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 the fight, and this was my way of nurturing it. Milton said that once I was ready, he would put me into competition that was appropriate for my skill level and that he would never use one of his team members as a lamb to feed a lion fight. On the other hand, if I wanted to participate in higher competitions at some point in the future, he could also set that up.
Milton is a short, stocky guy, with broad shoulders and a square face accompanied by a granite jaw. He looks like a typical wrestler, but he has trained in many forms of martial arts. He was a straight shooter, and I respected that. The way I looked at it was this: if you’re looking for a lemon car for $400 and want your ego stroked by a Las Vegas-style car dealer, you know what you’re getting yourself into. But, when you are looking to compete in boxing, kickboxing, jiu-jitsu, and MMA, where your bodily organs are at stake, I would rather go with the “no B.S. approach.” Milton has a very calming presence, which definitely came from years of training. He is a nice guy but you wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, as he could do some real damage.
I began attending as many classes as I could, each one focusing on different components of the fight game, usually with different instructors. There were a bunch of jiu-jitsu instructors, a judo instructor, boxers, and kickboxers. We always started with warm-ups and then proceeded to the technical aspects of the game, to rolling (ground grappling) or sparring to finish off the hour or two. I loved rolling, which essentially meant practice grappling while trying to submit your partner. We took each other down to work on our wrestling skills. Then, we would go in for the kill with some form of submission, a joint manipulation or choke to make the partner tap or nap. Although we never went hard enough to hurt each other, we would push enough to know that we could have done some damage if we wanted to.
It was an exhilarating feeling, a primitive awakening that could occur in any of us in one way or another. The technical aspects were fun, too, as I was soaking up knowledge like a sponge. It was back to school for me, except this time in a fun way, in the school of hard knocks.
On the Tuesday of my second week, I was contemplating not going to class, as I was sore from training and tired from work. I mustered up some energy and dragged myself to class. I had learned an entire four jiu-jitsu moves by then; in this fifth class, I learned the rear naked choke. As we practiced on each other, I seemed to get the hang of this move quickly, unlike some of the other moves that were a little too advanced for me at the time.
In the class, we rolled for five-minute rounds with the goal of getting verbal or physical taps. After the five minutes, we received a quick minute of rest before changing partners.
I was partnered with a 6' 6"-tall cop who had been training on and off for a year, and I was amazed at how quickly I could get his back, and “boom,” I clamped the rear naked choke and he quickly tapped out. I thought that he must have been taking it easy on me. We regrouped and just as quickly I found myself on his back with my hooks in, and seconds later I got another tap! Two taps within one minute, I was ecstatic, while he was not. He slammed his fist on the mat as his face turned red. I figured he was just being hard on himself with no disrespect aimed at me.
We regrouped again, but this time he was really putting some pressure on me in side mount, which meant that while I was on my back, he was situated sideways with his chest on mine, pinning me down. It was definitely not where I wanted to be. With a grunt, he had the Kimura on me, a shoulder lock that can shred the deltoid muscles if one does not tap. My reaction was to straighten my arm straight above my head; little did I know, it was one of the better escape methods to get out of the Kimura lock. With an explosive thrust of my hips, I jolted him into the air and scrambled, taking his back and submitting him once more. He was livid at this point. He stood up and left for the change room. I looked at the clock and noticed there were two minutes left to go, so I took a break before the next partner came up. That day really left an impression on me. This sport takes humility, self-control, honor, and a willingness to evolve and overcome obstacles to truly reach one’s