The following is the first of a series of excerpts released exclusively to MMAjunkie from Chris Leben’s soon-to-be-released autobiography, “The Crippler: Cage Fighting and My Life on the Edge.” Penned by Leben and co-author Daniel J. Patinkin, the book chronicles the often rocky career of the legendary cast member of the original season of “The Ultimate Fighter,” who retired in 2013 after an 11-year professional career that included 22 UFC appearances.

“The Crippler: Cage Fighting and My Life on the Edge” will be released on Jan. 5 and is currently available for pre-order at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and IndieBound.

Chapter 1, “Vs. Cote”

Follis told me that I had to win the final round at all costs. By his count the fight was tied one round to each man. The fighter who performed in the final five minutes would steal the victory. My skull was ringing, but I remember saying to Follis, “Man, that guy has a head like a cinder block.” Later that week, I learned from one of his cornermen that Cote made almost the same comment about me during the fight.

Herb started us up for the third time and the brawl continued. We clinched and then went toe-to-toe, lighting each other up. The offensive output was grueling. I pressed Cote against the cage and looked for a takedown. I barely had the energy to execute it, but finally he tripped, and we went to the floor. I knew that this was my chance to impress the judges and maybe even finish the fight with a TKO. So, from the top, I did everything I could to connect with fists and elbows. I used my anger as a weapon. F-ck it! I shouted inside my head as I dropped an elbow on Cote’s forehead. F-ck the depression. F-ck the drinking. F-ck the pain! I pounded on his temple with a hammer fist. F-ck the anger. F-ck that sperm donor who calls himself my dad. And, for the final minute of the fight, I poured every ounce of energy and emotion into pummeling my foe. Then the final horn blew.

Under the current UFC fight-night bonus system, at the end of every UFC event Dana White awards $50,000 bonuses to the individuals that he deemed to have participated in the most excit¬ing and competitive fight of the night. Unfortunately, that system was not put into place until after Cote and I danced. And it’s too bad because, even though our war ended in a decision and not a knockout, I’m sure the two of us would have walked away from the Cox Pavilion with fat pocketbooks to go with our fat lips.

Bruce Buffer took to the center of the ring one more time to announce the decision. Herb Dean grabbed Cote and me by our wrists, positioning us at his side in preparation for the declaration of a winner.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bruce bellowed into the microphone, “after three rounds of action we go to the judges scorecards for a decision. John Schorle scores the bout 29-28, Leben! Roy Silbert scores the bout 29-27, Cote! And Dalby Shirley scores the bout 30-27 for the winner by split-decision . . . ‘The Crippler’ Chris Leben!”

I threw both arms into the air, almost completely overwhelmed by the moment. I had triumphed—both emotionally and physically—in the toughest battle of my life. I marched around the cage, celebrated with my team and shared a well-earned embrace with Patrick Cote. There were no hard feelings whatsoever. Together we had fearlessly put on the best fight of the event. In its aftermath we respected each other more than ever.

UFC broadcaster Joe Rogan came into the cage to congratulate and interview me.

“Chris, that was a really tough fight,” said Joe. “What do you think made the difference?”

“When somebody starts throwing at me,” I shouted in reply, “I just want to throw back. That’s how it oughta be done.”

Those words weren’t premeditated. They just came out in the spur of the moment. And, although that comment was by no means brilliant or poetic, it was probably the clearest expression of my personal worldview I have ever voiced. My entire life has been a struggle—an assault from all sides. And, in each of the dark moments, when it seemed like I would be out for the count, I had to make a choice: either curl up in a ball, or give it back harder than I got it. I’ve always fought back, and I will never stop. You can say a lot about me, much of it negative, but at heart you will find a fighter—a pure fighter.

Joe finished his interviewing duties and the crowd gave me one final ovation. But when the cheers subsided and I made my way out of the cage, the celebration ended. My father’s seat was still empty.

The following morning I woke up in the desert. Literally on the ground in the sand. As was becoming all too frequent, I had no idea how I got there. I had pissed myself and I absolutely reeked of booze. A crushed cigar and a nearly empty bottle of vodka were on the ground next to me. My clothes looked as if someone had dragged me behind a freight train for miles. That’s how I felt, too. Perhaps somebody took me for a ride and dumped me here. Or maybe this was near the last stop on the bus route and the driver had kicked me out. Again, who knows? I stood up to get my bearings and immediately heaved a bellyful of stagnant booze into the sand.

I was not far from civilization. About fifty feet to the west was a road that ran north-south, and about three miles beyond that were the high-rise casinos and hotels of the Strip. I touched my face, which was swollen and bruised from the many hooks and crosses that Patrick Cote had landed twelve hours earlier. Behind me, the sun had just begun to peek over the rugged Nevada landscape. I reached into my pocket and, though my wallet was predictably missing, found a pack of Marlboro Mediums and a lighter. Thank god. I lit a cigarette, took a puff, and slowly staggered back toward Las Vegas.