• Commentator / Actor
Chapter One
THE MEAT GRINDER
“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”
—Mark Twain
The bell rang, and the sound of cheers faded deep into my psyche as I raised the sixteen-ounce gloves up to my chin, taking in the smell of used leather and sweat. My breath steadied and my eyes focused until I absorbed a hard right hook and thunderous leg kick that elevated my lead leg clean off the mat. The stark realization hit me like a speeding freight train; a mix of emotions comprised of fear, anxiety, delight, and pride swirled in the upper tier of my stomach, eating at my throat. I was in a fight!
My opponent, seasoned and much stronger, pressured me as I tapped him with weak combinations, either out of fear or from the extreme adrenaline infusion I had just endured. My endorphins were shooting from synapse to synapse, and my six months of training in Muay Thai had not prepared me for the stresses or accumulation of adrenaline before the fight, let alone the effects of depleting that adrenaline, which left me feeling drained of energy and hopeless.
I faintly heard my corner yelling in the background, through my barotrauma, better known as ear popping. My heart rate was vividly audible through my muffed hearing as it raced like a machine gun spraying bullets at the range, my skin wet and clammy with sweat, and my mind pulled in a multitude of directions. I thought to myself, “What are they saying?”
My corner yelled again, “Hit him harder, Chris! Hit him harder!”
I started throwing faster combinations, landing a few hard shots, but my opponent, at least twenty pounds heavier than I, was experienced and thus able to cut the ring much better than me. He ended his combinations with hard-hitting kicks. I was not fast enough to check them, so I absorbed each shot from his sculpted, tree-trunk legs.
The bell rang to signify the end of the round; “Could it have been that quick?” Moments felt like an eternity in the fight, but once the round ended, it felt like we had just started exchanging. It was an eerie feeling; I had lost all track of time and place. If not for the sixteen-ounce pillows on my hands, I would have pinched myself just to check if this was all part of a surreal dream.
My corner men attempted to encourage me between rounds, but in all honesty, they were just as green as I was. They were my training partners; my coaches were nowhere to be found. It dawned on me at that moment: they had already held the amateur bouts. That explained why I was fighting a guy that looked like the bodybuilder version of Rob Zombie with seven years of experience in the fight game. Our match was jammed between the pro fights—the promoter decided to pull a fast one on me, and I was the sacrificial lamb for everyone’s entertainment. I was thrown into this predicament as my first hoorah—my very first fight.
I glared across the ring at my opponent who sported dreadlocks and a thick goatee that touched his barrel chest, his face emblazoned with a menacing stare. I wiped my mind clear of the flooding self-doubt. I tried to take deep breaths, feeling my lungs experience difficulty in doing what they had done for my entire life. The harsh gasping for air was expanding my chest, pressing my ribs against my skin as it became more and more difficult to relax. I thought to myself “I’m better than this. This guy has nothing on me!” Almost getting disgusted with myself, I was getting myself amped up.
We went out to the center of the ring and rhythmically danced the oldest, most savage tango known to humans, bringing our basic instincts to the surface. I tried to add speed to my combinations, and he veered backward each time I connected; it must have been doing the trick. When we tied up, he grabbed me in the plum clinch, pulling the back of my head toward his chest while trapping my head between his elbows, and diligently proceeded to bombard my torso with a barrage of knees. I ate a couple to the face, and he received a stern warning from the referee, as it was against the rules to knee the face during this smoker of an event.
I only knew of one way out of the plum clinch at that point, and that was to put my glove on his face and muscle my way out of it. He must have determined that this would be my undoing, so he proceeded to tie me up again. Yet again, I ate a knee to the face, becoming furious at that point. I caught his leg, placed my other fist in his face, and forcefully threw him over to put his knees to the mat.
The momentum swung my way, and I felt great—but only for that split second, as the lactic acid had engulfed my body with a sharp pain. I was exhausted. My mind was processing what needed to be done, but my body could not carry out the acts. That was another feeling I had never felt before; it took two rounds to finally get loosened up, only to be met by a physical wall that my body could not surmount. The round was called to an end, and I thanked God that my opponent was just as drained as I was.
The beginning of the third round was painfully slow; both of us heavyweights had expelled all of our stamina. We circled a lot, both hesitant to start something our bodies could not commit to. When we did exchange, there was no power or speed. I learned a hard lesson that day, which was to never let my guard down. He twisted his lead foot and torqued his hips. My mind predicted that a whopping right hook would be coming my way, so I decided to weave beneath it. As I tried to duck toward my left, I lowered my glove from my cheek because of fatigue, and to my surprise I ducked directly into his oncoming torpedo shin. My face did a superb job of absorbing all of his force, and all that was missing were those cartoon birds flying around my head as the final cherry on top.
My left ear buzzed for a split second, but I straightened out and got out of harm’s way as fast as possible by virtue of pure instinct. 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