AT THE "MOST dangerous gym in America," not even the cameraman is safe.
After finishing the first set of 300 triceps pushdowns with sweat dripping from my face, my arms felt as if they might burst. I dropped to the wooden push-up board and completed 30 superset pushups before catching my breath until the next set.
That's when Shay "Unc" Fletcher suddenly turned to our photographer, Justin Sorensen, and asked for his camera. With a crooked smile, Sorensen asked, "What? Why?" The answer was simple: At Diamond Gym in Maplewood, New Jersey, everyone takes part in the workout -- even someone behind the lens. Unc, a longtime member of the gym who helps lead workouts, calls it a "cameraman initiation."
Without hesitation, Sorensen handed me his camera and dropped to the floor for 30 pushups. Watching him grind through the set while I tried to recover, I finally understood why this gym earned the nickname "The most dangerous gym in America." Diamond Gym doesn't just build bodies, it tests everyone who walks through the door.
MY INTRODUCTION TO Diamond Gym came eight months before I stepped inside.
On a late February 2025 night, a TikTok clip stopped my scrolling. At first, it felt like it was a skit.
A young influencer, Adam the Dunker, challenged an older man to beat him in an exercise for $1,000. The older man was Unc.
Unc wasn't intimidated by the challenge or interested in the money. Instead, he flipped the challenge into something far more punishing.
He handed the influencer two 45-pound plates and instructed him to curl alongside him -- no rep count, no finish line. The only rule was simple: Don't stop until you're told to.
As the influencer struggled, Unc warned him not to drop the weights. When he finally dropped them, the influencer headed straight for the exit.
The gym's intensity reached an even wider audience when Philadelphia Eagles star A.J. Brown walked through its doors in May. According to Haddy Abdel, Unc's workout partner, the wide receiver initially commented on a TikTok expressing interest in training at the gym. When the message went unnoticed, Brown followed up with a direct message on Instagram to set up a session.
Brown arrived at Diamond Gym and was immediately put through a punishing shoulder and dead-lift workout alongside Unc and Abdel. He didn't say a word on camera, but his expression did all the talking.
With 40-pound chains hanging from each side of the bar, Brown strained through a shoulder press until a child's voice cut through the noise.
Brown finished the rep, then stepped to a hex bar loaded with nearly 600 pounds as the gym erupted. Looking into the mirror, he asked the child to stand in front of him as he dead-lifted the weight. Later, Brown explained that he needed the reminder.
"I had to put my hoodie on, I had to go to a place, I had to go to my childhood; had to think about some s--- I went through," Brown said, reflecting on his experience at the gym. "I got everything I ever wanted in life, bro, I had to go back down to that childhood, me living in that trailer, starving, bro."
Unc and Abdel say they've stayed in touch with Brown, exchanging motivational messages on game days. Soon, other high-profile visitors followed, including Dallas Cowboys linebacker Isaiah Land, along with bodybuilders and fitness influencers drawn to Diamond Gym's reputation.
I wanted to feel what they felt.
On a sunny September afternoon in Bristol, Connecticut, I met with my editors to pitch a story idea about Brown and Land going viral for working out at the "most dangerous gym in America."
My pitch was simple: take readers inside the gym that attracts some of the world's most notable gym influencers and athletes and pushes them beyond their limits. One editor stopped me short.
"How are you going to take us 'inside' the 'most dangerous gym in America' if you haven't been?"
They were right. If I wanted to tell the story, I couldn't do it from the outside.
The gym was only about a two-hour drive away, five miles west of Newark, but the preparation would take far longer. Before the idea was pitched, I was already training consistently for tone and definition. Now, I needed to train for strength to keep up with Unc and Abdel.
Once the story idea had been approved and I had arranged to have a session with Unc at Diamond a month later, I committed to 6 a.m. workouts five days a week, lifting as heavy as I could for low reps and forcing progressive overload -- even when I probably shouldn't have -- for the sake of building strength in a small amount of time. For six weeks, I overloaded on weight in every exercise. It stopped becoming about the looks of a summer body. Every session became about building power, not appearance.
In what seemed like a blink of an eye, the day came.
DIAMOND GYM OPENED in 1976 in Irvington, New Jersey, founded by John Kemper, an International Fitness and Bodybuilding Federation (IFBB) professional judge and National Physique Committee (NPC) vice president. In 1981, the gym moved to Maplewood. Kemper died in 2012, but the culture he built remains.
Current owner Dwayne McDaniel says Kemper created more than a hardcore training environment. He created a home where bodybuilders could train at extreme intensity while also giving young people a place to belong.
"John was actually a social worker. So when kids run, he'll tell them, 'Come to the gym,'" McDaniel told ESPN.
Darryl James, one of the gym's longest-tenured members, says Diamond Gym has always been about more than lifting weights.
"This is where it's at. It's not just about the weights, we feed their minds, especially the young ones coming in, and try to put them in the right direction," James said.
According to McDaniel, that culture helped the gym gain international recognition, with bodybuilders visiting from overseas and trainers working across Europe and Africa. The gym has also had celebrities train there, including Mark Wahlberg and Queen Latifah.
"It's a good thing that we have an owner who sees our vision," Unc told ESPN.
According to Unc, the gym has evolved from an era when filming wasn't allowed to one that embraces social media as a way to expand its reach -- and he saw that evolution firsthand.
Unc came to Diamond Gym in 1996 at 16 years old, inspired by action movies such as "Rambo" and "Commando" and by the older figures in his neighborhood. He wanted to become muscular to look like what he was surrounded by. After school, he rode his bike to the gym, did homework at the front desk and sneaked into workouts. "Coming here was a cheat code for me," Unc said. "I was the youngest person in here, so it was like I was raised the right way and I took an adult mentality at a young age. I stayed because I needed it -- physically and mentally. It's a family environment."
Abdel arrived at Diamond Gym decades later under very different circumstances. A former college soccer player at Stevens College, Abdel dreamed of turning pro before a torn MCL redirected him to the gym. He earned an engineering degree but found a passion in content creation. In 2023, Unc brought him to Diamond Gym, where Abdel was immediately humbled.
Their first session together was legs. Abdel said it took nearly two years to fully adapt to the training style.
"I got my ass kicked before I felt like I could bang. It was a process," Abdel said.
During their second session in February 2023, Abdel suggested filming their workout and posting it online. The videos took off.
"[Abdel] gave me the platform and said, 'Unc, take this ride with me.' So he believed in me,'" Unc said.
MY PHONE VIBRATED with a text message at 7:57 a.m. on Oct 20. "Tonight!! Bring your gym clothes," Unc wrote.
I followed my routine without thinking -- eggs, turkey bacon, toast and a banana for breakfast -- dressed in a black hoodie and sweats, then packed my bag with pre-workout supplements and snacks. Fuel mattered. As I left my apartment, my mom reminded me that she had my location. I told her, "You don't have to worry about me. I just have to survive."
When I boarded the train to Grand Central Station, I replayed the A.J. Brown workout video, imagining what awaited me inside Diamond Gym. Arms? Chest? Legs? I had hoped not legs, knowing how brutal those days after were. I thought about having a 315-pound squat personal record and exceeding it by as much as 200 pounds; not because it's a punishment, but that's what Diamond Gym is made for -- to bring the best out of you. To quiet the nerves, I turned on the Mississippi Mass Choir and let the ride pass.
By late afternoon, I reached New York and checked into my hotel. The next two hours were my version of relaxation: bananas, water and mentally preparing for what was ahead. At 5:45 p.m., I was on my way out the door. Jewelry came off. Pre-workout went down.
I turned back on my music to calm my nerves. This time, Maysa's "Friendly Pressure" grounded me as the lyrics -- "I don't wanna be weak, I just wanna be strong" -- echoed in my ears. When I stepped off the train in Maplewood, there was no turning back. I said a quick prayer, took my last scoop of pre-workout and finished a banana. I was ready.
UNC IS STANDING in the doorway of the brick-made Diamond Gym in a red YoungLA Gold's Gym hoodie with black Till the Death Athletics sweatpants -- a brand Abdel launched -- and red Chuck Taylor Converse shoes. I stepped closer, adrenaline kicked in -- rap music, grunts and slammed weights cutting through an otherwise quiet Maplewood street.
Inside, Diamond Gym feels like entering another realm. All weaknesses and worries are left at the door, and the only things that matter are the weight and how far you can push yourself.
The gym is split into four connected rooms, each packed with old-school equipment and steel dumbbells stacked well past 120 pounds. Photos of bodybuilders line the walls. In the back, surrounded by cracked mirrors, is Unc's favorite area -- the squat racks and machines where viral moments happen.
After quick greetings between Unc, Sorenson and myself, Abdel arrived with the swagger of someone who owned the place. Boasting 1.2 million followers on Instagram, everyone knew Abdel.
Unc and Abdel dubbed me "nephew," like they do with anyone who trains with them, extending the invitation to their lifting family.
After about five minutes of jokes flying around, it was time to work out -- but there was a catch. Before we started, Unc announced the entry fee: a scoop of red pre-workout that tasted like fierce cinnamon. I took it without hesitation and chased it with water. Unc turned to Sorenson, our photographer, and offered him the same "entry fee." Sorensen politely declined as he was unsure if it was vegan. But Unc didn't take no for an answer.
"I don't give a f--- what kind of diet you on, take a scoop," Unc said before walking into the room where we'd begin our workout.
Sorensen took the scoop. There was no turning back now.
BEFORE WE STARTED, Abdel quickly ran down the rules of the gym: no jewelry, no sitting down, no closing your eyes, you must wear a hoodie, no water and no knees on the ground getting up from pushups. If you break a rule, you face the consequences.
We didn't know the workout ahead of time. Whatever Unc did, we did. He started with triceps pushdowns -- 300 straight reps. Then he turned to the group and issued two commands.
"We doing all 300 straight, and you better not stop and don't die on the first f---ing set."
Unc didn't wince or even show a sign of struggle, weakness or pain, with his eyes only getting bigger toward the end of the set.
Once he finished, he told a group of six or seven guys which included me to copy what he did for the first exercise. We did three variations of triceps pushdowns -- 100 reps overhand, 100 reps reverse grip and 100 reps with the "V" grip.
With Unc and Abdel watching, I stepped to the cable machine and got started. Heat rushed through my arms as the reps piled up, the gym erupting with slammed weights and shouts of encouragement.
When I finished, they sent me straight to a wooden push-up bar for 30 reps.
"We superset everything here with pushups," Abdel told me after I finished the pushups. He said the reason they don't come up on their knees on pushups is that "the only time a man should be on his knees is when he's praying." If one comes up on their knees, an extra 10 reps are added to their 30 as a punishment, meant to build discipline.
Unc then walked back to the cable machine and increased the weight for the second set. I had to push myself.
I pumped through the first 200 reps before stopping three times between the 250-280 rep ranges.
"Go motherf---er, don't stop," Unc yells before doubling my original 30 pushups.
Because I stopped three times in the set and closed my eyes, 40 pushups were added to my count for a total of 70.
After I completed the pushups, I wanted to remember this moment, so I quietly recorded a voice note on my phone about everything at the gym having a purpose. Unc, who could hear me whispering, snapped his head around and asked, "What are you talking about?" before giving an order to 20-year-old Al Fuschetti, who is a member of Abdel's Till the Death Athletics crew.
"Yo! Al, get his phone," Unc said. Fuschetti took it -- and with it came another consequence: 10 burpees.
By the third set, the machine was maxed out and my arms barely worked. I squinted to keep my eyes open. They caught me. More pushups were added.
"Unc, we got a real problem here, dog. You need to go to that dark place and pull that dog out of you," Abdel said as I struggled.
That prompted Unc to add a new form of punishment -- hill sprints. I heard Unc shout out "you know what, f--- that, he got 50 burpees and then take his ass to the hill."
Directed to the main gym area, I joined two other men who were ordered to do burpees by Unc for being late. When I reached 30 burpees, one of the men, who was dressed in an all-black jumpsuit, stopped the exercise and walked over to the trash can and vomited.
After I completed the burpees, I walked out the front door of Diamond Gym and made a left to inclined Hillcrest Road, where I ran seven hill sprints. I was winded. But I finished.
When I returned, gasping, Unc looked at me and delivered the verdict: "You still got 110 pushups motherf---er."
MY TRICEPS WERE burning like never before after only one exercise. Unc brought us to the incline bench next to do close-grip incline bench presses, but there was no barbell bar in sight. A normal barbell weighs 40 pounds. At the "most dangerous gym in America", an overweight 66-pound bar is used for compound movements.
We started the exercise with just the bar for 200 straight reps, which Unc made look effortless. I was up next. Around 150 reps, the bar got heavy.
"That's only the f---ing bar, bro," Unc said to me as I fought to finish.
By the end, my arms barely locked out and racking the bar became a problem. Nobody was coming to save me. All I could hear was Abdel saying, "You have to sit the f--- back and figure it out."
I forced the bar back into place. Thirty pushups followed. The weight climbed quickly. Chains were added for 80 reps. Then plates. As the reps dropped, the load increased with each set heavier than the last. Before I could process it, Unc pushed the weight past anything I'd ever pressed. I squeezed out five reps, setting a personal record. Then he added more.
Two reps. Another personal record.
I didn't know how I was going to move it, but my spotter, Joe Stawicki, pushed me through both.
WE FINALLY ENTERED the last exercise, and my triceps couldn't have been happier. For the final exercise, we performed three intense sets of triceps dips.
As I got deeper into the first 70-rep set, my triceps were begging for mercy. I finished, but, it wasn't going to get any easier.
The second set came with the machine maxed out. I found a way to finish the rep without stopping or closing my eyes to prevent adding extra reps or hill sprints. I wondered what was next since the machine was already maxed out. Although I didn't inquire, it didn't take long for Unc to answer.
"Somebody grab a pin off a machine and 45 [pound plate]," Unc said.
With the machine already maxed out, Unc pushed it further by adding a 45-pound plate to the middle of the stack and secured it with the extra pin.
I had never seen anything like it before, but I was ready for the challenge.
For the final set, I had to dig deep. With all my weight on the two-bar machine, I leaned forward and pushed down with all of my might and gave everything I had, letting out grunts, yells and a final grasp of relief that I completed the exercise.
"Now, let's do an interview," Unc told me with a smile.
By 10 p.m., the chaos gave way to something quieter. Unc and Abdel gathered everyone in the gym together to share knowledge, words of wisdom and inspiration before the night ended with a group photo.
Unc and Abdel's message that night was simple: Diamond Gym saved their lives.
"This s--- is healthy for you; it's a culture, it's a lifestyle, it's a medicine," Unc said. "Now, watching the younger generation come in here, whether it's my nephew Haddy [or] the young kids in here, it's just helping me to just keep going. It's a positive thing.
"We go through hell in here to show if you can do it in here, you can do it out there [in the real world]."
"GOOD JOB TONIGHT," Unc wrote to me in a text message sent at 11:36 p.m.
By 11:59, eating dinner even felt like its own challenge. Lifting my fork was harder than expected as the soreness and tightness from my triceps and upper chest weighed down on my arms. Sleeping that night wasn't much easier -- it was almost as rough as it was refreshing.
I tossed and turned the whole night to find a comfortable position for my body, but every way I turned, I felt the tenderness of my muscles. At the same time, the exhaustion was oddly refreshing. My ego was slightly boosted from the feeling of my muscle pump while sleeping.
The next morning, the workout lingered in my mind. I questioned whether I could ever push myself that far again. Then I remembered what Unc and Abdel told me before I left: I was welcome back whenever I'm in town.
ESPN's Brianna Williams, Erika LeFlouria, Justin Sorensen, Jessi Dodge and Kacy Burdette contributed to this story.
