I didn’t start out that way, honest. I started out just looking for a way to stay in shape despite a crunchy knee that prevented me doing distance runs. And there was that heavy bag that the Husband carted home for the boys that piqued my interest. But even when I shifted gears from regular boxing classes to joining the boxing team, I told everyone that I just wanted to learn technique.
Hello, have I met me? I’m frankly embarrassed at this flagrant show of self-ignorance. I’m competitive and athletic. I love a challenge that engages mind and body. I’m bossy and overbearing (truly pummel-worthy).
The fact is that no matter how slowly the ride began, the minute I climbed into an actual boxing ring and had a go at the sweet science, I was hooked. It was exactly like my first roller coaster ride: all the watching and studying just can’t compare to the incredible thrill of a single three-minute round. The need to focus, respond, endure, and deliver with power and speed is a competitive athletic person’s elixir of life.
So I shamefacedly went to my trainer and began my long speech in which I intended to admit that I would be utterly grateful to her if she could please get me a fight. This year. The sooner the better. Despite what I told her earlier. But first of course I needed to justify my changed position and include some stuff about how dedicated I would be. I had pirated parts of the “Mom, can we keep him, he’ll be real quiet and I promise I’ll feed him every day” speech and re-worked it for my purpose.
She let me begin without laughing in my face, but as I floundered around with my build-up, she shifted her feet and began looking around the gym for a distraction that might prove more interesting. I relented. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” I asked, embarrassed.
“Well, yeah,” she told me, kindly not smacking her forehead. Or mine. She waited.
“I want to fight!” I exclaimed.
“Well, yeah,” she responded calmly.
“Can you get me a fight?” I asked, puppy dog hopeful.
“I can try,” she promised.
And thus began my fascinating indoctrination into the ways of competitive amateur boxing. Weight classes and rules have changed this year; I have to lose a few pounds in order to be at the top of my weight class (142-152 lbs) rather than the bottom. I have to start saving money because I’ll almost certainly have to travel out of state to get a match, given the dearth of female boxers in the Masters (i.e., old people 35 and above) class. I need to get very serious about sparring time, conditioning, and training with the team.
And I can hardly wait.
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{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }
You are not bossy and overbearing. Energetic, yes. Engaged, yes. Truly a delight to behold, yes. Okay, if the world were The Supremes, you’d want to be Diana Ross from time to time, but that’s not the same as bossy…
Sigh! I just love you. That may be my favorite blog comment of all time.
I bet the two of us could be a seriously kick-ass act together. Diana, Diana, and the Supremes. I know some great Supremes.
Or we could all be The Dianas. We can box for the best dressing room. Heh.
Diana, Diana, and the Supremes. Gotta love it. And we can all wear sparklie shoes. How cool would that be?
(Actually, I think bossy is a pretty good descriptor as well.)