The Lawman
Madrid’s police chief moonlights in the Midwest’s cage-fighting scene
By Douglas Burns
If you’re the drunken-brawling sort, the type given to aiming Jack Daniels-inspired barroom haymakers in the direction of cops, Madrid, Iowa, is a city you’ll want to skip.
The police chief there, a former farm boy with a gift of gab that would rival the seed-hatted old boys at the grain elevators, would much rather talk you down than fight you.
But if the donnybrook breaks, Rick Tasler, 32, is ready to throw. In addition to leading a team of six law enforcement officers as chief of police in Madrid, Tasler, a Jefferson native, is a cage-fighting enthusiast, a mixed-martial-arts expert who spends spare time and weekends battling inside the octagon. With a tattoo of a police badge on his chest (which one can see because fighters battle sans shirts), Tasler goes by the cage name of “The Lawman.”
“That’s stuck since very early in my career just because a lot of people want a shot to beat up the cop,” Tasler said.
A 1995 graduate of Jefferson-Scranton High School where he was a “pretty decent wrestler,” Tasler (friends call him “Taz”) earned his two-year degree in law enforcement at Iowa Central Community College in Fort Dodge in 1998.
He was hired right out of community college as a police officer in Gowrie. Tasler later spent time as a patrol officer in Boone and as the chief of police of Scranton in Greene County.
“I’m a cop,” Tasler said. “I’m born and bred to be a cop. That’s my love in life. Law enforcement. God gave me two things. I can B.S. with anybody, and I can fight with anybody.”
Buoyed by the runaway success of The Ultimate Fighting Championship, a leading mixed-martial-arts organization with multi-million-dollar marketing pull and TV ratings with twenty-something men who have advertisers like beer companies panting, cage fighting is exploding in popularity with a variety of professional and amateur circuits. Fighters meet each other in cages for full contact contests that incorporate many martial arts disciplines, boxing and wrestling. If you attend a fight around Iowa, you’ll likely find many former high school wrestlers watching — and fighting.
As a teenager and young man, Tasler trained in martial arts. He wrestled in high school and college. When he started watching televised cage fighting, Tasler thought he had the mettle to compete at a regional level and he started doing so in 2006.
“I’ve been in martial arts my whole life, and that’s where I learned most of my work ethic and respect besides my mom and dad,” he said.
Tasler’s fought in Iowa, Wisconsin and Minnesota in professional and amateur events. Since so many organizations and promoters are involved, there’s no third-party clearinghouse with data on all his fights. But Tasler says he’s fought 16 amateur fights in the cage and nine for pay ($300 to $500 to show and a similar amount when he wins). His 25-0 record will be put to the test on Saturday, Oct. 24 in LaCrosse, Wisc., where he’s scheduled to meet a fighter from Albert Lea, Minn.
The sport is not without its detractors. Tasler says he’s fielded questions from people in Madrid about being a cage fighter and police chief. He calmly shoots a question back at the challengers.
“What kind of cop do you want coming to your house when someone’s breaking in your house?” Tasler said. “Do you want an in-shape officer that can protect you and himself when he comes there or do you want the doughnut-eating, out-of-shape cop coming to your house to help you when you need me?”
The fights and the training prepare Tasler to deal with a variety of scenarios in law enforcement.
“It keeps me mentally prepared for any battle I have at work,” Tasler said. “That first punch in a fight can come as such a surprise to you. When I get punched by a guy I’m arresting for OWI, it’s not a shock to me because I get punched so many times during the week during training and stuff like that. I can react so much quicker than someone with no training because I’m trained.”
Veteran Madrid City Councilman Steve Burich, 58, said Tasler’s been a standout police chief since the city hired him in July 2008. “He’s done wonders for keeping his budget in line,” said Burich.
Burich, who works in manufacturing for John Deere in Ankeny, says he and many people in Madrid are well aware that Tasler is a devoted cage fighter.
“I think there’s probably part of the town that’s proud of his accomplishments,” Burich said. “He’s been a real asset for our town.”
Madrid, of course, is hardly “New Jack City” when it comes to crime. The community has “the usual small town stuff,” Burich said.
And Tasler is quick to say that perpetrators aren’t looking to slug him on a daily basis in Madrid, a city of 2,400 people northwest of Des Moines.
“But it happens more than you expect,” he said.
With administrative duties as chief, Tasler isn’t on the streets as much as he was earlier in his career.
“I still scrap with people since I’ve been here,” Tasler said. “But in Boone, there for a while, it was a weekly occurrence we were fighting people.”
He added, “Boone was a real rowdy town with the bar fights and domestics (abuse calls).”
The fact that he’s trained in mixed martial arts, and lives a life in which punches are flying past him in competitions and practice, means that Tasler is less likely to pull a gun in a situation than some other law enforcement officials may be, he said.
“You know, definitely, I go to hands-on right away,” Tasler said. “Because of that less people get hurt that I’m dealing with, and I get hurt less because I know my abilities. I know what to do and what not do.”
Success in law enforcement comes down to reacting the right way quickly.
“Other officers, the young officers and the older officer and the untrained officers, I mean if they get punched they react and they draw their weapon,” Tasler said. “I don’t. I use the necessary force to overcome the force that was just brought to me.”
Some people know they’re facing “The Lawman” when they see Rick Tasler in uniform. They may have even paid $20 to watch him fight at a caged event.
“There’s been people that tell me that when I arrest them that have fought with officers in the past, that have said, ‘Oh, you’re Tasler, I’m not going to fight you,’” Tasler said. “Stuff like that you don’t take to heart.”
Tasler acknowledges that he doesn’t exactly cut an imposing figure. He’s 5’6’ and about 160 pounds. Tasler, who doesn’t drink caffeine or smoke and rarely drinks alcohol, maintains a regular workout regimen and cuts his weight to 145 pounds for fights. As of press time, he was planning to open a facility — Madrid Mixed Martial Arts & Fitness — to train other fighters as well as people interested in exercise and self defense. Tasler said he’s trained both men and women in mixed martial arts.
As promoters worked on the lights between a night of fights in Carroll recently, Tasler, who was refereeing the contests, described the evening’s event as a sport requiring purpose-driven training and showcasing artistry.
“People don’t understand the work we put into this,” said Tasler as he took a break from regulating the battles in the octagon cage. “This is a sport. This isn’t gladiators. This is no different than going to a football game.”
A crowd estimated at more 1,000 people turned out to watch the fight night sponsored by the Caged Killers Club behind the Piranha Club bar in Carroll.
“This is the fastest-growing sport there is,” said Caged Killers Club promoter Justin Mozena.
Writing in the Dallas Observer last month, Richie Whitt puts forward a reason for that: there’s nothing subtle about mixed martial arts or The UFC.
“America’s fastest-growing sport — a violent confluence of punching, kicking, choking and everything other than biting — brought its rogue rebellion to American Airlines Center last weekend. Bored by the collapse of the Texas Rangers and with time to kill before the curtain was raised on Cowboys Stadium, I checked it out,” Whitt wrote. “What I got was a sensory overload roundhouse kick to the kisser, an unfiltered infusion of testosterone, tequila ads, tah-tahs and tapouts. Bottom line: Your first time at a UFC event will be like your first experience rifling through a ‘Playboy.’ Not exactly sure what you saw, but irrationally and eternally convicted to see more. Yeah, I’m hooked.”
Farther north, the staging of the caged fights stirred controversy in this western Iowa city of 10,000.
Days before the Caged Killers Club fight night, Carroll City Councilman Jeff Scharfenkamp said the city should consider banning the fights or at least work to prevent them through withholding of alcoholic-beverage permits. He thinks the fights set a bad example for young people and could result in serious injuries.
“At some point, somebody has to say something that this is wrong,” Scharfenkamp said. “What’s the point of what they’re trying to accomplish?”
Mayor Jim Pedelty and Councilwoman Carolyn Siemann said in separate interviews that the city’s role is simply to make sure the events are organized legally, and that elected officials have no business intruding further into the marketplace.
“It would be inappropriate for us to try to take any action other than making sure they are abiding by the laws of the state of Iowa,” Pedelty said.
Pedelty said no criminal mischief has been associated with the cage fights. City officials were working to determine whether the fights actually met amateur standards, as billed, or whether they were technically professional.
For his part, Mozena understands that advocates of the sport have some work to do with educating people.
“This is a sport like boxing,” he said. “These guys train hard for years. This is not backyard brawling.”
He noted the moves fighters use are far more advanced than the drunken right hooks of bar fights.
“When have you ever seen a guy (in a bar fight) put someone in a leg triangle, arm bar or rear-naked choke?” Mozena said.
The crowd at the cage fights represented a wide sweep of demographics as well-known businesspeople mixed with twenty-something blue-collar workers and families and plenty of out-of-towners.
“There’s a lot of diversity here,” noted Kim Mausser of West Des Moines.
Mausser said the fights are suitable activities for families to attend, but she admits to shuddering once in a while.
“I just feel bad for them because I know they have moms at home,” Mausser said.
While beers were hoisted and some raucous cheering took place, the event was more festive than hostile.
“Everybody’s having a good time,” said Rod Becker, 40, of Vail, who attended with his wife, Leah, and one daughter.
Nate Meister, 23, of Glidden, said residents should be able to enjoy a sport that is growing in popularity on television.
“It’s a sport,” Meister said. “There’s nothing going on that’s wrong. It’s going to be a growing sport. You bet.”
In the end, Tasler said the appeal of the sport to many is that it is a great social class-leveler. When you are in the ring, you are in what amounts to a state of nature, stripped of any advantages of birth or wealth or status, he said.
“It doesn’t matter if your dad is the richest guy and the other guy is the poorest,” Tasler said. “Your name doesn’t mean a thing in there.” CV
Caption: fightpic1: Rick Tasler’s 25-0 record will be put to the test on Oct. 24 in LaCrosse, Wisc.
Caption: fightpic3: Rick Tasler thought he had the mettle to compete at a regional level, and he started doing so in 2006.
Caption: fightpic7: Rick Tasler has fought in Iowa, Wisconsin and Minnesota in professional and amateur events.
Caption: fight pic5: Rick Tasler plans to open a martial arts and fitness facility in Madrid to train fighers and people interested in self defense.
