Читать книгу The Fighter Within - Christopher Olech - Страница 8

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.

Now a senior in high school, I needed cash. I got a job washing dishes at the golf club across the street from the school. Three of my good friends were already working there, and the pay was fairly good. I added the job to my already full plate, and I’m glad I did. On busy nights, we worked hard, but it was fun in a way, especially when my friends were working with me. As kitchen staff, we assisted in food preparation and closing duties. As a reward for my hard work, I was always assigned to the Sunday shift. This shift was the best, as I would get all the leftover buffet food, and trust me—it was well worth it. All the other dishwashers wanted to work the Sunday shift, but I was the one getting it.

All of the hours spent working kept me insulated to some degree from the degenerating politics in my parents’ relationship. Yet I went through a lot of stuff that I pray no one else ever goes through. A lot was said and done, preying on my soul and pushing me to the depths of a dark world. It was even more difficult because I looked up to my parents, and their values are instilled in me even today. Suddenly, my entire world had been turned upside down with what seemed like the snap of a finger.

I remember sitting on the couch at the country club, waiting for my shift to start, and thinking, “What did I do in life to deserve this? Why me, God? Why?” The kids at school had money and easy lives, while I had to completely run on overdrive for most of my life with my family dynamics in ruins. I had to fight to get everything—I had to fight just to exist—so why was it that others had so much handed to them? I sat on the couch where millionaires came to relax and thought to myself, “I am smart, athletic, and, most importantly, good-hearted. I put the needs of others in front of my own and yet I have to struggle with my family life and finances. This just sucks!”

As the months went by, I was working out every day and putting on some serious weight. I started training when I was sixteen, adding forty pounds onto my frame. I worked out for an hour and a half a day, even after work, I took vitamins, ate like a mule, and drank protein shakes religiously after every workout. As a senior, I was a chubby 245 pounds; I had gone from the scrawny guy to the big guy. I was strong and benched over 280 pounds, shoulder pressed ninety-pound dumbbells, but I had a round face and a bit of a gut. I told everyone that I’d be a monster once I lost fifteen to twenty pounds. However, cardio was not my strong suit back then, and I did not lose the excess weight.

I think the weight was a subconscious symbol of pain in life, seeing my parents’ marriage fail and my mom battle with her personal demons. My grades slipped to the point where I was barely attending classes, showing up only to ace the tests so that I wouldn’t fail the class. I chose fun over responsibilities, and even when my entire world was crumbling, I was still somehow slowly pushing through. Some days, I immersed myself in movies and books to escape.

Whatever obstacles presented themselves, I lived through more drama in my first twenty years of life than most people do their entire lives. Somehow, it made me stronger, and maybe wiser to some extent. My mom battled with alcoholism. The bottle consumed her every thought and stole her from me. To make matters worse, my dad left her when she was at her lowest point, leaving me to attempt to save my mom on my own when I was sixteen years old.

My dad moved on and started a new family. I wasn’t sure how to approach this situation. Needless to say, we’ve had a hot-cold relationship ever since. He even left the business to my mom and began working at a factory, cutting all ties with her.

I tried helping as much as I could at the deli, but it wasn’t enough, and we needed more help. My mom could not work every day, as her health was in decline. At my high school graduation, no one from my family attended as I received my diploma, and I cannot lie: it hurt.

My mom then hired a gorgeous girl to help us out at the deli on a part-time basis. Beata was a smart, good-looking, brown-eyed girl. I remember her coming to the store with her parents on occasion, but now that she was working here, it made work a lot of fun! Her long, dark hair and tanned, smooth skin was more than eye candy for me! Finally, a curve in the road of life to be thankful for, although being older than me I figured she was way out of my league. I thought I didn’t stand a chance. We talked for hours about anything and everything. She was so down-to-earth and knowledgeable; it was a breath of fresh air. I found myself having fun for the first time in a long time.

There were times when the deli was really prospering, as Beata and I were outgoing and had good rapport with the customers. Our products were from select distributors known to be of high quality, even though we had to drive 250 miles each week for the items. We tried desperately to get rid of the vultures picking away at the business. My mother’s drinking buddies brought her alcohol and then took three times the value in products, free of charge. They were supposed to be friends, and this angered me. We had to deal with many kinds of people. Being 240 pounds helped to get the message across to various people to stay away.

I also started my college education with the Human Services Foundation to learn the art of dealing with people in service fields. I excelled in psychology but did not much care for school. With a distraction like Beata working alongside me, I skipped more than a few classes. After months of working together, we finally started dating.

That period of time was life-changing for me, as I had more fun than I could remember and my confidence began to soar again. We frequently traveled to Toronto and Niagara Falls just to get out of the city. To me, that was more than I needed, to see and experience the world with the prettiest girl in the world. It’s funny that most good things in my life have happened when I wasn’t searching for them—case in point with Beata. She really is my angel from heaven.

My dad was working at a factory making good money, and because I was looking for work after college to start my own life, it was a quick fix. The factory was hiring summer students for $7.00 less per hour than they paid regular workers, which was still a lot. I accepted the job in a heartbeat and got to work. The conditions were terrible. It was hot, smoky, hazy, polluted, and it entailed hard manual labor with some power-tripping supervisors added to the mix.

A month into the job, I was more than acclimated and a productive employee, so much so that they offered me a full-time regular employee position. I could not complain about the job, as it paid well, but the beginning was hard, as with any new beginning. I woke up in the middle of the night to cramping forearms and hands, and every day I blew from my nose black sludge mixed with blood.

Beata and I had a plan: work for about a year, bank the money, and I would become a police officer. For a number of reasons it never happened. It was easy to get sucked into the thought of big money even though I had much bigger plans for myself. I got used to working the three-shift rotation, meaning each week we switched from working mornings (my favorite) to afternoons (my least favorite) and nights. After a year, I started working on the newer automotive line, which was easier and involved less lifting and welding. The months quickly turned into years.

As my relationship with Beata blossomed, my family life was still in the toilet. I was still trying to help as much as I could with my mom and the deli, but things were quickly declining. My mom’s health was getting worse, and even her doctors weren’t doing much to help the root cause: alcoholism. I wish I would have done more, maybe by taking her to Alcoholics Anonymous if she would have agreed, but she likely would not have. I had dozens of heartfelt conversations with my mom where I begged her to stop drinking for her sake, as well as for my sake. It was always the same, we would break down, my true mom would come through, and then a day later she would be reaching for the bottle again. It was becoming the norm for her to be in and out of the hospital at that point.

My dad and I were constantly at each other’s necks, figuratively speaking. He gave me yelling lectures and went on rants that made no sense, offering no real insight or help. I think he was taking out his anxieties and regrets on me, and I was done taking it, as I had for too long. I was my own man now, and I still showed respect, but also stood up for what I thought was right.

It was a windy November day in 2003 when I received a phone call from the hospital while I was getting ready for my afternoon shift at the factory. The nurse on the other end said “I’m not sure how to say this, but I really think you should be here with your mom. She’s not doing so well, and we had to take her to the intensive care unit.” I remember a million thoughts racing through my mind, but I knew my mom was the strongest person I had ever known, so it could not be so bad, could it?

At the hospital, I was told that my mom had lost eight pints of blood and that they continued pumping more into her. She was losing blood at an alarming rate. A medical device was her one last hope. I was a complete mess; it all seemed like the worst nightmare in the world, and it honestly felt unreal.

My dad and aunts, accompanied by cousins from Mississauga, came to the hospital. Of course, Beata was by my side from the beginning. I spoke to my mom on the hospital table for as long as I could, thinking that maybe she could hear me. The doctors asked if they could switch off the machines that were keeping her alive. Nothing had helped, and it was only a matter of time. I would never agree to it and thought that maybe she would still wake up; maybe by a miracle everything would be fine, just maybe. I clung to the hope with every part of my being as I prayed for her. After all we had gone through, the mother who had given me life and taught me all that is good could not leave like this... no way.

No matter how badly we want something, God often has other plans. The electrocardiographic heart monitor showed that she had flatlined; Elizabeth Olech had passed away from this Earth to the next. I lost my mom. I thought I knew sadness, defeat, anguish, and pain before that point, but I quickly learned that what I felt previously was nothing compared to this. As if by calling, it had been raining that day, and I believe that it was a sign of a great human being, a messenger, and soldier of God leaving our human existence. I knew that angels were crying over her departure that day.

The strangest thing about it all was that I felt an emotional boost for some reason. I think it was my mom’s way of giving me strength. I took time to grieve and organize my mom’s townhouse and funeral. I had been calling work to let them know I would be out, but through the grapevine I heard that even though I was a hard worker, they were thinking of letting me go, as I had being calling in for over a week. I was supposed to fill out a bereavement form, but no one had told me that. I was nineteen and not well-versed in labor laws. I was learning that when a person is at their most vulnerable and down, people tend to take free shots and kick them. I filled out the form and proceeded forward through this entire mess that had ravaged my life.

Hundreds of people attended the funeral to pay their respects, and it made me feel good that she had affected so many people. My cousin approached me afterward and told me that my mom was in a better place and that her time on Earth had a bigger meaning, which was me. She also told me that I was destined for something big and that everyone saw it. I thanked her and started thinking differently; maybe there was something good I could do in her name.

Years later, as I write this, I believe that my mom is in a better place, where she cannot feel pain or hurt. I think she watches over me and gives me the strength needed here on Earth. I cherish all the good moments we had together. I try to make her proud of me through my everyday actions, using all of the lessons she taught me.

I began volunteering a lot more, taking on many activities to help people and animals whenever I could. I was not only a board member for a few organizations, but also helped out with many volunteer days whenever my calendar allowed it.

Every one of the events I went through in my life, good or bad, shaped and molded me. My good nature, respectful approach toward people, mental strength, and never-say-die attitude are all attributable to my upbringing and milestones in life. We all have a story; we all have a battle to fight and goals that we are striving for in the rat race of life. I had many forces pulling me to martial arts and pushing me to uncover the mixed martial arts (MMA) world as I set out in search for the truth.

Why do we do this? What is it that draws us to something that can hurt us? Why do we deliberately put ourselves in the path of danger? What makes us different from so many others? I believe that this is rooted in the many layers of both the psyche and the heart. The same questions can be posed to great soldiers that volunteer to participate in wars around the world, fighting for our freedom. From the adrenaline junkie to the deep camaraderie built within your team, you give time, sweat, and blood for the mats. There is respect and a bond with your opponent, regardless of whether you win or lose. They too had a path that led them to stare at you once the buzzer or bell rings; you will both leave it all in the fight to see who is better that day. The feeling of getting that win and of having all those bumps and aching muscles pays off. Finally reaching the top of the mountain makes it all worthwhile.

So, I ask you: what is your fight? What is your place in life? Truly ponder this question; use it and the humility of martial arts to create a better you, whether it be with your family, your friends, your work, or anything else. Let it take over your thoughts and use it to set those goals that you can systematically achieve over time. By the time you reach the final chapter of this book, you will see that these processes hold true for some of the best in the world. I’ve traveled the world to train in many areas of mixed martial arts with some of the world’s greatest names and champions. Their stories are shared here.

This is a journey that, as a fan, makes me giddy with excitement. I have done my best to shed light on these people that we idolize on television, along with detailing who they actually are, how they train, why they train, and what they do to be the best. Peer into them as individuals as well as martial artists. I sought the answers to the questions posed above and attempted to uncover the information that every fan wants to know. I also trained myself as I prepared for fights and competitions, rolling and sparring with the best, changing cities, even countries in search of the best fighters, coaches, and gyms the world has to offer. I invite you to take this journey with me. I am prepared to fight—no one has said that life is a bed of roses, right?