Guy Mead witnessed some of the ugliest sides of humanity during his years in the military, yet nothing prepared him for losing his son to drugs. He's now using boxing to help people at risk to beat their toughest opponent.
"They've found Brodie dead in his room."
Those seven words broke Guy Mead.
He knew his son had been struggling, but he thought the worst was over.
Brodie was just about to start a new job — everything seemed to be looking up for him.
Guy was in the head office of the construction company he worked for in Perth when his younger son, Dylan, called with the devastating news.
At first, everything went numb.
Then the adrenaline kicked in. Guy raced over to Brodie's house, but he was much too late.
Brodie had died three days earlier.
During almost a decade serving in Australia's Special Air Service (SAS) Regiment, Guy had witnessed some of the ugliest sides of humanity.
But nothing prepared him for losing his son.
"I don't think I've ever cried that hard in my life.
"It damn near killed me.
"I couldn't believe it had happened.
"I started cursing myself.
"What could I have done? What should I have done?"
Brodie was 34 when he died from a drug overdose in February 2020.
That month, billions of people had their worlds turned upside down as the COVID-19 pandemic swept the globe.
But Guy's world stopped completely.
"I don't think any parent should outlive their children," he says.
"A lot of people think [drug misuse] only happens to people [who] had horrible upbringings or bad lives. That's just not true, it can happen to anyone."
Brodie, he says, was witty, funny, a good sportsman who loved camping and going out bush.
He traces the ink on his forearm where Brodie's name rests.
"Everyone loved him," Guy says.
"Even though he was my stepson, he was my boy."
The warehouse
In a dark warehouse on the outskirts of Albany, 420 kilometres south-east of Perth, a boxing ring hunkers down in the shadows.
Oxidised weights cluster in circles like burnt pancakes, while boxing gloves lie scattered on the dusty floor.
Sweat has seeped into every crevice of this cavernous space as boxer after boxer has pummelled their frustration, anger, fury and despair into the gym's punching bags.
Inside the ring itself, an unlikely looking group of men, women and children sit cross-legged, some still bleeding after being thrust into a practice sparring match.
They're not a bunch you'd expect to see in the same social circles.
However, there's a tight bond between them, one that says they're not just welcome here, they're wanted.
They've each travelled vastly different paths in life, yet those disparate trails have all led them here: to Guy and his gym.
It feels like family. It feels like home.
"Come on you lot," Guy suddenly roars in a tone that's equally motivational as it is stern.
And the group is plunged into a gruelling exercise called punch-ups, in which they take turns striking each other's gloves above their heads for five minutes, while remaining seated.
Their arms start to burn within a minute.
"It's more of a mental drill," Guy says.
"Pain only exists in the brain."
The boxers are clammy and fatigued but they know quitting will hurt just as much as pushing through. So, they carry on.
"When Brodie passed, it changed my whole outlook on life — myself and my wife's," Guy says.
At the time, Guy and Fiona — or Fi as everyone calls her — were operating a boxing gym in the West Australian Wheatbelt community of Northam.
It was fairly successful but, Guy says, he wasn't giving it his all.
Following his son's death, he wanted to do more to help at-risk youth as well as adults, such as Brodie, who were finding life challenging.
So, he and Fi poured their savings into a boxing team called STRYKA and opened a second gym four-and-a-half hours away in Albany on the state's southern coastline.
They don't charge the boxers any money to train, there's no gym membership fee and they get their gear for free.
Here, they train fighters in how to beat their toughest opponent: themselves.
Rock bottom
Like Guy, Bianca Graham, a parent-helper at the gym, knows that the internal battles are the hardest.
She left home at 15 after a traumatic childhood populated with multiple step-parents.
But she didn't lose control of her life until she was 33.
The now 40-year-old admits to taking methamphetamines to try to numb her pain.
"I just wanted to feel nothing," she says.
"But, towards the end, it's a bandaid and bandaids only stay on for so long, until they fall off."
She soon hit rock bottom.
"I had lost my job, my family, everything that I owned pretty much, except for the car that I was driving around in.
"Me and my son were homeless on the streets until we could get government housing.
"We had that for less than a year because I blew that too."
Bianca was living in a banged-up 1995 white Holden Nova hatchback with no air-conditioning.
"It was just parking at beaches, sleeping in the car, couch surfing, just driving around until you couldn't drive anymore and sleeping for the night," she recalls.
Four years ago, she was hospitalised after an overdose.
"That was the last time I ever used drugs.
"If I'd have known what I know now, I would never have [used drugs] ever."
After a stint in rehab, Bianca relocated to Albany, where she found STRYKA and a way to move forward.
A fatherless father figure
Although Guy was only about three years old when his father left, his earliest memory is one of violence.
"He literally did the old, 'I'm going out to buy a pack of cigarettes' … and we never saw him again," he says.
"I remember being relieved."
Guy says his mother did an amazing job of raising him and his brothers.
They moved from Northam to Port Hedland, in the Pilbara, where she worked three jobs to make ends meet.
"She was hard, but she had to be," he says with clear admiration.
Even though Guy's early childhood was void of a paternal role model, he's still managed to become one for others.
Liam Mooney — who is still grieving the loss of his father — credits Guy's mentorship with helping him to get back on his feet.
The 28-year-old only joined the STRYKA team about six months ago, and now thinks nothing of the 100km round trip he makes from his home in Mount Barker to the Albany gym multiple times a week.
Chancing upon a boxing video of Guy online was a light-bulb moment in Liam's life.
"Basically, without a doubt, I just knew: That's my coach," he says.
Although he had dabbled in martial arts as a kid, Liam says he grappled with his weight growing up.
"I was a bit of a heavier boy, struggled with obesity … honestly, I was pushing 130kg."
He admits that, at his heaviest, he felt uncomfortable and embarrassed.
"I had a good look at myself in the mirror, more than just physically, and thought: 'I can do a lot better than this. This isn't the end — I can make a better life'."
Liam had started his weight-loss journey prior to boxing, but credits the sport for helping him stay on track.
He now weighs about 76kg.
Despite making progress on his physical appearance, Liam says spiralling grief sent him to a dark place.
"My father passed away on Valentine's Day last year. It was devastating," he explains.
"But grief brings us to an appreciation for the times we've had [with] those we've lost.
"And how they help make us who we are today and how we can share that with the world.
"The death of my father … and having a coach like Guy, who's much like a father to myself at this time … has been quite a motivational force."
It is about three weeks out from the club's Redemption Fight Night, to be held in Northam, and Liam is keen to get the night's training underway.
He is first to arrive and sets up the gym on a balmy Monday evening.
He's become a bit of a senior role model within the Albany group, and even takes on the training when Guy is with his Northam crew.
He says that giving back inspires a sense of purpose within him.
"Purpose is really what drives a fighter to fight," Liam says.
High hopes
Like Liam, Jhonrey "JR" Nabilon has high hopes for fight night after also developing a passion for martial arts during his childhood.
When the 34-year-old Filipino father of two arrived in Australia 13 years ago, he says, he stepped into a different world.
JR was raised in the resort city of Baguio, in the mountains of Luzon Island, but he lived far from the high life.
His mother — who had 18 siblings — worked overseas as a cleaner and his father had a second family.
"Growing up in a broken family, my grandma was the one who looked after me," JR says.
"We just worked on the farm, me and my younger brother, for $3 a day."
By the age of 10, JR was harvesting rice fields and tobacco, as well as digging trenches.
Despite the hardship, he was more fortunate than many children in his homeland because he was able to attend school — even graduating as salutatorian (the student with the second-highest graduation score).
However, he was small, and that made him a target for bullies.
He says the experience of not being able to defend himself sparked his enduring interest in martial arts.
At Guy's gym, he has been warmly welcomed — just one of the many "blessings", he says, he has found in Australia.
"I have high hopes for my kids. Hopefully, they will never have to experience what I experienced," he says.
And when fight night arrives, he hopes to make them — and his STRYKA teammates — proud.
Coming full circle
Back in Port Hedland, Guy, too, was being bullied as a boy.
He recounts a turning-point conversation he had with his mother.
"She said: 'Son, man needs one of two skills in his life — he needs to be able to run really fast or fight really well. And you're too short to run'."
She dragged him down to the local Police Citizens Youth Club, which was run by police to keep kids off the street.
There he was mentored by an Aboriginal man named Timmy.
"He taught me how to fight and he used to take us out bush and we'd go hunting," Guy says.
"He taught me how to dive and how to catch crayfish and how to trap animals. He was awesome … a great bloke."
Decades later, Guy has come full circle.
Today, he trains several Indigenous teens and young adults.
Marcus, 15, has been learning how to box in Northam for the past year.
He lives with his nan and admits that he was getting into a bit of trouble at school before he took up boxing and learned some self-discipline.
"I came down and coach saw my skills and said, 'Yeah, you're alright'," Marcus says.
"I'm more mature now, especially working with the older crew … they really pulled my head in."
Marcus says any fighting other than in the club is seen as disrespectful, and the code of conduct encourages team members to make responsible choices.
More than anything, he says, he wants to make his family proud.
"They tell me all the time: 'You're becoming a good young man, keep it up'."
Barry Roberts is another First Nations boxer who sees Guy as a mentor.
The 23-year-old — who grew up in state care and ended up in prison at 18 — is part of the Albany team, but is taking a break from boxing.
He says Guy is still helping him to deal with his past so he can have a brighter future.
"Guy has helped me tremendously in all walks of life, not just fighting. I could write a paragraph on the bloke.
"He's been there [for me], emotionally, helping me face problems in my life, so I can become a better fighter."
A mental maelstrom
Back in the PCYC boxing gym in Port Hedland, a teenaged Guy set his sights on a career in the SAS after meeting a friend of his mother who was in the special forces.
"I just wanted to be like him, so I got fit, kept fighting and kept my nose clean," Guy says.
That determination set him apart.
Of the 2,800 people who applied for the draft alongside him, just five passed the course, and he and another man were the only two to progress to the counter-terrorism squad.
Being in the special forces is a lot like fighting, he says.
"People think that the biggest part of fighting is training your body, but the biggest part of fighting is training your mind. And it's the same for special forces.
"It's the mind that breaks, not the body."
After stints across Africa, South America and Papua New Guinea, Guy returned home.
"I always felt very proud of serving," he says.
But it was returning to society that tripped him up.
"I think the biggest shock to me when I got out was not what I'd been through … it was trying to fit back into normal society, when you've kind of taken the blue pill and you see things as they really are," he says.
"I think that's the hardest thing to live with.
"Everyone's walking around and going, 'There's no monsters here', and, 'We live in paradise', and you just know that's not the case."
Sadly, many of those Guy served with were not able to transition back into everyday society and lost their lives through suicide and the misuse of alcohol.
"I think the biggest thing for veterans is once they get out of that military environment.
"It's like you've lost your family. You've lost your purpose in life. You don't know who you are."
It's crucial, he says, for everyone to have a purpose in their life, no matter how old or young they are.
He's trying to create that with his STRYKA teams.
When happily ever after dies
Losing someone to suicide is something that club member Kate Newport can empathise with more than most.
The New Zealander moved to the Wheatbelt town of Beverley in her early 20s, carrying little more than a backpack and a sense of adventure.
Beverley is a cosy country town 120km east of Perth where, Kate says, "everyone knows everyone and it's nice".
She was working at the local pub when she met the man she thought she'd spend the rest of her life with.
They fell in love and had children.
But Kate didn't get her happily ever after.
"He took his own life two years ago," she says.
Just as Guy felt after losing Brodie, Kate recalls feeling completely numb when she was told what had happened.
"I still struggle now to show emotion because a piece of me lived with him," she says.
"Mental health, especially within men, is not spoken enough about and it needs to be openly talked about with friends and families.
"That's why I talk about it.
"You're not weak. If you are struggling mentally, you're not weak."
In the years after her partner's death, Kate says, she noticed that she was becoming angry.
"After he passed away, I pushed it deep down, pretending like everything was OK, and then a year later it all came out at once and I just gave up.
"I wanted to disappear. I just couldn't handle what I was feeling."
Kate decided to overhaul her life. She moved to Albany and, like Bianca, found her way to Guy's gym.
She says the STRYKA team saved her life, "100 per cent. I don't know where I'd be [if I wasn't here]."
With the team's help, she's trying to carve out a future her children will be proud of.
Don't wait until it's too late
David Costello says the aftermath of suicide shatters everyone left to live in its wake.
It's why, as officer-in-charge of Albany Police Station, he is passionate about getting those at most risk the help they need before it's too late.
"To make sure that we don't leave kids at risk or kids that are more at risk than they need to be," he says.
Police "everywhere" are dealing with a surge in mental health and welfare-related cases, which, he says, is a good thing because people are more aware, but that creates more pressure on emergency services, hospitals and community health programs.
"I think the fact that we talk about [mental health] more openly now is a positive.
"It's so important. Staying silent just doesn't cut the mustard anymore.
"If you have concern about somebody, do something. Don't do nothing … because, unfortunately, all of a sudden, it can be too late."
Acting Senior Sergeant Costello says mental health issues can often drive people to misuse drugs and alcohol in a bid to feel better, and that it is vital to keep "our vulnerable kids away from that path".
Which is why he is full of praise for Guy and Fi, and their STRYKA initiative.
"Anybody who wants to think outside the square and contributes to helping youth at risk is a great thing.
"Doing it through the medium of sport … is always going to be a winner."
Shane Rogers — a lecturer in psychology at Edith Cowan University — says belonging to a boxing group can reduce aggressive tendencies outside of the arena.
Feeling alone and isolated can cause fear and anxiety, and lead to aggression, "but when you get into this team and group-based environment, it can give you more of a sense of safety".
"Because you've now got … people who've got your back."
Fruitcake and scones
When Guy is in Northam, Rick Molloy helps run the gym in Albany.
He says the most rewarding part of the gig is volunteering with the team.
Guy and Fi don't ask for any payment from the team members, instead they expect their fighters to give back to the community.
At a caravan park in town, 82-year-old grandmother Olive Walker is thrilled that Rick and some of the STRYKA team are helping to tidy up her garden.
She makes them cheese scones, a cornflake slice, fruitcake and cups of tea to show how much she appreciates their help.
Olive is thankful for the team's help and she pays it forward.
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"When you give something back to the community, it just keeps the fighters grounded, keeps it real. They understand what it's like to actually give back a bit," Rick says.
Olive may be receiving help today, but she also pays it forward by making heat packs for the local hospice.
Among the helpers is Ruby, who's one of a handful of girls at the club.
She says volunteering is just as enjoyable as boxing — but what she really wants to do is become a fighter.
Fight night
It's fight night in Northam. The amateur athletes have done their weigh-ins and are nervously meandering around the back stage area.
Not everyone is lucky enough to have secured a match-up, but those who have aren't taking it for granted.
And not everyone has made it to fight night.
Some have dropped out along the way.
The air is still and thick, black shades enclose an arena in the car park of a local pub.
A cage has been erected in the middle.
And a noisy crowd of women in singlets and men in thongs is eager for the night's entertainment to get underway.
An ambulance and two officers stand alert in a far corner.
Tonight's card is stacked with skilled fighters from a Muay Thai group and the fierce Pacific Mixed Martial Arts team from Kalgoorlie.
A minty scent floats by as the boxers get oiled pre-fight. And there's Drake on repeat.
Sitting in one of the pub's basic motel rooms, Fi and Guy wrap the hands of those they've trained.
Then the brass gong sounds.
The bouts begin and the animated crowd feels every punch.
There's chanting and cheering.
And people looking through cupped hands.
One of the most highly anticipated fights is between JR "The Body Snatcher" and Guy's son, Tajlon, aka "Thunder".
It's because Guy's not in the blue corner, he's in the red — coaching JR.
In a show of family support, Fi takes Tajlon's corner.
Tajlon appears to get an early lead but JR fights back.
Eyes of defeat turn hungry in corner time as Guy enters the ring to speak to JR.
The connection the pair have is evident.
JR gives it his all, but it's too close to call.
Those from STRYKA in Northam and Albany are on their feet, watching in suspense.
Then the referee lifts JR's hand. He's won the regional super-heavyweight novice boxing championship.
Sweat trickles down his face. He can't conceal his pride.
Now, Liam takes the stage for the light-heavyweight novice kickboxing title.
His competition, Joshua Partridge, looks to have the upper hand.
He keeps delivering whacks so powerful that Liam loses his mouthguard.
Then the referee deducts a point for another loss of the mouthguard.
Liam's frustration grows, but he keeps fighting.
The crowd roars with every punch before the bell sounds.
After a split decision, Liam comes out on top.
The spectators leap to their feet, cheering. For his efforts, Liam is also awarded fight of the night.
Kate, Ruby and Marcus watch from the sidelines, adamant they'll get to fight next time.
Bianca, however, doesn't fancy a future in the ring — she's fought hard to get her life back on track and now she's aspiring to be a trainer.
As for Guy, he's determined to keep his ring of resilience going for as long as he can.
"I'd love to be able to sit here and tell you that every single one's a success, but the truth is they're not," he says.
"We've got a very high success rate, but there's always going to be [some who don't make it], but it's part of the journey and you haven't failed just because you lose them for a few months.
"You've just got to go after them, again, and drag them back in."
He says walking away isn't an option — not when there are so many people who just need someone to give them a fighting chance in life.
Credits
- Reporting: Briana Fiore
- Video & photography: Briana Fiore
- Additional videography: Anthony Pancia
- Artwork: Sharon Gordon
- Digital production: Daniel Franklin
- Editor: Rachel Kelly
