Brian Schwartz’s arms dangled at his sides as he sat on the trainer’s table soaking in the pungent odors of sweat and leather. His piercing hazel eyes stared at nothing in particular.
“Ugly fight, eh?” Schwartz said.
His trainer, Eddie Croft, caught Schwartz’s eye.
“Yeah, Brian, real ugly.”
Schwartz paused.
“Did I win?”
Croft sucked in his breath.
“Yeah, you did.”
“How? Decision or a knockout?”
“K.O., Brian. Second round.”
“Oh. Ugly fight, eh?”
“Yeah, Brian, real ugly.”
Schwartz paused.
“Did I win?”
Fast-forward five years and Schwartz, now 30, can laugh about his concussion. He can laugh about not remembering the punch that — literally — rattled his brain, and not remembering the knockout blow he delivered only a minute later. He laughs the hardest when he notes that he doesn’t remember the live ringside interview he gave on ESPN. Not one word.
But Schwartz’s family wasn’t laughing. They’d grab him by his wiry shoulders and ask him a pointed question: “What’s a nice Jewish boy like you doing getting your head bashed in?”
Naturally, the questions changed in November, when the San Francisco-born, Foster City-raised Peninsula Temple Sholom congregant knocked Tommy Bottone to the canvas at the San Jose Civic Auditorium and became the full-contact kickboxing super middleweight champion of the world. (Schwartz would have left tickets for Rabbi Gerald Raiskin and Cantor Barry Reich, but the fight was on Shabbat.)
And now relatives and fellow congregants are asking, “What’s a nice Jewish boy like you doing bashing in other people’s heads?”
Schwartz can only grin. He’s 16-0 with 10 knockouts. He’s the world champ. His last win netted him $50,000. A title defense against Yugoslavian-born Peter Kaljevic scheduled for Saturday, June 4, in San Jose’s HP Pavilion could earn him a six-figure purse. Evidently, the man has found his calling.
“Like most Jewish parents, mine would have liked their son to be a doctor or lawyer or maybe even an accountant,” he said, perching his long lean frame on the edge of a boxing ring.
He glanced, momentarily, at the fighters grappling an arm’s length away.
“So, this might not be their first choice of professions. But I do think they’re proud of me.”
At the Third Street Gym in San Francisco’s quasi-industrial Dogpatch neighborhood, dozens of aspiring fighters shadowbox, crouch and shout in unison along with a wild-eyed instructor, resembling nothing so much as a kung-fu army from any of a thousand martial arts movies.
A couple of gargantuan, un-neutered pit bulls wander through the building, sniffing gym bags with impunity and drawing nervous stares from musclebound boxers as well as the scrawny German shepherd in the corner.
If you were asked to pick out the one — and only one — professional boxer in the room, whom would you choose? Is it the hulking bald Irishman in the corner with the thrice-broken nose and an armful of Gaelic tattoos? The strapping woman wailing away on the heavy bag? The lithe black man bobbing and weaving so rapidly you’d think he has electricity coursing through his veins?
No, no and no. The professional is standing innocuously in the far corner. He towers over the other pugilists at 6-foot-3 but weighs a scant 168 pounds even after a trip to the drive-through. Like a greyhound, his body has no wasted space whatsoever.
He has chiseled, unmistakably Semitic features and a nervous energy that translates into constant movement, frequent grins and bursts of laughter that don’t shake his dark, closely cropped hair one centimeter.
The professional is, of course, Brian “The Mad Stork” Schwartz. And he’s laughing and pounding his canary yellow gloves together even as he’s about to hop into the ring and spar with a man weighing at least 50 pounds more than he does.
With rap music thumping in the background and under the watchful gaze of Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, Marvin Haggler, Jack Johnson and hundreds of other boxing posters plastered onto virtually every last square inch of the gym’s walls, Schwartz flashes one last smile and vaults into the ring.
Schwartz’s childhood wasn’t remarkably different from that of any other Jewish boy growing up on the Peninsula. He was bar mitzvahed and confirmed at Peninsula Temple Sholom, where he and his family still go. He loved the Oakland Raiders, played ball with his pals and graduated from San Mateo High (where he sheepishly admits he “wasn’t a super student”).
His life was indelibly altered, however, after his father toted him to a Bruce Lee movie when he was 4. Schwartz wheedled and pleaded to be able to take karate, but his dad laid down the law: “Son, not until you’re 6.”
Two years later, Schwartz was still obsessed with all things Bruce Lee, and he enrolled in his first karate class. And, guess what? He was terrible.
For his first nine years in the gym, Schwartz picked up little more than a pastime and a nickname — his exclamation point-like physique earned him the moniker “Stork,” which he modified to “Mad Stork” in honor of his favorite Oakland Raider, Ted “Mad Stork” Hendricks.
And then, one day, it all clicked. At age 15, the once-gangly teen began finding all the moves that had eluded him coming naturally; he had finally grown into his tall, thin body. Within three years, he was a professional karate fighter, folding, spindling and mutilating the opposition on five different continents.
The youthful Schwartz’s decision to become a professional fighter wasn’t exactly music to the ears of his parents, Alan and Linda. But, they were supportive then, and they’re supportive now.
“My wife and I go to all his fights. And it’s terribly nerve-wracking. I have no doubt in his abilities. But the fact is, there’s a big guy on the other end of the ring trying to knock his block off,” said Alan Schwartz.
“My father can’t go to the fights, it makes him too nervous,” Alan Schwartz continues. “But all my friends go. We’re known as businessmen and not athletes, even though there have been some great Jewish fighters over the years. So, to see a Jewish boy, especially a Jewish boy from the suburbs, compete at that level, it’s very exciting.”
Schwartz has never fought on a High Holy Day, but he’s also kept remarkably mum about his religious orientation.
The kickboxing world is not, shall we say, teeming with Jewish fighters. Schwartz could certainly market himself as the Great Semitic Hope. Other Jewish pugilists through time have worn a Star of David on their trunks, or, somewhat paradoxically, gotten Jewish-themed tattoos. And Schwartz is OK with that. But it’s not for him.
“I don’t think people should exploit their religion. I don’t think I should try to make a buck off my being Jewish,” said the San Mateo resident.
“I kind of keep [Judaism] as my personal thing. I don’t need to show that off to everybody. If you want to come and see me fight, see me do my thing, come and see me. I don’t want them hyping the situation based on my religious orientation.”
Meanwhile, Raiskin, Schwartz’s rabbi since childhood, is shocked at the boxer’s success. But not because of Schwartz’s Judaism.
“I never thought he’d get into that kind of sport,” marveled the rabbi. “I mean, he’s so thin!”
And if someone wants to underestimate the Jewish guy, so much the better.
After racking up four world titles in professional karate (he would eventually win six), Schwartz crossed over into kickboxing in 1999. One can guess the major difference between boxing and kickboxing pretty easily; in Schwartz’s division of kickboxing, fighters are required to attempt at least eight kicks a round (above the belt, thankfully).
“My first fight, I fought this guy who had muscles on top of muscles. A big Latin guy, a nationally televised fight, and I was this skinny Jewish kid, right? There was this big, muscular guy and [the announcers] thought he was going to kill me,” said Schwartz with a wry smile.
“Within the first 20 seconds of the first round, I knocked him down with a sidekick to the body. He got up, and I was all over him. I knocked him down again with another kick to the body. And at the end of the first round I got him with a left hand to the head and knocked him out.”
Schwartz has just gotten out of the ring after his sparring session at the Third Street Gym. His yellow gloves rest by his feet and, apart from a thin layer of sweat on his T-shirt, you’d never know he just completed exchanging blows with a grown man for three rounds.
While Schwartz’s opponent was bigger and perhaps even stronger, it soon became apparent the professional was orders of magnitude more skilled. He landed a few punches, pulled a few more and managed to elude his opponent’s gloves almost entirely for the first two rounds.
After the bell rang for the second time, the beleaguered opponent limped back to boxing coach Carlos Lopez.
“He’s too fast!”
Lopez rolled his eyes, raised his arms above his head and clapped them, noisily, onto his hips.
“I know he’s too fast!”
Lopez leaned over the rope and pointed a finger at Schwartz. It was time to baptize his boxing pupil by fire.
“Hit a little harder.”
The third and final round was the boxing equivalent of the Falkland War. At one point, Schwartz moved so quickly he actually found himself behind his opponent. He boxed the poor man into all four corners of the ring. When his opponent finally landed a solid blow, Schwartz nodded in congratulations. Finally, mercifully, the bell rang, the two men embraced and the bout was over.
Schwartz smiled. Once again, he had obeyed the first rule of boxing — don’t get hit. Other than the concussion in his third professional fight, his worst injury is a broken hand. (He’s a righty, but he fights lefty, which ties opponents in knots.)
He’s paced himself to just 16 fights since 1999, largely because he doesn’t live for the money; he teaches kickboxing and martial arts full time. And, with big paydays starting to roll in and a “full-time” career he loves, he figures he won’t hang around one fight too long, as so many boxers are wont to do.
“I don’t want to be one of those guys who’s slow and slurring and fighting at 35,” he said.
“I want to go out on top.”
And then, he’d like to keep coaching on the Peninsula, and maybe even raise a couple of kids. And if they want to fight? Schwartz takes a deep breath. He’s OK with that.
“But not until they’re 6,” he says with a chuckle.