This was a story done on one of my student.
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NEWS STORY
Tough Guy, eh?
So You Wanna Fight So-called toughman boxing draws guys like martial arts enthusiast Gary Bray
ALLISON LAMPERT
The Gazette
CREDIT: JOHN KENNEY, THE GAZETTE
Gary Bray, with a bloodied nose, mixes it up with Luc Rioux last night at Kahnawake.
CREDIT: JOHN KENNEY, THE GAZETTE
Gary Bray (left) and Luc Rioux mix it up at the Kahnawake Sports Complex last night.
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Heavy metal music blasts the dressing room in the Kahnawake Sports Complex where Gary Bray sits quietly, trying to ignore the thrashing guitar riffs.
"I'd rather be in a quiet room by myself," he says between gulps of a high-energy drink.
"I'm trying not to be nervous."
He puts the drink back in his blue canvas backpack and takes out a pair of boxing wraps to protect his hands. He winds the fabric bandage around his wrists and knuckles, stopping abruptly when he realizes he's put them on the wrong way.
"I've never put on wraps before today."
Then he leaves the dimly lit room to compete last night in his first boxing match.
A week ago, Bray had never sparred with a boxer, let alone fought in a boxing ring.
He had neither a mouthguard nor proper shoes, just the 10- ounce gloves he brought from his Laurentian hometown, Arundel, to his Montreal apartment.
Experience is what Bray hopes to get out of Quebec's first sanctioned So You Wanna Fight toughman-style tournament. He said he wants the chance to use his full strength in a fight; despite years of martial arts classes he rarely uses his power for fear of injuring an opponent. "Most of us have an (internal) block," he said. "We don't want to hit someone."
In this fight, Bray knew he wouldn't have a choice.
Until last Saturday, he had never heard about the recent controversy surrounding toughman fights - about the four Americans who died during the past year after participating in such tournaments.
"I'm glad my mom doesn't know," he said, chuckling.
"My mom's a worrier."
Bray said he's more worried about messing up his fighting technique than getting hurt. He knows he's far better prepared for the match than a Florida woman who was declared brain-dead last June after entering a toughman fight on the night of the match.
Bray's preparation began three weeks ago, with the decision to lose 15 pounds from his already lean 5-foot-11-inch frame.
At 200 pounds, Bray would have been among the lightest heavyweights; at 185 pounds, he'd be the heaviest fighter in his division.
His friend at Flex Gym in LaSalle, where he works part time as a receptionist and personal trainer, gave him a diet: no complex carbohydrates after noon, stop eating before you're full and only light meals like celery and peanut butter after 6 p.m.
Bray went from doing no aerobic exercise at all to including an hour of fat-burning, cardiovascular activity a day in his training regimen.
He said he's accustomed to self-discipline. When he was 14, Bray took a 10-year vow of celibacy that just ended on his 24th birthday last May.
He's still a virgin.
"They tease me about it like crazy at the gym," Bray said, laughing. "I wanted to prove to myself that my mind could overcome my basic instincts."
That kind of mental force is essential on the tough days, when he just doesn't feel like training.
Last Monday was one of those days. He'd been up since 4 a.m. with an upset stomach after working at the gym until 10 the night before.
He tried to sleep, but the phone kept ringing. At 1 p.m., Bray yanked open the creaky door of his pale blue Oldsmobile to go to kung fu. Rage against the Machine blared on the cassette deck, but he barely noticed.
"The training is so hard it scares me sometimes," he acknowledged. "But I always feel like a million bucks after."
Although he lives in LaSalle, Bray drives to a shabby glass building in Laval, where his teacher, Si Fu Giuseppe Sblano, holds class. He said having the right teacher is worth any trip.
Before Bray moved to LaSalle in August, he'd made weekly trips from Arundel to study tai chi in Montreal.
When he arrives at Sblano's school, Bray changed into a white canvas gui - a martial arts suit - and warmed up doing push-ups. After months of training, Bray was scheduled to take his first test, for a yellow belt, but Sblano said he needed to improve his back-kicks.
The private lesson began with kicking drills that left him kneeling on the floor, sweat dripping from his forehead.
"Breathe, breathe," Sblano reminded him. "There's an old saying that fatigue makes cowards of us all.
"The more you sweat ..." he continued.
"The less you bleed," Bray replied, staggering to his feet.
Sblano moved his student to a black punching bag and directed him to throw a jab, cross and hook. He told Bray to hit the bag as though it were human.
"You can go head, you can go ribs, whatever you want," Sblano said. "I didn't hear no bell, go, let's go!"
The exercise is partly in preparation for the fight. After months of kicking drills, Bray tells Sblano he must resist the urge to use his legs in the match.
The lesson is almost over, but Sblano wants Bray to do some more punching. He grabs a pair of blue focus pads.
"Soon, I give you back your life," Sblano tells his pupil.
"This is my life."
Since he was a child, Bray has studied martial arts. He's done judo and karate, along with whatever style was being taught in the area. Trainers didn't stay long in Arundel, a rural town of 600 near St. Jovite.
"I'd start to get into it and then they'd move away," he recalled.
As an adult, Bray said he devotes most of his time to kung fu, tai chi and training at the gym. He chooses to work between 28 to 33 hours a week - just enough to pay for his lessons and the one-bedroom apartment he shares with his younger brother.
"My brother can save money, but for me saving money is the hardest thing to do," he said. "It's a waste of time to pursue money. You waste your youth."
Although he never took formal lessons, Bray's grandfather, a boxer, showed him how to throw a jab and a straight punch as a kid. Bray said his earliest memory was of him as an infant, hitting a duffle bag.
With less than a week before the fight, Bray said he was hoping to spar with a boxer at his gym.
On Wednesday, he lined up a morning session with his friend Aaron Davidovit, a 230-pound amateur heavyweight. As they practiced, Davidovit reminded Bray to keep his hands up.
"You're very anxious to throw them, you're not anxious to protect yourself," he said. "It's just as important to bring your hand back as it is to throw it."
"Am I hitting OK?" Bray asked.
"Yeah, just don't try to take my head off," Davidovit replied.
"You're very quick," Davidovit remarked after three of Bray's jabs penetrate his defence.
"Nobody usually lands a jab like you just did."
Impressed, Davidovit lent Bray his wrestling boots to wear in the toughman fight.
"But I only want them back if you win," he said, chuckling. "I don't wear a loser's shoes."
But Bray didn't look like a loser last night.
When the bell rang, Bray threw jabs, but his opponent threw a cross, bloodying his lip and nose. Bray remained composed, throwing combinations as Davidovit yelled from the corner, "hit the body."
He seemed dazed as the referee held up his blue glove when he was announced the winner, blood dripping from his lip.
"My mouth is so dry," he said. "But it was good. Geez, this was fun."
alampert@thegazette.canwest.com
Profile of Gary Bray
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