The Glowing Edge

Category: Fear

Trying Out a New Gym

Walking into a new boxing gym for the first time is excruciatingly difficult for me.

In this particular case, there had been a number of obstacles to overcome even before I walked in the door. I’d heard about them, but couldn’t find an up-to-date website. Rumor had it they had recently relocated, and I knew they were downtown, but I’d driven up and down the area where I’d heard they were to no avail. Finally I learned about a larger organization with which they were connected, and boom, found a website. With a phone number.

After being re-routed to a different number, I finally connected with a human who was connected to the gym.

Nice guy, very polite and helpful. He gave me the address of the gym and I googled it only to see what I remembered as an abandoned building downtown, located in an low spot beside a parking deck. In Street View (photo above) it still looked abandoned.

Later that day I pulled into the lot and parked behind the sole other car there. A small “Open” sign hung crookedly in the front window, but otherwise there was no indication I was in the right place. I was dressed for training, but decided not to haul in my gym bag; I wasn’t ready to commit myself just yet.

Inside, the place seemed freshly sheetrocked, and a couple of silvery, unconnected HVAC pipes hung from the exposed ceiling struts. Several desks stacked with papers and a handful of metal filing cabinets populated the vast expanse of concrete flooring, and I could see a worn but serviceable pool table just beyond the reception area.

“You’re Lisa!” said the young man who had been riffling through a file cabinet when I arrived. He smiled and strode over to shake my hand.

Second Round, which is affiliated with a non-profit called Haven House, serves youthful offenders and gang-involved and at-risk youth between 11-21 years old. I was deeply aware of how incongruous I would be there, but I’d twice sparred boxers from their gym, met one of the coaches, and was feeling more and more like I needed to check them out.

I got the walk-through, signed the waiver, and worked one-on-one for about an hour in a light, checking-your-basics kind of overview with one of the coaches. I strained to hear his soft voice with its heavy island accent in the echoing gym, which with empty except for two teenagers watching surreptitiously from the nearby weight pit. A brilliant yellow canary trilled and fluttered in a tiny cage near the heavily reinforced doors.

A coach I recognized strode past, a handful of teenagers trailing behind. “Hey, Lisa!” he called, grinning broadly, and I was thrilled that he remembered me from when I’d sparred some of his fighters.

“Hey, Coach Massey!” I returned, waving.

When the first coach was finished with me, we stopped, he packed up the canary into his van, and headed out. I sat in the parking lot for a while, trying to figure out what to do next. Finally I went back in and perched awkwardly on a desk in the gym, hoping to watch and learn. People were starting to drift in, wrap, and begin their own routines.

Suddenly a familiar face entered my field of vision and I was instantly high-fived, hugged, and effusively welcomed by Reggie, one of the peer coaches I’d sparred the week before.

“You came!” he cried. “You came to work with us! I told you you should come.” He punched me lightly on the shoulder and I found myself smiling back. Reggie’s charm is hard to resist.

He stopped grinning and raised his eyebrows, suddenly serious. “You got a hell of a right on you. You got some power is what I’m saying. That was some good work.”

I flushed. He turned and pointed out a young woman just coming into the gym. “There’s your girl,” he said. “Didn’t you spar her one time?”

I had. She’d been fierce and incredibly tough; I had been on my own turf and because of that advantage, plus my height, I probably should have pulled my shots more than I had, but she never lost heart and she gave me hard game without stopping. We’d had three solid rounds.

“So what you gonna do tonight?” Reggie asked.

“I dunno. Watch? I’d like to train, but I’m not sure how to get going…” I trailed off lamely.

People had been incredibly welcoming to me, but there’s still that awkwardness that can only be addressed by gearing up, training hard, and showing that you have something to bring to the ring.

Reggie was off like a shot, had a word with Coach Massey, and suddenly I was in the flow, working in unison with the other boxers, moving from drill to drill, the sweat dripping off me to leave dark splotches on the concrete floor.

I put my lead foot inside a tire with another boxer and we worked the inside game, circling and punching. I did a series of burnouts on the heavy bags, dropping to the concrete to slog through 50 push ups when I didn’t top 100 punches in the first 30-second burnout period. (I broke a hundred every time after that.) The coach lined up weight benches end to end and we did two-footed hops side to side over the benches all the way down the line (miserable). There were medicine ball drills that made my forearms scream for an end to it all.

If you had asked me before I went to Second Round to train whether I was in shape, I would not have hesitated to tell you yes. Hell, yes.

I’ve changed my position on that.

Other than the periodic shouts of encouragement from the coach, and a few congenial shoulder bumps from Reggie, no one spoke too much; we were all working too hard. It was a wonderful place to be.

Later that week Coach Massey spoke to me about accepting a boxing match in Memphis in a few weeks.

I was still feeling the shock of transitioning into a new gym. “I don’t know, Coach,” I told him. “I just got here. I don’t even know if I’m ready.” I paused, watching the young men around me gear down.

“You train with me for three weeks and you will be,” he replied, grinning and flashing his gold tooth. I nodded wryly and rubbed my aching triceps. Those burnouts had kicked my ass. “Besides,” he added, “I’ve seen you in the ring. And you’ve had two fights in the past six months. You’re ready.”

In the end I asked him to let me try and settle in with the team for a couple of weeks, then I would decide.

Meanwhile, I’m feeling the pain of transition dissolve slowly into the pain of getting in top-notch shape.

Lots of ice packs are involved.

May 17, 2011
Taking a Knockout Punch

I haven’t been knocked out yet, but I’ve been rocked hard plenty of times in the boxing ring. The only reason they haven’t been knockouts is because when you get hit hard enough to stumble dizzily around or hang off the ropes with a head full of stars, a sparring session will pause until you can recover. In an actual fight, your opponent would swing again and you would go down, without a doubt.

It’s actually pretty important to experience a knockout-strength punch during sparring because you need to be somewhat familiar with how it feels and what happens to your body. With enough preparation and practice you can actually manage pretty well in an incredibly adverse situation.

Once upon a time I would have been horrified to think about — much less experience — a knockout punch. But this is important information to consider if you are going to pursue boxing with any kind of seriousness.

The trick is to convince yourself, with whatever wits you can scrape up, that you must and will keep fighting. Periodically when Bonnie would rock me hard she would coach me through the resulting fog, reminding me to breathe, keep on my feet, and not show how bad I was really feeling. Jay, who hits hard and holds back little, also works with me on this.

I had one of my hardest ever single rounds of sparring recently.

I had already been in the ring for four intense rounds, but had been out while a couple of others got some work in. We had some fighters visiting from another gym, and they were incredibly good. Fast, strong, ferocious. Very polite and easy to talk to, but massively powerful in the ring.

We’d had several incidents of blood and rounds paused because of knockout punching, and even a minor brawl when one young man let his anger at being bested get control of him.

I had already decided, watching them work, that I wasn’t interested in sparring either of the two power players. I was filled with mixed feelings; wanting to have a chance, but also thinking that perhaps I wouldn’t be able to hold my own. And I’m still a bit new at looking after myself in the ring — getting out mid-round if I need to, or telling someone in very strong language to lay off the heat.

But midway through the session there was an odd pause between rounds, and all eyes fell on me. I looked up to see one of the visitors — Reggie, a peer coach from a gym called Second Round — bouncing in the ring, waiting for another opponent. Our team’s coach tipped his head toward me. “You’re in,” he said.

I groaned and closed my eyes briefly. Then I sucked in a deep breath and pretended to be nonchalant. I slipped my mouthguard back in and climbed up on the ring apron and ducked under the ropes.

We waited on the bell and I did a mental check-over. I was warm, the normal boxing jitters had been dispersed by my first 4 rounds. Well, until 10 seconds ago. But I’d rested a few rounds. My body felt okay, even though I’d had an 8 round sparring session two days before and a 4 mile run the day previous. No serious strain anywhere, I thought. All systems go.

“Let’s do it,” I said, as the bell rang and he surged forward to bang down my glove in the boxer’s salute.

He stayed in my range as we circled, so I accepted the opening and fired off a rapid series of testing jabs. He sent them back with incredible speed, but didn’t dance out. So I slammed in my first combination, putting the bulk of my power behind it: one-one-one-TWO, slip to avoid the returning punch.

A grin bloomed on Reggie’s face. “That’s some shit!” he crowed. “I like that shit! Bring it on.”

I couldn’t supress my own grin, even as I bobbed under his jab and set up a left hook-jab-two combination. All my power was loose and available in my body; I could feel it thrumming in response to the challenge — a race car fully fueled, warm, and accelerating.

Reggie stayed in range.

We began to exchange a furious series of punches; I’m not sure I’ve ever worked so hard and fast. My feet and head seemed willing to move for me so that my brain was free to formulate strategy. His shots were hard, but so were mine. A minute into the round he commented, perhaps with a bit of surprise, “You kinda loading up, aren’t you?”

I was in full-on kickass mode. “Too much for you?” I inquired, slamming him with a double right power shot. He slipped the first, but the second clipped him nicely above the eye.

“That is some shit,” he called happily, and we bent to our work.

The best thing about working with him was not only that he made me fight my absolute best, but also that he didn’t hold back too much on me. He let me have it, but it wasn’t more than I could take. And even better, he didn’t stay constantly out of my range. Sometimes a superior boxer will simply not allow the less experienced fighter to land a punch. It’s exhausting for the newer person, and irritating as well. You want to get work in the ring, not run a race.

With a minute to go he landed the mother of all rights to my unguarded chin. It powered straight through in a split second. I didn’t slip it even a little bit, but took the full brunt of the knockout punch. My head spun to the right and my body followed. I staggered toward the ropes, and muzzily heard him saying over and over, “My bad, my bad.” I felt his two muscular arms wrap around my waist and hold me upright.

I struggled to find my balance, but with him holding me up, my body could coast while I worked to clear my head. Slowly the world quit swinging madly from side to side and the grey mist cleared. I pushed him off me irritably. “I wanna finish,” I slurred. “Just gimme a second.”

He withdrew to a respectful distance and I made myself walk the ropes, straight line, straight line, to my corner. Everything was shockingly silent. I felt like I was wrapped in wool batting, but I also felt pissed, and I was hungry for the rest of my round.

I shook my head gently to clear it, and motioned with my glove for him to engage. He nodded solemnly, put up his guard, and stood his ground. He was going to give me some free shots in payment.

So I launched every bomb in my arsenal, as fast and as hard as I could. He shouted encouragement and sent out a handful of combinations, careful with his power. His shots increased in intensity as my own faded. The thirty second bell rang.

My feet gave up before my arms did, so I shoved him into the corner, pinned his shoulders and laid into his midsection. I began to hear calls from ringside, my teammates getting into the action and eager for the hard and bloody finish. I drove my fist savagely toward his liver and heard him grunt; I felt a surge of satisfaction. He was banging me with short, ineffective punches to the head and shoulders, but I refused to give up the dominant position. He didn’t use his weight to push me off and pivot out of the corner, although I know he could have.

The bell sounded, and I had my victory. I staggered off of him, but he came toward me and threw his arms around me in a fierce hug.

“That was some good shit, I’m telling you!” he shouted.

It was.

Image by JD Hancock on Flickr.

May 8, 2011
Do You Get Beat Up In Boxing?

Once in a while someone asks me if I get “beat up” in boxing.

It’s a weird thing, this fierce sport. And I completely understand why people associate it with phrases like “getting beat up,” “taking a beating,” and so on. But after studying and practicing boxing for several years now, I have a different perspective on it than I used to.

Boxing is and extremely complex and challenging sport. Risky, yes. Potentially painful and dangerous, certainly. But it’s also a sport with lots of rules and boundaries, and it’s even more mental than it is physical. To me it feels less about “beating people up,” and more about mental and physical fitness and a very particular set of skills.

I feel fairly certain that a skilled boxer with her wits about her could put a street brawler on the pavement in seconds flat, not because we are more violent than other people, but simply because we’ve trained so hard to understand the dynamics of fighting. Boxers work hard to be physically strong and mentally powerful. We’ve practiced the simplest punches thousands — hundreds of thousands — of times. We train our reflexes against flinching and looking away, we can see punches coming, and we have an arsenal of defensive tactics at hand. We are carefully mentored and guided into the ring, protected with the right equipment and challenge levels. And we know the rules of our sport.

It’s fairly uncommon for us to experience “getting beat up,” or even “beating someone up.”

Consider this: the number of hours a boxer spends in training that is not actual sparring or fighting in the ring far exceeds her time in the ring. One hundred percent of a new boxer’s time is spent outside of the ring; only after showing aptitude and willingness is a new boxer allowed to spar, and even then, it’s fairly light, careful training. My regular training week typically includes about six or seven hours a week of training, and around eight rounds of sparring. Those are 3 minute rounds, so I’m only spending 5% of my time in the ring. (Of course, that’s the time I tend to focus on and talk about the most.)

However, we do get bested in the ring.

My trainer loves to say that you don’t get to choose whether you win or lose in boxing; you only get to choose whether or not you will perform. Every boxer loses some of the time, whether in an official match or in their own gym. But we almost never consider a regular (or even a bad) day of sparring a “loss” or a “beating,” unless something went particularly wrong and an injury was involved.

Yes, we get out-matched, out-maneuvered, hit hard, and even stopped in the ring. Mostly that happens in an actual competition when we are in the ring with someone better than we are, or if we are sparring with someone new and inexperienced, particularly a person who is scared. Those terrified new guys tend to throw punches like their life depends on it, but they often can’t last more than a round or two. Working with — and sometimes getting bruised up by — those people is a regular hazard of the sport, and the better boxer typically takes the blame for her injuries since we should have been able to defend better.

I don’t help things when I talk about getting “beat up” myself. During my first year in boxing I said it when I felt someone took advantage of me in the ring. I’ve since learned how to protect myself against this situation by returning fire, demanding a different level of work, or simply rolling out of the ring.

These days, saying I got “beat up” is a rueful way to mention my hard-earned bruises and sore muscles, and it’s normally followed by my determined recitation of new training plans and efforts.

Interestingly, I almost never talk about “beating up” someone else when I am boxing better than they are, or even if I win a match. (Although I do like to talk about kicking ass. I like to be an ass-kicking woman! But that feels just a little bit different.)

Otherwise I tend to use it when I see a particularly intense, damage-producing professional boxing match. Ten or twelve rounds with a heavyweight will temporarily (and sometimes permanently) change the shape of your face, whether you win or lose.

So there is that. But those people are at the top of the field; most of us aren’t doing that. And even the pros don’t do it all the time. A seasoned pro may have 30 or 50 career fights, but you can bet your ass that most of their time is spent doing ordinary, hard, repetitive training.

If you are new to boxing and just starting to train, you should definitely expect this sport to hurt. Most contact sports do. Football, basketball, hockey, soccer, rugby — all of them require training that is difficult and painful at times. Even non-contact sports like skateboarding or BMX bike riding can pack some serious pain.

Learning to take a punch is a slightly different skill, but it is, in fact, a skill. Much of it is mental. And there are “tricks” to it, like staying relaxed, keeping in your stance, moving constantly so that blows glance off. And of course there’s the protective gear we wear and the rules about hit zones. But it still hurts plenty, and anyone going in should know that.

But boxing isn’t first and foremost about beating people up, or getting beaten up. It’s about long hours of hard work and practice, it’s about building speed and power and quickness, and eventually it’s about sparring and fighting for a small percentage of your training time.

And more than anything, it’s about the challenge and the reward. There is very little that feels better than standing in the ring, dripping with sweat, shaking from exertion, and having your fist raised by a referee as the winner of a fight.

Damn, but that’s good.

Image by CBS_Fan on Flickr.

January 19, 2011
New Lessons in Boxing

I’m making my way back from the Christmas holiday slouch — a much-needed break — and I’m doing okay. And the first challenge of the new year was sparring with a group of young men from the UNC boxing team (yep, they have a boxing team! No women, though.), who joined us recently at the gym.

Sparring with the UNC Team

It is admittedly nerve-wracking, having a bunch of big, muscled, fit young college men show up at your ring. You never know how all-out the mix-up will be. The first time I ever experienced this I completely bailed out, the level of testosterone and terror was so high.

And that’s precisely what happened for our younger and newer team members. This time, though, I was determined to stick in there.

The UNC guys came in with almost no entourage and a good attitude, joining in our warm-ups, joking and friendly. And even though there were some politics and a small amount of drama involved, we had some good sparring together.

Sparring with the Second Round Team

So I was feeling much better when a week later, another boxing team showed up at our gym unexpectedly (detail mix-up) for sparring. This team’s rather extensive entourage arrived before they did, and it completely set us all off guard. We eventually learned that this was the team we were expecting to meet the next morning at another location for a three-gym sparring session.

But, given that our two gyms were here on the night before, we did our best, and amazingly (given my discomfort and nerves), I boxed well that night. I worked primarily with my own team mates, but also did three rounds with one of their up-and-coming young female boxers, as well as a very memorable round with their 6-time national champion Olympic hopeful (male).

I was confident and strong, and I went home at 9:30 pm, showered, changed, and went out to for a few drinks and some local rock music with my husband.

The next morning he woke up with a fever. One of our sons had just been sick, and so I braced myself for the inevitable domino effect to run through my family. And I checked myself constantly — was my headache due to boxing, drinking, sleep deprivation, worry, or was I getting sick too? Was my muscle soreness from the hard workout the night before or did I feel feverish? I had promised to be at the 3-gym sparring session, but was I well enough?

I went anyway. I was nearly an hour late, arriving dehydrated, exhausted, and anxious. Bad mix.

Sparring with Second Round and LA Boxing Raleigh

There were a ton of boxers there, mostly experienced and strong, but a few greener boxers as well. It was probably one of the highlights of my boxing career to date that when I was called into the ring, my coach told me to “hold back” and the opposing coach told their fighter to “go all out.” It’s so rare that I get to be the superior boxer! But I felt like crap, though, and even before the bell rang I knew I was in for a whuppin’.

And I took my licks. The two boxers (both women) that they put in with me were certainly greener, but that didn’t mean they weren’t hitting me with every ounce of power they had. I stumbled once, early on. My feet refused to move. My head refused to think. My gloves rode low and I took hit after hit to the head. Once I was so ungainly that I got head-butted — her head to my chin — and I have a whopping bruise and a sore jaw as a result.

Absolutely 100% of the damage I took was my own damn fault.

I was slow, tired, and unprepared. I am easily the better boxer and yet I let the newer boxers take me down. I barely made it through four rounds. I deserved every bit of my pain, and I’m doing my best to call it a lesson well-learned.

Here’s my recap:

Lesson One: Hard sparring two days in a row is advanced.

If you decide to do it, you need solid cardio, good sleep, no drinking, and plenty of hydration. Eating right is essential. Fuel your body in all the right ways in advance. As one of the coaches ringside said to his miserably flagging fighter, “Anybody can box when they’re in shape.” Avoid the misery. Be ready.

Lesson Two: Sparring with another gym takes a greater toll than sparring with your own team.

People are scared and uncertain and some have things to prove. Everyone fights harder; there’s never “light” sparring. It’s often harder than an actual fight, because you’ll have more rounds and more opponents. Be aware that the next few days you will need to pamper yourself and recover. Also you’ll want ibuprofen.

Lesson Three: Always protect yourself.

If someone is throwing heat in their rounds, you need to be able to tell them to cut that shit out before you start your own rounds with them. Don’t mice words, don’t be polite. Be direct and forceful. I only did it once with the UNC boys, and it was entirely effective. He pulled the heat and after we sounded each other out, he gave me good work.

Yes, your coach or trainer is also looking out for you, but frankly, you should be doing this for yourself. Boxing is a dangerous sport, no lie. It’s also very individual-oriented. There’s no team of players in there with you who can protect you if you falter. You can’t call a time-out and ride the bench for a few minutes — you’re in there until the bell rings. Every boxer has to evaluate the danger and operate within risky boundaries. You don’t want to screw around with this, or leave it to someone else.

Lesson Four: You can learn a shit-ton of new things if you are willing to do it.

The young up-and-comer from the unexpected sparring night was incredibly fierce. She constantly came forward on me, bringing me game. She had a high punch output and made me use a little more power than I should have in order to hold her off of me. I want to work with her again in order to practice blocking more of her shots.

The Olympic hopeful dude was a sheer joy — his coach put him in on defense only with me (which I often hate, as it makes me feel like a baby) but he was so good that I could hardly lay a shot on him. His foot speed was great, but he really shone when he stood still and let me throw combos; his ability to evade my shots with fades, slips, leans, and ducks was amazing. Once I tried to pin him in a clinch and he simply wrapped my arms and turned me neatly 180 degrees with a quick spin. Utterly illegal, completely hilarious. I loved it.

And damn, I can hardly wait to get back with those girls from the three-team day of sparring! One of them was incredibly effective at pinning me to the ropes with her wide hooks. She was shorter than me but she was great at using her extra weight to wear me down. The other was quick with her right, and I don’t think I blocked a damn one of her power punches. I want her again, too. Both of those girls would make me use my feet and responses to evade their combos.

Lesson Five: Facing fear needs practice.

It’s incredibly useful to go spar with new people because it lets you experience the adrenaline dump, the fear, and the nerves, which are all a part of an actual fight, and a part of life. Part of me thinks that if I can just go through it enough in boxing, it will quit having so much debilitating power over me. Who knows.

I do know that I have some mental work to do, to build myself back up after sucking so bad on that third sparring event. Mental and physical. But for now I’ll take a couple of days off, ice what’s sore, and take another dose of aspirin. I have new lessons to assimilate before I go hunting for more.

North Burnaby Boxing Gym on Flickr.

January 16, 2011
Boxing Royalty

My trainer is getting ready for her next pro boxing fight.

The fight event, prosaically called “Mama Said Knock You Out,” will be held at the Raleigh Convention Center on May 8th, 2010 and is sponsored by Rapid Fitness and Jawbreaker Promotions. I was stoked when I heard she had secured a spot on the card, had begun training, and had an opponent lined up. I pressed for details when she headed into the tight schedule of training with her coach, the famed Anthony Bradley, three-time USA Olympic Men’s Boxing coach.

“What’s it like?” I demanded to know. “What does he have you do?” One day Bonnie dragged into the gym looking like dog meat. She had two words for me.

“Thirty. Rounds.” she said, with a grim sort of smile.

I was scandalized and thrilled. This is the kind of training that separates the weekend warriors from the Real Deal. “Some time you gotta let me come watch,” I told her, with same kind of rabid interest massive highway wreckage and Nascar flameouts draw from onlookers.

Me and my big mouth.

The next week I got a text message. “Can you spar on Saturday at Rapid Fitness?”

I didn’t remember her official training regimen including Saturdays, so at first I thought this might just be the two of us. But it wasn’t at our regular gym, so I suspected it was something more than usual. My heart began to pound. I sent three letters and three exclamation points via text: “Yes!!!”

I woke up Saturday with my heart pounding. I double-checked my gear bag and found my way to the gym. Bonnie and I started our regular warm-up routines in silence amidst the gym regulars. I held back as much as possible, but my heart rate was still through the roof.

Her coach’s assistant Rick arrived and watched us closely through the ropes as we stretched. Simple introductions were made, we kept warming up. It was oppressively hot. Rick began to coat our gloves and head protectors with a special lubricant that is designed to help minimize abrasions and enable punches to slip off the gear. Be sure to give me a double dose of that, I thought crazily; I could be in trouble here. I was about as relaxed as a sheet of plate glass.

A couple of other trainers and a boxer or two settled into the corners of the tiny room, which was hardly large enough to house the ring, four punching bags and a few metal folding chairs. I tried to pretend they weren’t there while my brain produced nightmarish statements like, “They think you’re an imposter.” My own worst enemy.

Then Coach Bradley walked in. This man is serious boxing royalty, and the fact that he lives and works and coaches boxers — including my trainer — here in North Carolina is pretty cool. Bonnie introduced us and I tried to smile. “Howya feeling?” he asked.

I didn’t even consider faking it. “Very anxious,” I replied, bumping my fist over my heart as if that might convince it to quit hammering so hard. He smiled and said wonderful lovely soothing things (I assume) but my brain was having none of it. I really, really needed to start boxing before my nerves drained every last ounce of energy I had and I shamed myself by falling down on the canvas in a dead faint before the first bell rang.

Bonnie and I worked through four rounds of shadowboxing when yet another boxing great crowded into the tiny room: Paul “The Italian Hit Man” Maranaccio had arrived with a small entourage to begin warming up for his own training session, which would start after ours ended. Bradley is training Maranaccio for the May 8 fight as well.

“Bonnie, look who’s here,” I whispered, hating the way my voice squeaked. She grinned.

“Hey Paul,” she called. “You got a fan in here.” He laughed kindly, bumped my fist through the ring, and I thought about how I was about to utterly humiliate myself in front of witnesses.

But thank God the bell rang and Bonnie and I went to work.

The ring there sucks. The padding has started to buckle in the center, making footwork in the middle of the ring utterly treacherous. Bonnie saw me looking at it, knew it was throwing me off, and mostly kept us working the edges of the ring, which is not the greatest idea in the world. You don’t want to get pinned in the corner or on the ropes by a better boxer.

I found myself panting by the end of the first round. Too many people watching, too much pressure. But Rick was kind, pouring a sip of water into my mouth and gently talking me through the basics. “Don’t go in unless you go in behind a jab,” he said, “and stop chasing her. Dart in and cut her off. Don’t just throw one punch, double them up. Get a combination and get out.”

This is all stuff I know, but there’s something wonderful about hearing it when your brain is in crisis mode and refuses to let you think clearly. He talked until the bell rang and we were at it again.

I found that Bonnie and I were closing regularly for in-fighting, and I began to hear Coach Bradley’s voice now and then. “Uppercut,” he called, communicating with one word the single punch that would get her off me and possibly convince her to stop tying me up and tiring me out with her weight advantage. I tried for a couple, but nothing landed; she was effectively pinning my left glove every time. So I worked for a right hook to end the clinch and was mostly able to avoid her answering hooks by leaping out quickly. I was spending huge amounts of energy to do it, though, and moving backwards rather than to the side. Sometimes the flight reflex is unstoppable.

By the fourth round I was out of gas but not out of pride. I wanted two more, desperately. I’d expected to be able to last at least six rounds (which I’ve easily done before) but anxiety and nerves had taken a heavy toll. Coach Bradley looked at me. “Can you do one more?” he asked. I nodded yes.

“I’ll stay covered up,” I promised him. And I did. There were far fewer punches thrown in that round, and I kicked myself for not keeping my punch count lower early on to reserve my energy. But I wanted so much to box well that I threw everything I had into every round, not allowing for my overtaxed system.

We boxed five rounds. I took one straight right to the face (walked into it, ouch) and felt two pretty solid body shots (this is why I wear a belt). I was thrilled to get a second “mouse,” a minor black eye caused by a pinching of the skin between the eye and my headgear. I know for a fact that Bonnie felt a few of my punches as well, including one particularly satisfactory left hook. I doled out plenty of shots even though I didn’t have the energy to stay the distance.

Best of all, I was in a room full of boxing royalty; everyone in that room understood exactly what I’d just gone through. Paul Maranaccio clapped me on the shoulder with a sincere “Nice work,” and Coach Bradley gave me some pointers on form and was incredibly encouraging. One of the older men who had been watching came over to give me tips on breathing and side-pivots; he was 90 years old and had come up in the old school ways of training. He pointed out something all the other trainers had completely missed: I was breathing out on my shots but not in afterward. Duh. No wonder I had no air.

I finished out with five rounds on the heavy bags, cooled down, watched Maranaccio and his sparring partner shadowbox for a few rounds, then packed up my gear. Despite my nerves, it was one of the coolest experiences I’ve ever had in my life. It was the equivalent of getting to ride with Lance Armstrong, run with Florence Griffith-Joyner, or sit in on a recording session with Madonna. It was unforgettable.

And the best part of the entire experience was being told as I headed out, “See you next Saturday.”

Image credits: aribakker on Flickr (top), and Rapid Fitness

April 16, 2010
Boxing FAIL

Remember that time when you were watching a ball game and it was clear from the start that the two teams were utterly unmatched? One team took the court or field and began racking up points until it was patently obvious that there was just no way the losing team would be able to recover. Sometimes that’s the point at which the winning coach will pull the first string out and let some of the second stringers, then even the lowest of the bench-warmers get some game time. Or the game continues with the lead players, the score escalates into the stratosphere, the losing team is humiliated, and the spectators leave with a mixture of pity, irritation, and a sense of having wasted a chunk of their day.

There isn’t much good to be said about a crushing defeat.

I recently got routed in the ring. I mean beat down, crunched up, and tossed in the can. It happened fast, it was relentless, and I allowed it to continue for four rounds when I should have stopped — and in fact, tried to stop — at three. I could have stopped at two, even. A combination of factors contributed, but none of them particularly matter any more. What I’m left with is a feeling of having failed to read the signs of the mismatch beforehand, and of having succumbed to the goading voice that said, “Hey, you can’t be a quitter, you have to power through.”

I didn’t learn anything. Anyone who says, “But you proved you’re determined,” is just as much of an ass as I was for allowing it to happen.

There was no satisfaction of a fight well fought. There was only me trying to survive, covering up as much as possible and rarely able to throw any kind of punch at all. My opponent doesn’t earn bragging rights for having crushed someone he was so much better than. He could have (and has, in the past) matched himself to my level and given us both a great sparring session, but he decided not to.

I made one small injury a great deal worse.

And I lost a little bit of my trust in the guy I sparred with.

A couple of bystanders who watched asked me afterward how I felt, and I drew an utter blank. Still drawing a blank. Somebody shook the Etch-a-Sketch and there just isn’t anything there any more; it was a painful and humiliating waste of my time.

It’s not difficult to know how to proceed from here: you just keep training (after allowing the minor-turned-bigger injury to heal) and hope to read the signs better and end it sooner next time.

Suckage.

Image credit: Steve Keys on Flickr

July 15, 2009
Breaking in New Boxers (with an emphasis on the breaking)

When untried boxers get in the ring for the first time, it’s often a mess.

At some gyms, little care is taken to see new people nurtured; they throw you in the deep end and see if you can swim. If you talk to many boxers you will hear trial-by-fire stories over and over again. An inattentive trainer allowed his bruisers to treat newcomers like tin cans, or worse, the trainer himself got in the ring with a fresh recruit to show off his superior strength and skills. It’s a backwards kind of tactic that actually seems to work sometimes: “See, if you take it like a man and keep coming back for more, eventually you too will get a turn to bully people in the ring.” And the unfortunate belief that boxing is all about brutality gets yet another toehold.

Add to this the fact that when you are new to the ring, you simply don’t know what to expect. Typically you think you’re there to beat up or get beaten up, kill or be killed. Terror and determination combine like ammonia and bleach and the result is toxic. New fighters are known for wildly throwing every ounce of power they can scrape together as soon as they come out of the corner in the first round they ever spar. Add to this the fact that they usually don’t have jack for wind, and 30 seconds in they are gasping for air and looking around for a baseball bat to even up the odds. That isn’t always the case, of course. Sometimes they come in with a fury and the power to fuel it for a short burst of time.

There is a stark dividing line for those who decide to try out the ring. If they are shepherded carefully through this first critical experience they may stick with it. But more fall away than stick, and much of that has to do with who is in charge at the gym.

Our trainer is very good at bringing new boxers into the ring. Frequently she will get in with someone and allow them to box while she simply practices evasive maneuvers, letting them see how it feels to throw a punch before they learn what it feels like to take one. This actually often has the interesting side effect of bringing some humor into the ring. It’s like standing three feet from a basketball goal and throwing airball after airball; eventually you just laugh at how bad you are. She also runs most everyone who comes through the doors through rigorous conditioning for a few weeks before allowing them in the ring; this way they have at least a small start on the ability to breathe while under fire. And if it’s clear a newcomer has power and speed but just no experience, she will allow them in with a boxer from the team and let us to begin to school the new person as she coaches from the sidelines.

Once in a while, it doesn’t go smoothly. Every boxer has a story, and most bring their issues into the ring with them. It can be a bumpy ride for a team who is regularly bringing in new people.

We recently had a young man with tremendous promise and power but inconsistent performance roll in and quickly bust up our steady working routines like a bowling ball on the ninepins. In the few times he’s been here, I’ve seen him bring garbage into the ring, but I’ve also seen him box beautifully and with control once. He is not heavy but he is extremely strong and fast. We hadn’t seen him in weeks, and he sauntered in late and didn’t warm up with the team. Normally this means you don’t get to spar with the team, but sometimes our trainer tries to give the younger ones a break.

The kid went in with a solid sparring partner who had a few pounds on him, a thought that should have kept him in check. But he barreled out of the corner and started slinging punches like sledgehammers, arms swinging wide and high but still somehow dropping in with shattering force. Our guy called him quietly to pull his power and settle in. Everybody heard but the kid, and suddenly a loaded jab popped the team member’s nose and we had blood. Our boxer shrugged it off, and our trainer called the kid down. No response. Blood dripped steadily and splattered all over the kid’s gloves as he punched. The experienced team boxer worked steadily, keeping his emotions and his power mostly in check, but the kid threw wildly, attacking with abandon. A heavy right cross hit above our man’s eye like a rock. Immediately a blood blister the size of a grape rose, and the third call-down went out. Nothing. By the end of the round the team member’s eye was dark purple and nearly swollen shut. The kid bounced crazily on his toes, and the next team member went in.

This one is tall and has both reach and ability, but he had been feeling ill all day, and didn’t have the power in him to settle the kid. He made it through his round, ducked between the ropes, and strode quickly for the bathrooms to puke. He came back looking pale but less shaky.

The third round was assigned to the best boxer on our team, and we all tightened against the ring like fish on a chum bucket. Bonnie gave our guy the nod and we knew he had permission to take the kid to school. The newbie looked a little warily at him, but then came those same punches. Our guy gave one warning. Then, in one of his favorite moves, he let the kid put him on the ropes and tire himself out with a flurry, then snap! — out came the hook like a cobra. The kid seemed a little surprised, but it didn’t put an end to the brawl. Our boxer calmly matched him hit for hit, snapping the kid’s head back a few times. It seemed to let a little air out of his tires, and I saw that tired look creep in. The rest of his round was sloppy, but a little less out of control.

After that third round the kid came out of the ring and the rest of the team steadfastly ignored him as we worked through the rest of our sparring. I noticed that no one spoke to him or even looked in his direction until we’d run through our abdominal work-out and even wiped down the heavy bags. At the end of practice, all of the men on the team went over to talk with the kid (and not necessarily gently) about how the sparring went. He worked hard to claim that he had done nothing inappropriate, but they were having none of it and made it clear that he still had some work to do when it came to controlling himself in the ring. Our best boxer summed it up for him: “If you had been here to work, we would have worked with you,” he said. “You were warned several times. If you throw heat, you’re going to get heat back. Save your all-out for an actual fight.” He turned and walked off.

Sparring with new boxers is always difficult. Some think that sparring is a time to bring all your power to every punch and show everyone how macho you are (girls do it too). Some just don’t know how strong they are until they inadvertently give their partner a black eye or a bloody nose. And all of them are new. They don’t have the experience or the training to be able to control their punches very well, even if they try. Injuries happen more frequently in connection with newcomers than anyone else, and a team — as well as a newcomer — has to be resigned to that. It’s a part of boxing and always will be.

Image Credit: nicubunu on Flickr

June 30, 2009
7 Reasons Your Trainer Can Make all the Difference in Your Sport

1. She has chops.

I have had many coaches over the years who didn’t actually compete, or hadn’t competed in the sport they were teaching me, but the very best ones did. My skating coach (woah, whole ‘nother set of stories) had made the Olympic team. My basketball coach was a top-notch player. And my boxing coach won a world title. Just because you’ve done something like this doesn’t mean you’re a good teacher, but sometimes that experience mixes beautifully with a teaching heart and you get a winner who trains other winners.

2. She takes the sport seriously.

I have absolutely nothing against the casual enjoyment of a particular sport. I was a casual runner for a while. Played a little bit of workplace and subdivision softball too, and it’s fun. But nothing sucks worse than coaches or trainers who are consistently late, distracted, or unprepared, and that goes for all leaders, across the board, for me.

3. She cultivates the newcomers carefully.

I’ve heard plenty of horror stories of boxing trainers with something to prove who gave each new kid a whuppin in the ring just because they could. There are times when a newbie needs a careful lesson on controlling power or paying attention, but for the most part, it’s not a great idea to prune a seedling. Instead you keep the weeds away and give it a little extra care. This is particularly important in boxing, and even more so for women new to the ring. The first time I got in the ring was with my trainer, and she didn’t throw a single punch. Instead she let me feel what it was like to move around the ring and encouraged me try my first awkward jabs. Later she put me in only with experienced boxers, guys who knew how to meet me at my level. She didn’t unload her wicked straight right the first time I wore headgear without a facebar; she pulled her punches until I started to understand both how to protect myself better and how to take a punch. She let me experience the joy of the sport before I took on the punishment.

4. She makes the team work as a team.

We all train on our own in addition to training with the team, but when we’re working as a team we train together, starting on time, working at the same pace, helping each other and offering encouragement and support when we can. There isn’t a lot of chitchat or social stuff going on in our training; it tends to be more serious. But that doesn’t mean a heartfelt call to finish well or a sympathetic groan of misery isn’t heard on a regular basis.

5. She protects her people.

Don’t let her catch you stretching before you’ve warmed up. And if you aren’t training hard, she’s not going to allow you in the ring. If you’re in the ring, she looks out for you and calls it off if you’re in danger or calls you out if you’re putting someone else in danger. Inattention to these things in boxing means serious injuries and people leaving the sport.

6. She’s incredibly tough.

She knows you are cursing her name the day after she kicked your ass really badly in training. She knows not everybody will agree with her decisions. She doesn’t expect to win popularity contests, she expects to train winners. And she doesn’t ask you to do what she won’t do (and she can usually do it with her eyes shut and hands tied).

7. She goes the extra mile.

You know these coaches — they’re the ones who drive long distances to take a group to a meet or event. They spend unpaid hours working to find matches for their fighers. They respond to emails and share information that might be helpful to you; they let you draw on the contacts and connections they’ve spent a lifetime building up. And they are happy to do it. When you find someone like this, you know it’s different. It’s wonderful.

Did I say “7 Reasons”? Well I meant eight. Because this last one seals the deal.

8. She’ll have a beer with you, too.

Trainers are people, too. As an adult, the more serious you become about a particular sport, the more enjoyable it can be to share some off-the-clock time with your coach, either as a team or one-on-one. Even if it’s just taking a look at pictures of a recent concert together after team training is over, or enjoying a beer ringside at a fight, it builds trust because it builds the relationship.

I want to give a special shout-out to the trainers who have been such a gift to me over the years: Coach Buddy, Coach Poppenheimer, Coach Yates, and Coach Bonnie Mann: you guys make all the difference. Thanks for everything.

Who were the trainers who made a difference in your sport and in your life?

June 12, 2009
Fear Factor

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

In Frank Herbert’s Dune, Lady Jessica teaches this litany to her son Paul Atreides, who uses it to survive the psychologically excruciating “death-alternative” test of the gom jabbar. If I had to depend on that little mantra I’d be toast.

Fear is my companion, every single time I get in the ring. It actually does it’s worst work the night before I know I’m scheduled for ringtime. I think, “My stomach just isn’t right tonight,” and after a bit I remember, “Oh, I’m anxious about sparring.” Then I start to churn.

I have a stupid-long list of what I’m afraid of: What if I suck? What if I get in over my head? What if I have to take some really earth-shattering hits? What if I get in the ring with someone who’s significantly heavier than me and unable to control their punches? What if I can’t get my breathing right and run out of air? What if my trainer makes me keep going even after I’ve got no hits left in me? Will I look really sloppy? Will my trainer be embarrassed at how pitiful a boxer I am?

My list of excuses for bailing is even longer. I minutely inspect myself for injuries that might prove problematic: my knees might be hurting, or my right shoulder could be starting to give me trouble again. I consider my energy level and my mental state, what’s going on at work, home, Taiwan, Nigeria, Israel. Once I move out of the country I can really expand on my theme; world hunger is just as dependable excuse-wise as teen driving.

I can run this damn hampster wheel for hours, no lie. Do base-jumpers do this? Trapeze artists? Matadors? I would do better if you just popped into my office and told me to spend the next 10 minutes jumping rope because I was going to step immediately afterward into the ring. I’d jump rope, I’d fight, and we’d all be happier.

What’s even worse is the fact that I do fine in the ring. (Did I just say “what’s worse is I do fine”? Yeah, thought so.) I might take a beating, perform well, or go back and forth between holding my own and looking like crap. I’ll have a glorious punch here and there, somebody will rock me a time or three, but mostly it’s just damn hard work, and work I love once I’m actually doing it, and not just getting ready to do it. And in some screwed-up way I love it even more once I’m out of the ring. It’s not at all a feeling of “Thank God I’m done with that,” it’s more “That was incredible, I can’t wait to do it again!”

I keep waiting for this fear factor to shift down in intensity (perhaps after I’ve been boxing two years? Three? Ten?) but meanwhile I seem to only have two alternatives: either I live with the fear and box anyway, or I let the fear kick me to the curb and make me give up boxing.

So far it looks like fear and I are roomies for the duration.

June 5, 2009
Meet one of my monsters

image by Vaguely Artistic on Flickr

I have a monster I’d like to keep, but we can’t leave our relationship the way it currently runs.

Witcher rips hell out of everything and leaves the mess for someone else to clean up. She specializes in criticism and she throws her weight around like the mac daddy of an 800 lb gorilla. She looks at the videos or just watches me box and shakes her head at how bad I suck. Her rant runs along the same lines: You can’t move, you hardly throw any punches, your elbows are out, you wind up and still got nothin’, you’re gonna get obliterated when you face a real opponent.

Tiresome, I know. Believe me, I know.

So I have taken a little time to really think about what this monster needs, and I’ve decided she needs to feel her power. She’s a 200-ton diesel locomotive stuck in the body of a bayou airboat. She’s whip smart but doesn’t feel listened to.

So she and I have had to talk, and this is what I said:

Look Wee (I call her Wee like you call a big dude Tiny), you and I need to figure out how to get along. Many of the things you say are true, but I’m going to need every person on the team here to work with me and not against me. You ass is gonna be kicked right alongside mine, so I vote you 1.) throw your considerable weight in here and see how it helps us. And frankly, you could 2.) relax now and then. It would be great if you could have a double vodka before you review the latest tapes, that might help. And 3.) take the long view: I’m working my butt off, something’s gotta change eventually, right?

Honestly, Witcher? I kinda like you. I can be pretty critical myself — maybe because I’m driven. But I’m also a little bit neurotic — I take things to heart when I should blow it off like dust on vinyl. So I’ll tell you what would make this a relationship a winner is if you could share your weight and ferocity, and leave off the prophecies of doom. Then we just might rock it.

I’m thinking she’s gonna like the double vodka idea.

May 16, 2009