The Beast Goes East — page 4

Sapp's appeal, in turn, has had a dramatic impact on K-1's fortunes. Marketers, TV executives and advertisers talk frequently about what they call "the Sapp effect." Kevin Musikanth, who trains league fighter Mike Bernardo, observes, "K-1 has been growing in popularity for the past few years, but in 2002 it just absolutely exploded. Is it because of Bob? Yeah, it's because of Bob." At last December's K-1 world championship, for example, the first in which Sapp appeared, ratings averaged 28.4% compared with 20.1% in 2001.

K-1 has loaded up Sapp's schedule with so many commitments, promotions and TV shows that he often has only a few hours left for sleeping, eating and getting fit enough to fight. "We never get the opportunity to train him properly," laments Maurice Smith, a fighter, friend and one of Sapp's trainers. "But you can see why they are doing it. He sells even when he loses. Bob's a business, he's where the money is."

Limelight lover that he is, Sapp doesn't feel particularly exploited. In fact, his primary worry about K-1 is that it is not exploiting him enough. He's talking business over dinner at Capricciosa, a chain Italian restaurant in what passes for downtown Yamagata, downing pasta with cream sauce, sautéed vegetables, pizza and seafood soup. There's a crowd, at least 100 strong, outside the window watching him eat. Every once in a while he looks up and mugs for his fans, clenching his fist and giving them one of his menacing stage faces. The spectators go nuts and 20 or more mobile-phone cameras flash simultaneously.

Back to business: Hollywood studios are calling with movie parts now, he says. The NFL—sweet comeuppance, the NFL!—has just made him its spokesman in Japan. This may be his shot at the American big time, and he worries that K-1 is not up to the challenge. He has a 15-fight commitment left with the league, an obligation that could take years to fulfill, and he's worried that it's blowing deals left and right. "I don't wanna think about the amount of money we have left on the table. We did 10 commercials in four or five months. It could have been 10 times that," he says. "I mean, K-1 looks like a big organization but they've only got 10 people! They don't even have an answering machine!" he roars. "Can you believe it? They are just not set up for this type of stuff." Indeed, he claims bungled opportunities have cost K-1 as much as $10 million in lost revenue.

Certainly K-1 has its problems, thanks to a shocking (and almost comically inept) tax-evasion scandal and trial involving the league's previous public face, founder Master Ishii. On May 7, Ishii and his former accountant, Sanshi Terakubo, pleaded guilty to evading $2.5 million in corporate income taxes by underreporting some $7.5 million in earnings between 1996 and 2000. Ishii initially denied all allegations, telling prosecutors that he had signed a contract for a project to invite Mike Tyson to Japan in 1999 but had to pay $8.3 million in penalties when the deal fell through. Unfortunately for Ishii, the cops determined that the Tyson story was fiction. A bogus contract that Ishii hastily drew up bore K-1's current mailing address, even though the agreement was dated and purportedly signed long before the company had moved there. Although Sapp frequently claims he is hanging with K-1 for the long haul, he just as frequently sounds as if he's looking for a way out. He often professes his love for Japan and his desire to stay, yet he bought a $500,000 home in Seattle last fall. "What's gonna happen to K-1 when Bob is gone?" says Sapp. "That's the biggest question."

Dinner's over and it's time to leave. It's going to be a challenge to break through the horde of onlookers dying to get a piece of The Beast. Sapp and co. are on their feet, trying to figure out an escape route. Seeing this, the fans outside have started to rush through the doors. They are shouting, snapping pictures, clamoring for autographs, pressing in simply to touch Sapp. A tide of human bodies is flooding in, and even Sapp—all 170 kilograms of him—is being buffeted. Chad Bannon, a fledgling fighter sitting at the next table, yells, "Bob, it's like you're the Beatles! Hey, you should record a CD!" The joke, of course, is that Sapp himself realized this months ago. "Already done it, my man," he shouts back. "Debuted on the charts at No. 28!" And with that, the crowd pushes Sapp out the door.

The next week, The Beast's bullet train to fame will head to the U.S. for a month or two. Sapp wants to have his injured eye checked out, attend a K-1 fight in Las Vegas and meet with various Hollywood-types in Los Angeles. Now that he's tasted success, he's ravenous for more—and afraid that this sweet dish will be snatched away from him. He is still dumbstruck by his sudden wealth and notoriety, sure. But he also knows that the Japanese public is notoriously fickle.

That's why there's no time to rest, why he is already planning his next move and the moves after that. He's aware that the odds of turning his popularity in a fringe entertainment into a real and lasting career—in Japan or in the U.S.—are daunting. Guys such as bodybuilder turned movie star Arnold Schwarzenegger and pro wrestler turned Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura are overwhelming exceptions. But that doesn't mean he isn't going to try. On the trip back to Tokyo, the day after the fight in Yamagata, Sapp says, "I am just trying to make the most of every opportunity, you know? Just trying not to screw this up." Then he looks out the window and utters a bemused sentence that is one of his most frequent observations these days: "This has been a wild, wild ride." Bob Sapp is intent on making it last as long as possible.

—With reporting by Michiko Toyama/Tokyo

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