting on down the side of the Dodge 600, the Cavalier launched Jessica’s five-foot-tall, 100-pound frame over car and into a roadside ravine. Randy, who had been standing between the two cars in hopes of providing power to his daughter, had his legs crushed between the two front bumpers; the hood of the 600 crashed down on his hands, crushing his wind-frozen fingers. As his daughter lay unconscious, Randy Eye, fueled only on adrenaline at this point, managed to wedge himself out from the grips of the two cars. With his left leg mangled, replicating the knee of a flamingo, he limped over to Jessica and began yelling her name, pleading for her to wake up.
Jessica didn’t move. Her eyes were closed, her body limp. There was yelling—incredible amounts of yelling, all rooted in panic. The man behind the wheel of the Cavalier had stopped, having no idea what he had just done. For a moment, Eye left his daughter’s side and hobbled over to the Cavalier, its entire passenger side in complete disrepair.
“If she’s dead…If she’s dead, I’m going to f—king kill you,” a shaking and enraged Eye screamed at the inebriated and startled man. “If she’s dead…I’ll f—king kill you.”
It was at this very moment—Jessica subconsciously knowing that her father carried a gun, hearing what was transpiring beside her—when her eyes opened. A miracle? Perhaps. But it was this instant that prevented a nightmare of a situation from potentially becoming much, much worse. Eye would be transported to the nearby Robinson Memorial Hospital for severe injuries to his extremities. Jessica, however, was rushed to Akron’s children’s hospital, the largest pediatric care center in northeast Ohio. Her injuries were entirely internal save for a few scrapes that could be assumed from an accident of such proportions.
Jessica was a multi-sport athlete who was a fixture at the Ohio state track meet, and had attainable dreams of playing soccer at the collegiate level; she could not feel her legs.
It is in Independence, Ohio, a town just a stone’s throw south of Cleveland, where Cavaliers owner and billionaire businessman Dan Gilbert famously funded the erection of a palatial practice facility for his NBA franchise and those players whom he wishes to woo. Cleveland Clinic Courts, which can only be seen after slowly cruising down its winding quarter-mile driveway, is surrounded by mature greenery and rolling hills, all which can be viewed through the pristine floor-to-ceiling windows located at the back of the complex. The ceilings are high, the upgrades are constant. Connected to the Cleveland Clinic as a business partner as well as in namesake, The Courts truly are State of the Art.
Providing stark contrast to this eye-widening expanse is StrongStyle, a mixed martial arts training complex that is located just minutes north. Tucked away under the colossal height of the infamous I-480 bridge—the steel, multi-stringer sea of girders that allows west side Clevelanders to safely venture east across the Cuyahoga River, and vice versa—is a windowless warehouse of a room, complete with the luxuries of painted cinder block and two-inch-thick padding which serves as flooring. Exposed duct work coated with white Crylon visually gives to the wobbling ceiling fans and neon light fixtures which hang just below. The late-August air is stale, almost chewable, as the only fresh batch that manages to creep in does so through the propped open door that separates the outside world from the grunting and hissing and clapping that occurs within. StrongStyle has all of the bare essentials yet everything one could desire in a chamber constructed for physical combat. It’s a dungeon with a sales staff—it’s perfect.
The walls are littered with posters and newspaper clippings that tout the successes of those who have trained within its confines—judo, boxing, wrestling, Brazilian Jiu Jitsiu; education passed down to both children and adults. Roughly two dozen men of various sizes and stature, all wearing fitness clothing of some sort, pace back and forth. Some use these moments as a form of mediation—the calm before the proverbial storm—while others furl their brow and throw punches at the air immediately before them. The sun is soon setting and an evening session of sparring is about to take place within the two boxing rings that are located at the far side of the room.
As participants shed their hooded sweatshirts (the serves as a pre- and post-training uniform; yes, even in August) and begin to garnish their gear, one impending combatant, wearing an oversized white t-shirt and fitted black shorts, can be spotted sitting against one of the padded walls—knees up, shoulders relaxed—chatting with those who about to have fists feverishly hurled at their respective heads. Crisp white shin pads are affixed. Petroleum jelly is soon applied to the parts which are not covered by a set of Kool-Aid red protective head gear. Jet black wrist wraps are tightened giving way to the bright pink, somewhat chipped nail polish at the end of her fingers—an impeccable match to the pink mouth guard which is soon placed over her top teeth. She slowly moves into a standing position, shakes out her arms and gives two quick jumps as a means to elevate circulation. The last item that can be seen is the tightly wound brunette pony tail that protrudes from the back of her gear before she disappears behind the fabricated wall that separates the matted area from the boxing rings which exist behind.
“And in this corner…standing at 5-foot-6…with a 66-inch reach…with 11 wins, 1 loss…”
For a brief moment, Jessica Eye harnesses her inner Michael Buffer. Her voice is raspier and is more contralto than baritone. She opts to focus on the facts rather than adding effectual emphasis on certain syllables the way the popular boxing announcer would. If she were to give similar to treatment to her sparring partners in the other corner, every one of them would be taller and heavier, equipped with a considerably longer reach and, well, a penis. Given the male domination inherent to Mixed Martial Arts, Eye is the only female within eyeshot. There may be a female member of the sales staff milling around, perhaps one on a treadmill in the adjacent fitness area, but the Rootstown native is the only woman standing just outside of the boxing ring’s red, white and blue ropes champing at the chumps before her.
As she awaits her turn to spar, Eye turns into an MMA version of Mother Hen2 , providing coaching tips from the floor in the same way a trainer or coach does mid-match. Her brother Kasey, 19, is in the ring next to hers; he’s recently taken a liking to Mixed Martial Arts and trains with his 27-year-old sister on a nightly basis. Kasey’s make-up is tall and wiry, antithetical to most ground combatants. He’s very quiet, offering little more than nods and smiles and two-or-three-word replies to his sister’s guiding words. “Kasey, don’t reach!” Eye barks. “Hands up! Work the head! There you go.”
It’s Eye’s turn to jump in to the ring for the first of her three-minute sparring intervals. Her partner, or prey, at the moment is a 20-year-old who stands roughly six inches above her. The two take turns stepping in and stepping back, hopping to the side to avoid jabs while ensuring that their respective faces are protected from incoming blows with their gloves. Every punch is accompanied by an exhaustive hiss. Every block produces a clap. In the same way that a point guard delivers a no-look pass to a cutting swingman, Eye briefly focuses her eyes on her opponent’s chest, inherently forcing his hands to lower out of instinct, where she then delivers an uppercut to his chin. He steps back to fix his headgear and collect himself3 , smiles and shakes his head. Eye gives him a bit of a reprieve, but quickly gets back into the session—it’s only three minutes, after all. After the buzzer sounds, the two knock their gloves together and exit the ring, giving way to two others. Word quickly circulates that someone was just knocked out in one of the octagons; this individual had the unfortunate task of training with Stipe Miočić, a top-10 fighter in the Ultimate Fighting Championship’s heavyweight ranks. Eye smirks in an approving fashion.
Later that evening, Kasey walks out of his ring with his head down, blood dripping from his nose, having just caught a right handed jab square in his face. “Don’t lean,” Jessica quips as he walks by. “You gotta tough it out.”
Jessica Eye is sort of a big deal. There is an obvious novelty to having a female fighter hacking down larger, younger adversaries like they’re saplings. But the fact that this specific female had survived a horrific automobile accident, was bed-ridden for months and was essentially told that she would be lucky to walk let alone play any sport at a high level ever again—to sign a multi-fight contract with The Ultimate Fighting Championship, the largest mixed martial arts promotions company in the world, the crème de la crème of regulated combat, is nothing short of odds-defying.
Weeks earlier, it was announced that Eye, whose nickname is “Evil,” had been freed from her contract with Bellator MMA, the second-largest promotion in the United States, where she fought for several years as a flyweight competitor at a weight of 125 pounds. Her free agency was one that made her feel “like an NFL player,” given the fanfare that surrounded the fact that the No. 2-ranked 125-pound fighter in the world had no home. The UFC was an obvious fit, but Dana White’s brand had nary a spot for a fighter her size unless she wanted to move up to the 135-pound bantamweight division which happens to be the lightest weight class within the company as well as the home of women’s MMA darling, magazine cover girl, and armbar-submission extraordinaire Ronda Rousey.
“I have spent the last few years limiting myself,” said Eye. “I couldn’t lift out of fear of gaining weight; I couldn’t eat what I wanted. Enough was enough. I told myself ‘F— that, let’s just get really strong.’”
Her contract signing would take place at FirstEnergy Stadium, the home of the same Cleveland Browns who have not been to the postseason since the day she was struck by a wayward Chevy. When word had spread that Eye—recently ranked No. 9 in the United States on a pound-for-pound basis—was moving up a weight class and would be taking on women who represented the face of the female fighting franchise, a text came across her iPhone 4s that pulled zero punches: “Welcome to the Ronda Rousey show,” it read.
Eye is not oblivious to the fact that it is Venice Beach, California’s Rousey—the weight class’ first and only champion to date—who is firmly planted at the peak of the mountain which she’s about to climb. It’s Rousey who has her own television show “The Ultimate Fighter”; she’s on one of the covers of ESPN The Magazine’s most recent Bodies issues; she was recently on the cover of Maxim Magazine for the month of September—“She’s the best pound-for-pound female MMA fighter in the world – and also the sexiest!” But it’s also Rousey who is starting to have a bit of a public image issue as “Fighter” has also portrayed her to be an emotionally unstable and entitled brat. The product of a top-heavy industry, sure, but as “Fighter” airs on televisions across America, it’s Eye, Midwestern to a fault, who is gallivanting all over northeast Ohio in her Dodge (of course) Avenger, looking to replace a set of appliances which simultaneously crapped out within her west-side suburban ranch4 .
Given all of the attention she has received from fans an media alike, it is tough to argue with any inclination that it is in fact Ronda Rousey’s world. With The UFC’s recent influx of female talent, however, the axis may soon be tilting.
Jessica presently has six coaches and a talent manager—all male. Her coaches vary in focus, from weightlifting to swimming to sparring and shoot-fighting. Her manager, Greg Kalikas, has been by her side since she was just entering the ranks as a 20-year-old looking to make a change in a life that was not heading in the right direction. Her circle, which includes Casey, is close-knit, but it’s one that has been formed by years of growth and acceptance as Eye admits to having considerable trust issues.
Jessica and her father had a falling out when she was 18 years old, the bulk of which was rooted in the accident and the subsequent money which was received as a settlement. A cursory scan of Randy Eye’s public record turns multiple felony charges as well as a misdemeanor, all the result of domestic violence and related incidents5 . Growing up in a severely abusive household—which included disturbing acts of physical and sexual abuse—during the 60s and 70s, Randy Eye’s issues transcended to his adulthood, manifesting into violence toward his children and the various women which had been in and out of his life. At one point, Jessica’s birth mother, Colleen, was relegated to shooting Randy in the chest as an act of self-defense6 . His second wife divorced him for similar reasons in 1998.
Jessica also recounts a specific incident, the impetus for the second divorce, where she and a friend had decided to spend an evening at a local dance club; the friend’s mother thought that the two girls were having a sleep-over at the Eye residence. After receiving a phone call checking in on the girls who were allegedly staying the night, an irate Randy drove to the club to fetch the two girls and take them back to his Rootstown home. Jessica remembers hearing her name announced over the club’s speaker system as well as the embarrassment it caused. Said embarrassment quickly morphed into fear as she knew what was in store once the car was parked inside of her father’s garage. The friend was ordered to go inside where she was to phone her mother; Jessica was dragged out of the truck by her hair and was choked within inches of her life, only to be saved by the son of Randy’s then girlfriend. Law enforcement officials would ultimately show up at the home around 4 a.m. to investigate a call they had received. Randy was dragged out of his home, in nothing but a pair of tighty whities, yelling to his recently bruised and battered daughter to be wary of what she said to the men in blue. “I’m your father, Jessica. Don’t you forget that.”
After she left Rootstown, Jessica used a chunk of her settlement money to fund and furnish an apartment in Akron, Ohio for her and three of her friends. As would be the case with most unprepared teenagers and 20-somethings who fall into money, the once large sum soon became little. While obtaining her Associates Degree from The University of Akron, Eye pieced together various jobs, working as a manager at an Arby’s franchise and at Dick’s Sporting Goods. As her bank account neared zero, she was forced to take a position as a cocktail waitress at a local gentlemen’s club after seeing a Help Wanted ad in a local newspaper. It was here, during an evening altercation with a patron, where a bystander noticed her demeanor and appearance. Knowing full well that this was not an occupation of choice, inquired as to why Jessica had chosen this path. It was this man, Brian Longo, who introduced her to Mixed Martial Arts and the family of individuals who endeavored to teach it. “It was the first time where I felt like I fit in,” Eye said.
Yearning to be a part of her father’s life, she reconnected with him soon after she started in the fighting circuit.
“I was feeling really alone,” Eye said of the dark period in her life. “I was finally a part of something, so I reached out and said ‘I want you guys to take these steps with me.’”
Randy, in turn, was ringside for her first professional victories, the striking striker amassing two of her first three wins via Technical Knockout. He was there when she sustained her first (and only) loss, the fluke victim of a rear-naked choke hold with just one minute left in the second period of a fight in June, 2011. He was there when she amassed her next few wins in various cages within Ohio, elevating her niche stardom near its present levels. This reunion would be short-lived, however, as Randy would later cause an alcohol-fueled altercation during the night of Jessica’s 26th birthday. What was supposed to be a celebration wound up being a relapse. She would suffer a foot injury that night, nearly keeping her out of a fight in August of 2012, one which she won by unanimous decision after the three hard-fought five-minute rounds had come to a conclusion.
That December, Jessica “Evil” Eye became a household name amongst national MMA fans when she won her ninth match, a standing arm-triangle choke of Zoila Frausto Gurgel (who was 12-1 at the time) just 58 seconds into the first period in front of a packed Atlantic City auditorium. The second the referee had stopped the fight, an amped Eye bounced off of all eight sides of the octagon like a corn-rowed pinball, feeding off of the crowd to her team and back. She would find a camera in one of the corners, looked up and pointed at it while she growled “I told you—I’m here. I’m here. Jessica. Eye.” Once the win had hit her and the emotions transitioned from aggression to acceptance, tears rolled down her face as her hand was raised in victory.
That June, after coming back from a back injury which forced her to cancel a previously booked fight, Eye topped Carina Damm for her 11th and final win as a member of Bellator. Damm would be later found to be in violation of the registered MMA substance abuse policy thanks to performance-enhancing drugs7 .
Over the course of the last few weeks, Jessica has started to receive texts from her father—some of them she replies to, others simply get buried. She admits to being shielded and building a burier, having trouble trusting the man who has caused so much pain in the past. She also recognizes that it is just that—her past—which has paved the way to where she is today.
The accident provided an experience that forced her to triumph over temporary physical limitations. She credits that fateful day as providing her with strength, intestinal fortitude more than muscular, that she never had before. Where her father manifested his childhood of abuse into the direct abuse of others, Jessica has been able to channel her aggression in a positive way, making a living off of God-given physical talent mixed with immense dedication. The night of the recent Floyd Mayweather-Canelo Alvarez fight, she received a phone call from her father; he was sobbing. His voice, she says, sounded different. “It was…weird,” Jessica said, her voice fading as she picked through a grilled chicken salad—only six ounces.
Randy Eye was to be in attendance on October 19 in Houston, Texas as Jessica takes on Sara Kaufmann for her first fight for her new employer. But rather than being a part of his daughter’s team, he was going be in the crowd as a paying fan. Just days ago, when Jessica was back in her hometown to provide the winless Rootstown high school football team with a pep talk, the two got into yet another verbal altercation, once again leading to the father being ousted from his daughter’s life. “Old habits die hard,” Eye said of the incident.
At some point midway through the evening’s festivities, Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” will blare over the Toyota Center’s speaker system8 . Jessica “Evil” Eye will emerge from the locker room, through the pair of black curtains which will drape over the tunnel’s entrance way, and down the isle to her first fight as a member of The UFC. She’ll be surrounded by the men who had the courage and foresight to give a former long-jumper from the rural midwest the chance at superstardom. For now, Randy Eye will be an outsider, hoping to one day be let back in, however ephemeral that moment may be. While Jessica will aim to emulate the vigor and volume of the song’s opening riff—”It makes you want to run through a freaking wall,” she says—it will be Randy who will be relegated to emulating the lyrics of the legendary song.
“So now you’d better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
For peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing.”
(All photos of Jessica via Scott Sargent/WFNY)
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The Browns, of course, had made the NFL postseason for the first time since their expansion-fueled return in 1999, a date put in place after the team had left for Baltimore several years earlier.
If Mother Hen, you know, blasted people in the face with her fists
Was it tough for her partner the first time he got into the ring and was told to box with a girl? “I saw her fight,” he said. “It was weird at first, until she hit me in the face. Then all bets were off.”
For what it is worth, Jessica has made quite the rounds from a local media perspective leading up to UFC 166. In the last few weeks alone, she’s been on FOX 8, 92.3 The Fan, SportsTime Ohio’s “All Bets are Off,” and has been the subject of a column on UFC.com. This, of course, is all in addition to her “Eye Believe” clothing line, a brand name which matches the tattoo behind her left ear.
Domestic violence, March, 1998; Domestic Violence, August, 1998; Violating protection, September, 1998; Domestic violence, January, 2001
When Jessica was a young child, her mother moved to Florida; she would not meet her until the woman—described as a spitting image of Jessica—randomly appeared at a high school track meet as the result .
Turns out that the urine sample she submitted was not even urine, let alone hers. Whoops
Eye feels that she will be a permanent fixture within UFC which was, up until this point, foreign land. Thus, Immigrant Song.