Fred Sieminski is a street fightin' man. He's a rough and tumble cable guy, quiet but powerful and fast. They call him Fast Freddy.
But right now, sitting in a room in the Toledo Sports Arena, Fast Freddy is nervous. He's sitting on a folding chair, taping his hands under bright fluorescent light that bounces off the tile floor and plastic tables
That's because on this recent night, he's about to become a Toughman.
For the first time, the 32-year-old bachelor from Oregon who lives with his parents entered the Toledo Toughman contest, an annual boxing event that offers about 50 locals the chance to prove they've got what it takes to take a beating - and give one too.
There are lots of shaved heads and buzz cuts, muscle shirts and abdominal six packs. There's a guy wearing an Aryan T-shirt and another one who has an artificial leg.
Then there's Jason Gurzynski, the Polish Prince, a former Toughman champ. He's tall and lithe and wears a “Let's Polka” shirt. And he says things like “I don't go out there to box. I go out there to get hit.”
All of them are hoping to follow in the footsteps of Toughmen like Mr. T and Butterbean. Or at least collect the $1,000 prize for winning the tournament.
As Fast Freddy learns, Toughmen don't get butterflies in their stomachs before a fight. They get iron grasshoppers, hopping around and crashing with a heavy thud.
“My stomach right now, I might go to the bathroom or throw up. That's how nervous I am,” he says, New York Yankees cap on backward over his brown hair. “I've been in a lot of fist fights. I hope it kicks in.”
This is part nerves, part flu, which he says he's been fighting all week. The 170-pound, 5-foot, 10-inch fighter has been training for this for the last month, running five miles every other day and sparring with Dave Moore, a heavyweight contender who taught the Clay High School graduate and former wrestler proper form.
Fred had never boxed before, but some buddies talked him into entering anyway.
Brian Woodrow, a co-worker at Metro Fiber and Cable, said, “He's a maniac. You can't hurt Freddy. You can hit him; it doesn't faze him.”
Another friend and co-worker, Ryan Waltz, gives him some pre-fight advice. “Just go out there and pretend like you're at the bar,” he says. “Don't worry about the crowd.”
On this recent Friday night, the crowd isn't overwhelming - the finals aren't until the following day - but it is loud and enthusiastic, particularly toward the scantily clad ring girls.
Fred and the rest of the competitors had to arrive at 5 p.m. The show starts at 8 p.m., but no fighter knows more than a few minutes before exactly when he'll be called to battle an opponent who is randomly selected.
As he waits, Fast Freddy fidgets and hops in place on his skinny legs. He's always on the move - sometimes taking a peek at a fight in progress from behind a curtain separating the fighters from the arena, sometimes sharing a brief word with a friend, sometimes shadowboxing the wall.
“Gotta do it, baby,” he says, to himself or whoever.
His strategy is to have no strategy.
“I wanna go out there and do anything. Just go out and win,” he says.
Sometimes it's hard to tell who wins. Take the guy sitting on a chair with a bloody nose, head in his hands, and his opponent, who is lying exhausted and shirtless on the floor, rubbing his belly and unable to get up.
At one point, Fred is told to get ready to fight, but it's just a false alarm. Our Toughman isn't born until nearly an hour later at 9:50 p.m.
His opponent is Sunny Vielma, a thin, 29-year-old heavy equipment operator from Wauseon who calls himself the Rooster. This is his third Toughman contest, and he insists, “Third time's a charm.”
Sunny jogs out into the smoke-filled arena first, steady and slow as if he's moving to a beat in his head. Fred, after receiving a few last words from his friends, runs out fast, fast, fast.
As the first one-minute round begins, Fred moves immediately to the center with body language that says either “confident” or “crazy.” The two trade blows to the head and Fred ends up in the corner before they're separated and he's back to rushing like a bull again.
The scene repeats itself in the following two rounds - Fast Freddy comes out aggressive and someone ends up in the corner. There's a flurry of grabbing and swinging - and sometimes hitting - as they muscle each other around the ring.
The final bell sounds several times in the ring to signal the end of the match - Sunny wins a close one by judges' decision - but it just keeps pounding inside Fred's head.
Red-faced and tired, he walks slowly back to the fighters' room and to a slap on the back from his friends. His hair is spiked with sweat, and he bends over a table with his hands and his head down. A friend drapes a Cleveland Browns sweatshirt over him.
“You did alright. You have nothing to be ashamed of,” one of them says.
Fred continues to sit quietly, alternately grabbing his head with one hand and then both. The pounding in his head hasn't quit and his friends fear he may have aggravated a concussion sustained earlier in the week. A trip to the hospital confirms this.
For the time being, though, he consults medical personnel at the scene and lies down to make the hammers in his head stop. His mother joins the circle of friends surrounding him. Fred pulls on some blue sweatpants, and soon everyone is smiling and joking again.
Back in the arena, two more fighters duke it out, and the announcer's voice can be heard booming, “Git `em! Git `em! Git `em!” But Fred's friends aren't disappointed to be missing it.
“We're all proud of him,” his friend Aaron Johnson says. “This is all the fight we came to see.”
First Published March 9, 2003, 6:06 p.m.