and was a self-made man to say the least. When he had an idea, he dreamed big and went for it, regardless the thousands of miles or obstacles he had to surpass in order to accomplish his goals.
He had traveled the world, and I do not mean that he stayed at five-star hotels, but in the jungles of Thailand riding on elephants and the wild rainforests of Costa Rica for months on end. He, too, viewed our current employer in the same light; it was great for a lot of people, and we could not complain about the wages or benefits. When it came right down to it, that’s what kept us there, but we felt like wild birds that needed to soar and capture prey to feed our innate animal instincts. Instead, we were completely locked in a cage in which we could not even stretch our wings.
There I was, standing in a factory, not pleased with the work or safety of the place, and I would learn that things could operate better. I read about a massive union, called LIUNA, that encompassed over 500,000 members in North America and ran like a well-oiled machine, covering the construction and waste management sectors. I had learned that they actually cared for their members, as business manager for local 1059 Jim MacKinnon would later tell this author, “We listen carefully to our members’ needs, our representatives have direct connections to the many new Canadians that form our union. We are very pragmatic and work closely with our signatory employers for the health, wellness, financial remuneration, pensions, and benefits that our members need.”
They ran a tight ship, in contrast to what I was used to, and safety was paramount. While we received our training for welding at the factory out of a barn (yes a barn!), LIUNA on the other hand had state-of-the-art buildings to train their members. They also would give back to the community, as Jim added, “Ontario locals give between one and two million dollars per year to charitable organizations and also perform work with their members for charities.” There was contrast in safety, unions, and production, but I did not know any better.
Jeff told me that he had been planning a big, three-month endeavor to Thailand. He read books about Buddhism and travel during lulls while we waited for the next frame to arrive. He told me about the culture, land, people, and scenery, and about Muay Thai. I was mesmerized by a world so different from the one we were used to, which consisted of work, my beautiful wife (fiancée-to-be at the time, who kept me sane), television, and the incessant day-in, day-out cycle. Here was something new and revitalizing, something that captured my imagination, and I ran with it a mile a minute. He told me about his plans for a trip into the jungle where he would ride elephants, ride down the river on floats constructed of bamboo, and reach an Indian village that 99.9% of the outside world had never ventured to.
He then started to tell me about Muay Thai, the art of eight limbs, where you may box or kick box, and if that is not enough, you can use your sharp elbows and knees to release a melee of strikes on your opponent. He told me that Muay Thai originated in Thailand and that kids, bred to be fighters, could have over 100 fights already under their belt by the age of fifteen!
I knew a little bit about the sport, as I had been watching the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) since the first event when Royce Gracie did the unthinkable by winning a tournament in no-holds-barred fighting when he was the skinniest competitor, representing the art of Brazilian jiu-jitsu against many other forms of martial arts and against some bigger, more muscular guys. I remember being young, still living in Toronto and watching the first UFC fight, glued to the TV. Being a fan of professional wrestling since I was able to watch television, it was natural to transition into a fan of mixed martial arts in which any martial art was fair game in competition, including Muay Thai.
I vividly remember driving home that morning from work, not being able to get the art of Muay Thai out of my head. Once home, I couldn’t sleep, I jumped onto the Internet, searched for Muay Thai, and was bombarded by millions of pages worth of info and videos. I kept coming across a legendary kickboxer by the name of Rob Kaman. As fate would have it, both Jeff and I would be in his company for days on end, years later.
I was continuing to work through the same tedious cycle of life, getting five-minute heat breaks when the smoke-filled factory reached over 113°F (45°C), creating a sauna-like setting. All I could think about was my escape: Muay Thai. The days seemed to flow together like water as the dog days of summer weighed heavily on my shoulders. I needed an “out,” some kind of yin to the yang that I was living, something of import to supplement my great family life and to counter-balance the tedious hard labor I was accustomed to. Close to the end of summer, I picked up the local newspaper; little did I know, it would change my life forever.
I read about a local mixed martial arts club that was putting on a big seminar for a local women’s charity with Matt Hughes, who at the time was the reigning welterweight champion of the UFC. Matt Hughes was a force within the UFC, a devastating wrestler who was known for his vicious slams, crafty ground game, and sheer power. He was a farmboy who had taken that farm strength and mentality and really imposed it on his craft of MMA. He had beaten some notables such as Georges St-Pierre, Royce Gracie, and Carlos Newton, among many other great warriors. I knew of Matt from television, but I figured that it would be quite an honor to meet him and train with him in my hometown of London, Ontario.
Beata, who had become my loving wife, agreed that it would be great for me to take another healthy step forward in joining the MMA gym that was bringing the champ down to London. The wheels in my mind were spinning; it was a great idea, as I had yearned for something physical and as I was getting chubby, my health deteriorating with each passing day. There was 243 pounds on my 6' 3" frame, which was mainly composed of fat cells. Not only did I aesthetically not look great, but also I felt sluggish to the point that I was sleepy all of the time. A very bad diet coupled with stress from work and strange sleeping patterns contributed to a round, soft version of myself staring back at me in the mirror each morning. Given all of the variables, I came to the realization that the astute decision was to stop thinking about it and just sign up!
The next day, I called the gym and spoke with the owner. He had a very calm demeanor and asked me to come in to check the place out. Beata and I ventured up the narrow steps to Suffer System, which was a newer club making a name for itself with a lot of up-and-comers on the MMA scene. The doors at the top were closed with fight posters showing upcoming club fighters posing against their opponents. Before entering, all we could hear were shrieks and grunts behind the door. As I pushed the door open my eyes scanned the entire gym, observing my new-found love: mixed martial arts.
The first thing that hit us was the heat and humidity accompanied by the strong odor of sweat and old leather, which I would later learn was a staple scent at any good training facility. The gym was narrow and long with a huge octagon crammed right at the front. There were mats starting at the cage and proceeding all the way to the end of the room. I can honestly say that this gym looked like it came right out of the Rocky movies, with heavy bags lining the walls around the mats, ending at a small kiosk counter stocked with gym wear from the club. A narrow hallway led to the washrooms/changing rooms. It was “old school,” and that is exactly what I liked and needed.
There were at least forty practitioners present in a room that likely should not have exceeded thirty. They were holding and hitting pads with their partners in boxing style, working jabs, uppercuts, hooks, and overhands, making fierce “wahhh” and “psssss” sounds immediately before each impact with the pads. The sounds they were making actually had meaning; it was more than just a psychological war shriek, but it actually helped get air out of their lungs faster to keep them fresh. The fact that everyone present sported sweat-soaked shirts looking as if they just took a dip in a pool meant they were training hard. It is a sport in which the other guy is looking to take your head off or submit you with the thousands of moves available to him or her; you’d better be training smart and hard.
Milton began to talk about the gym, then he asked me if I was looking to do this for fitness or to actually compete. I quickly looked at Beata and then back at Milton with a smile. “Definitely compete.” I’ve always felt something deeply rooted within me: the drive, the ambition, and
