I learned another fact that day: I had a granite chin, as I was perfectly fine after absorbing a colossal tree trunk to the jaw and ear. I quickly glanced through the ropes, bypassing everyone in the crowd and focusing on my wife; I gave her a quick look to show her, “Hey, it’s all good!”
With the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I really did not feel much pain in the bout. My brain was registering the impacts but not communicating the information to my nervous system in the form of the sensation of pain. We clinched a lot in the third and final round, and I ate another knee to the face for which the referee deducted a point from my opponent. We ended the match swinging at each other. When the bell rang, I had a cleansing feeling of accomplishment. Frankly speaking, I got my butt kicked, but I lasted all three rounds with an experienced fighter. The referee raised both of our hands in the air in the showing of a draw as I clenched my fist and thanked God for the opportunity. I was surfing the heavens as my heart fluttered an extra beat; I was forever hooked on the fight game.
Chapter Two
LOVE ME OR HATE ME
“The pain you feel today is the strength you feel tomorrow. For every challenge encountered, there is opportunity for growth.”
—Unknown
I was born on a day that showcased Mother Nature’s power, as a massive snowstorm blanketed Toronto to the point that a large number of roads were closed. That was the day I decided to join the myriad of others on this sphere we call Earth, and I like to think that I’ve been carrying positive chaos with me ever since.
My parents are middle-class immigrants from Poland who nearly nested in Austria as they sought a better future for me. My dad, Stan Olech, came from a small town in Poland called Godziszow, where farming was everything. He learned the importance of hard work very early, tending to the animals and fields every day. My grandfather was always out in the fields and was very well-known in the small town. His functional strength working on the farm was built over a lifetime; he was known to have abnormal strength, although he never picked up a barbell in his entire life.
My mom, Elizabeth Olech, was born into a large family with three other siblings, so the house was always buzzing. Her father was a police officer, as was my great-grandfather, who was a police chief. In those days, there was a big problem with the Ukrainian mafia and their rampant criminality, from petty robberies to killing innocent victims. My great-grandfather was a dedicated family man and a police chief attempting to better the community, making safety a priority.
One cold night, when he was doing paperwork at the station, some Ukrainian bandits loaded with heavy machine guns tried to take over the police station only to be met with hard resistance from the police officers in the building. What ensued for less than ten minutes was a bloodbath of horror movie proportions that took the lives of many great police officers, leaving behind a trail of pain for their wives, husbands, parents, and children.
One of the brave officers who lost their lives that night was my great-grandfather who had died doing what he believed—protecting and serving his community and doing what he thought was right. The meaningless tragedy is remembered today with a monument bearing all of the officers’ names who lost their lives that night.
When my parents married and decided to have a baby, they formulated an action plan: Escape from the daily grind of a communist regime in hopes of giving me a better life with more possibilities. They decided to settle in Toronto, where a large part of my family had already been living for years. It was the 1980s, a time during which the worker had a voice in the company, pay was high, and new businesses were opening around every corner. My dad was employed as a woodworker, making great money; we lived as a cohesive, loving family with my pit bull, Spotty, as my “brother.”
From an early age, my parents instilled qualities in me that I am grateful to have today. They taught me the honor of hard work and that a good work ethic will get you places. They also taught me that the values of love, compassion, and respect come from the heart, as well as to always “be yourself,” regardless of your situation or location, and to be guided by virtue. At the same time, I received the “no-bullshit gene”; to put it simply, there are a lot of people in this world, and not all of them have my best interests at heart, so if I have to let the “other side” out to protect my family, I don’t think twice about it.
My childhood was perfect; I played sports, had all the toys in the world, and lived in a stable home. I loved to read, and I listened to music all the time. I would draw and be creative, in order to unleash my over-worked imagination, as I lived in my own world half of the time. I was a typical kid who idolized Batman, Superman, Jean Claude Van Damme, and, of course, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and I loved my share of horror movies, including A Nightmare on Elm Street, featuring Freddy Krueger. I will not go into detail regarding the “wannabe Spiderman on the roof ” fiasco. I also played a lot of soccer, as we always had a park or fields near each house in which we lived. I also loved professional wrestling, had the headbands, and would pump iron with my dad; of course, I used little plastic weights.
The first time I got into a situation involving physical confrontation was actually the year we moved to Poland, when I was in kindergarten. The teacher’s son, who was in her class, was feared by the other students for two reasons: he was big and his mom was our teacher. If there was ever a conflict, we assumed that we would be the ones to get in trouble, regardless of who was at fault. He was obnoxious and would break toys that belonged to other kids for his own amusement.
One day during recess (I honestly cannot remember for what reason, but there were a million), we were nose-to-nose, yelling at each other as a crowd manifested around us. I remember pushing him down as I lunged and proceeded with some ground and pound, looping my arms as he assumed the turtle position. I then felt my ear being pulled with force by one of the teachers on duty as I was yanked to the office. I remember the feeling of accomplishment that day; I felt like the king of the hill up until the point I got in trouble. I was sure there would be additional repercussions at home, but I was met with acceptance from my parents.
Occasionally, other kids would mistake my kindness for weakness, but when necessary I would let my voice be heard. I would let a lot slide before resorting to my vast vocabulary to defuse a situation, especially in the diverse city of Toronto. The city is a melting pot of all cultures and personalities, and the elementary school I attended was rough, with gangs and even drugs. It was a Catholic elementary school with some great teachers, but the lack of staff, the old facilities, and the location combined to form a breeding ground of tough situations.
In eighth grade, my best friend’s parents decided to move to London, Ontario, which is approximately two hours away from Toronto. We had the idea of convincing my parents to move to London, too. My parents helped my best friend’s parents with their move, and when they saw the “forest city,” a smaller city of approximately 300,000 people and plenty of greenery, they decided that family life would be better here. Just like that, my parents were making plans to move to London, Ontario.
Since the age of thirteen years I was working in one way or another, from delivering papers to helping my parents at their European deli. I would do everything from taking orders, stocking, cutting meat, cleaning, and, of course, serving our customers. The first years, I really enjoyed working there, but when my parents would fight I dreaded it, especially when I was busy playing soccer, doing homework, attending Polish school, or working in the deli; I was stretched thin. I was now the co-captain of the school soccer team, which meant more responsibility.
After finishing after-school soccer practice, I would walk three and a half miles to the deli and work until around 9:00 p.m. At home, I would do homework and watch television, then sleep to prepare for the next full day. On Saturdays after Polish school, I worked in the deli until closing time, pulling six days per week on this schedule.
