The Glowing Edge

Category: Faves

The Weird and Wonderful New York City

Earlier this spring I started working with Johnny B. Truant to co-produce the online version of BlogWorld. BlogWorld is a giant live event that happens twice a year, bringing together over 150 speakers in blogging, podcasting, and web TV to an audience of thousands. Twelve sessions run simultaneously for three days straight; there’s no way to attend all those sessions if you go to the event, so Johnny and I produced the online version that includes all 100+ sessions, plus we shoot our own behind-the-scenes content (we did more than 25 interviews this year) for the “virtual ticket” purchasers.

The slightly obsessive, bossy, and annoyingly organized project manager in me loves producing online events; it’s like that chemistry set that I wanted in elementary school — a huge, potentially explosive adventure that could be tidily organized into clean, neat little plastic compartments. (I also glued together dozens of matchboxes into drool-worthy closets to organize my friends’ Barbie clothes and accessories. I know, scary.)

I love taming a ridiculously large and potentially unwieldy project; making the ravening beast sit up and prettily request a treat. I hardly finish one such project before I start dreaming about the next. (Also I fantasize about carrying a whip just like Indiana Jones. That would be badass, wouldn’t it?)

As it happened, the live version of Blogworld was set to happen in New York City; Johnny and I were there last week to be a part of the action and shoot behind-the-scenes content for the people who purchased access to the virtual ticket.

I was stoked; regardless of how intense our shooting and post-production schedule looked, I was going to finally see New York City! I had about 5 hours on Thursday night — assuming we were able to meet all our deadlines — in which to run wild, break things, and stay out of jail. Or, you know, be a tourist. Here’s the top three weird and wonderful things about my incredible trip. I tried to keep the list short because I write so damn much. I could write twice this much. Ten times this much. (And it would all be neatly organized.)

1. The Single Most Useful Item I Packed

This is almost two things. I had already purchased a small purse with a shoulder strap to replace my cavernous satchel, figuring the last thing I needed to do was invite people to lift my wallet, cell phone or other necessary goods from it’s gaping maw. That turned out to be essential. But even more helpful was a single item I tucked inside. The day before I flew out, I went to the bookstore to pick up a tiny Moleskine notebook, figuring the big green steno pads I normally favor were not going to survive the space squeeze. But I happened to see this tiny little notepad in a metal case near the checkout counters. The clever little clasp used a small inkpen to hold the spring-loaded covers of the case shut. Hah! No more fumbling for a pen, I thought. It even came with two fresh notepads for reloading.

And the investment (about $10) was worth every penny. Dude, I used that thing every day. Notes about what we needed, carefully drawn maps and instructions, important phone numbers and other critical information. But when it came to my 5-hour foray into the city, it was invaluable because of all the maps, notes, and addresses I had written in there. Not only did my little notebook survive the crush of the city and event, it now has a permanent home in my purse.

2. The Most Unexpected Thing About Where We Stayed

Some marvelous staff person at BlogWorld made our hotel reservations for us, so I can’t claim any credit for this gem. We stayed in the Yotel New York, which (I later learned) is not in the prettiest area of midtown Manhattan — although it is close to the convention center where BlogWorld was held — but it may be the coolest hotel on the island. Click here to image google it. Then come back. I’ll wait.

It reminded me of an iPod, with an Asian twist. Everything about the Yotel is a pristine, glossy white, with purple uplighting. There’s a giant white robot in the glassed-in lobby that will store your luggage for you while you wait to check in or out. The tables in the Japanese-influenced restaurant appear at first to only be a few inches off the floor, but they actually have recessed space beneath the tables so that even though you sit on the floor, your legs drop comfortably below. The tables can be lowered and covered so that voila, you have a dance floor. Btw, the food was outstanding. My puffy white queen-size bed folded neatly up to create a couch in my room, and my glassed-in shower sported one of those giant, square rainfall showerheads. All of it faced a floor-to-ceiling window looking out on the city. It was compact and luxurious at the same time.

3. The Craziest Thing I Paid (A Lot) For

On Thursday, I had a 6:30 pm dinner date in the East Village, about 30-something blocks south of the Yotel. But since I had 1.5 hours before I had to be there, I decided I would first walk the 20-something blocks from the Yotel to Central Park to kick off my Thursday night tour of the city. I decided this at 5 pm, when I left the lobby. I decided this having never seen the mad crush that is Times Square in New York City at 5 pm.

Naturally, it began pouring down rain as I launched myself from the lobby. Not one to be deterred (I only had ONE free night in NYC!), I ducked into a shop and purchased an umbrella — the one thing I didn’t pack, but wished I had — and set out anyway. Swooped down through the garment district first, then made my way up through the theater district, and into Times Square. I never knew before this that Times Square is a whole buncha city blocks, not just a single intersection like Dick Clark made me believe all these years. I strolled up Broadway with ten jillion other people, past barkers of every description, a lady offering an orange rat to pet, Mickey Mouse and Goofy, a three-card Monty kid, a magician doing tricks, lots of crazy people. I tried not to gawk. But I gawked anyway.

The rain stopped and I dipped into a sparkly shop filled with women from India (?) in gorgeous flowy robes and picked out a souvenir necklace with a shiny little silver bow tie pendant, covered in genuine faux diamonds. A kind of Liza-Minelli-Big-Apple-Cabaret kind of thing. Happy!

At 6 pm I realized there was no way in hell I would be able to snag a cab in this crush, and I suddenly started looking for a train station. No luck. Where are all the stations when you suddenly need one? Nowhere I could find, and just moving a single block was an exercise in brute strength, never mind speed. Then I saw the young man with the bike.

I had no idea how much it would cost for him to get me halfway down Manhattan (seriously, like 50 blocks!), but he was the most game, energetic, and earnest young man you could ever want to roll the dice with, and after nervously ascertaining despite our Turkish-English language barrier that he could find me an ATM on the other end of our trip, I hopped in his pedicab and we were off. He squeezed between SUVs and taxicabs so close I could run my fingers along their chrome. My gut twisted in that familiar, roller-coaster thrill ride kind of way as we barreled past the crowds, swooped in and out of traffic, and dared 3-ton vehicles to stop us. I started cheering when he made it through traffic lights, whether or not we had the green. Probably more when we didn’t. He started pedaling harder, grinning madly and glancing back at me periodically to make sure I was still aboard.

Once we hit midtown the traffic eased a bit, and he started pointing out landmarks. Madison Square Garden. The Empire State building (glimpsed up above us on 5th Avenue), the first church built in New York, NYU campus spots. And as we eased into the East Village area I finally began to relax. Everything down there looks exactly like it did on Sesame Street. How can anything go wrong on Sesame Street?

I reminded him about the ATM, and he pulled over, about 6 blocks shy of our destination. I was 10 minutes late, and undeniably exhilarated. I had just seen more of NYC than I ever would have on a subway. And what a way to see it! I didn’t care what it had just cost me, although I did feel a minor pang of worry about my driver, who probably never had to carry someone so far from tourist central. He calculated my fee, and I looked in my wallet. I had three twenties and a ten, just enough to cover it with $15 left over for a tip. He’d earned every cent. I paid up and got out to hoof it the rest of the way, but he insisted I get back in and let him finish the job. So we pedaled up in style, and I felt like the queen.

4. The Birthplace of Punk

Well, I tried for three, but I’m ending up with four. I told you I write a lot. After my amazing dinner with friend Michael Margolis (for whom I also produced a kick-ass online event), I got his grand tour of the East Village, and we went down toward Bowery (not all the way to Bleeker, where CBGB was) and tooled around St. Mark’s Place, birthplace of punk and a whole helluva lot of other cultural influences. Michael also introduced me to the secret cocktail lounge Please Don’t Tell, which is accessed through the vintage phone booth in the hot dog joint, Crif Dogs. (There was a wait of 2 hours to get in, amazingly. On a Thursday night at 9 pm. No lie.) When he flagged me my first cab ever, I was wrung out and done in, glad that taxi drivers take Mastercards and already know where my hotel is.

There’s no possible way in the universe my week in NYC could have been better.

Wait, except that I never got to meet my friend Malissa of Girlboxing over in Brooklyn at Gleason’s for a few rounds. And I didn’t get to head upstate to see my former trainer and world-champion boxer Bonnie Mann and her family. And…

Next trip, baby. Next trip.

(Pssst. Vegas is in January.)

Photo credit: Thomas Hawk via photo pin, creative commons

June 11, 2012
High Boxing Honor

For more than a month I’ve been sparring with Bonnie Queen “B” Mann as she prepared for her double-title fight, scheduled to be held December 10th in Raleigh at the Longbranch. For me, having the opportunity to work in her training camp was unparalleled; I trained like a fiend, worked my ass off, and felt pretty much incredible. Very few women ever have an opportunity like that.

The day of the fight Bonnie called me around lunchtime with the news.

Her opponent, Carlette “The Truth” Ewell, ranked number 1 in the light-heavyweight division, had been hospitalized and would not be fighting.

And before I could take in the breadth of her deep disappointment, she added, “I’d like you to do an exhibition fight with me instead. Four rounds.”

Let’s get one thing straight: The fantasy of stepping into the ring at the last minute with a pro fighter is a pure-dee, sugar-laden, sunshiny, cotton-candy cloud of goodness.

Of course I played that fantasy out when I heard how Victoria Cisneros — world-champion Holly Holm’s sparring partner — stepped in and went the distance with Holly on a night when Holly’s fight fell through at the last minute. But Cisneros was a pro fighter as well, with a dozen or more fights under her belt.

The reality for me is a bit different.

It was a bit of a gut hit at the beginning; one of those could-someone-please-sell-me-some-air moments. My brain momentarily ceased all operations and I struggled to mmmaaaaake wwwooords. Bonnie waited patiently on the other end of our connection, dealing silently with the turmoil of her own feelings.

“Ask Tiffany!” I blurted finally, referring to another pro fighter Bonnie has sparred with once or twice.

“She’s not in town,” Bonnie responded.

“I’m sure you could find someone else,” I rushed on, knowing perfectly well that there isn’t someone else. The women’s pro boxing world is small, widely and thinly spread. We had less than 5 hours before the doors opened at the Longbranch.

“Let me walk around the building once and I’ll call you right back,” I continued, unable to think, unable to breathe.

I’m a little embarrassed about this now. I mean, here was my big chance! And all I could think about was the infamous Rawhide scene from the Blues Brothers movie, where the crowds booed and threw beer bottles. I knew the crowd was coming to see two world champs duke it out, not some exhibition fight between a hometown champ and an unknown amateur.

Still, I could give them something. In fact, I would work my heart out, beer bottles crashing against the cage or no. I made it halfway around the building before texting back my coach. I didn’t mention Elwood, Jake, or the Rawhide plan. “I’ll do it,” was all I said.

And the waiting began.

Waiting is the biggest and most wretched part of boxing. I showed up at the venue with my gear at 6 pm, and didn’t go on until nearly midnight, I think.

More than 20 fighters and their corners, as well as a contingent of Boxing Commission officials — all men except for Bonnie and me — were crowded into three small rooms behind the open hall where the ring was set up. Another tiny room housed the dozen or more ring girls (their room smelled considerably better), and all of us shared two bathroom stalls.

I learned that it’s absolutely possible to pee every 10 minutes. Who knew the body could do such a thing?

Other than obsessive bathroom visits, I watched. Fighters, in various states of dress and prep; some sleeping, some plugged in, some pacing or working lightly, being coached by trainers. Everything happened in incredibly close quarters (the red corner room where I stayed was maybe 8 x 10, and housed an ancient couch, a dozen people, and all our gear). I did all my shadow boxing and pad work in a narrow hallway with several other fighters pressing by me at one time or another. The relentless thump of bass, the shouting of the crowds, and the rich cadence of the ring announcer’s voice provided background for our private dramas.

When I wasn’t maintaining mental blankness — a sort of necessary-for-survival radio static running in my head — I tried to visualize the fight. How I would move, what punches I would throw. But that tended to incite feelings of mild panic, so mostly I tuned in to the inner white noise, or queued up some Bob Dylan or Rolling Stones on my Shuffle to keep me company.

The men were all unfailingly polite, although we all had the same inward focus and air of distraction. Coach Harold Cook had agreed to corner for me, and although he was really there for one of our star fighters — LA Boxing’s Will “W.W. II” Wilson (8-6-0) — he made a major effort to lighten my heavy mood, and his soothing physical presence and sturdy touch were a great gift to me.

He went so far as to prepare a surprise for me at the last minute — finding my trainer Nas in the crowd and arranging for us to meet briefly before the fights began. I hugged Nas so hard and long he must have wondered if I would ever let him go. I learned later that Coach Cook is Nassir’s trainer (small damn world, I keep finding). And I went back to the fighter’s rooms with a happy grin pasted on my face.

Mark Powell, another LA Boxing friend who was in the corner for Bonnie, was also a tremendous support, periodically catching my eye and tossing me an solemn wink. Chris Bright, there for our MMA fighter Trevor Hayes, sent me smiles as well.

When the call came, I felt ready, I really did. We had just learned they were going to allow us three rounds — there were issues with the Boxing Commission related to the rushed putting together of medical records; my bloodwork was a year and a half old, and they require yearly bloodwork for pros. (They’re serious about bloodshed, as you can imagine.) But I would take three rounds. I would take anything. I wanted the show to go.

Walking out to the ring under the spotlights was the utter opposite of my experience in Atlanta just two months ago. The crowd had only seconds before heard the news from the ring announcer that Carlette Ewell would not be fighting; the dull roar had quieted to a peculiar low-level buzz; people who were expecting the biggest fight of the night were frowning and asking each other what was going on. Other than a few drunken protests being shouted, it was almost quiet in there. My name was called, heads turned, I walked out, and I wasn’t Carlette.

I tipped my chin up and stalked toward the ring in the silence.

Then suddenly, it began to happen. All of the crew from my home gym started to realize it was me — and they began to shout. First one voice, then another, and another. “Lisa!” they cried into the quiet. I turned to look out into the crowd and saw a few fists raised; these were my people, my friends. I climbed under the ropes and tried to find their faces. One man in particular moved up ringside and called to me with both hands in the air. His face was fierce and smiling: George Crofoot, a favorite sparring partner and friend from the Raleigh gym. He growled and gave me a double-fisted muscle message: You can do it! Give us a show.

They were not going to see the fight they came for, but together we would represent.

Earlier in the evening the ring announcer had sought me out to get my information. Name, ring name, place of residence, that sort of thing. When he asked me for my fight record I cleared my throat and tried not to apologize. I knew he wasn’t expecting me. At all. “I’m an amateur fighter,” I explained. “I’ve only had one fight. But I won! I guess that makes me 1 and 0. Undefeated.” I grinned lamely.

He stared at me, then turned to make a note on his clipboard. “We won’t mention that,” he said.

But you know what? He did mention it, under the spotlight, smiling and looking directly at me while he told the crowd I had a fight record of 1 and 0. It was an incredibly proud moment for me.

From the opening bell Bonnie communicated her promise to me: this was not a beatdown. We were going to spar like we always spar; I had nothing to fear from her. She would absolutely demand my best work, and I would give her everything I had. She was the consummate professional, never sending the heavyweight knockout bomb, but continually pressing me — hard — to defend and throw.

She brought out all her bread-and-butter punches; they were damn near old friends to me: the double left hook exploded against my ear and ribs over and over again in a burst of light and heat, but some of them I slipped or evaded. I frequently circled left rather than right and tried to keep my right glove up high out of healthy respect for that hook; it’s an old pattern and it works well. I kept a continual string of jabs in front of me, not caring that many of them didn’t land — they still functioned like they always do, keeping my opponent at bay.

I tried a few left hooks of my own — Coach Cook was calling for a jab-right-hook combination, but it was the straight hard right that was the most effective. Amazingly, I could hear George from ringside, shouting encouragement and calling workable combinations using the right as a lead punch. I embarrassed myself by not fully committing to some of those (they often lead to inside work, which I sometimes avoid out of fear) before I finally just said Screw It, and launched them with abandon. When we clinched, I remembered to pivot right — I swear the ref was even saying this to me! — and get out fast before her whip hand could land one on me. I took hard hits to the body, but they never had that fight-stopping shock of a direct slam to the liver.

Periodically I heard angry catcalls from the crowd. One man who was furious that Bonnie wouldn’t “Just finish her!” and others who made loud, querulous demands for us to take off our headgear, which amateurs are required to use but pros are not. But I also had the strange and overwhelming sensation that my entire team and all the professionals in the arena were supporting my game, rooting for me to show well with the Champ.

And I did. Bonnie fought hard and didn’t let me off the hook. I fought with everything I had, and I think we both felt that familiar primal joy rising as we mixed it up. There are few pleasures to match the savage satisfaction of a hard-battled fight.

On the final bell, I went back to my corner and Coach Cook took my mouthguard and gloves. An official was going to award Bonnie one of the title belts on a interim basis. “We can leave now if you want,” Coach Cook offered, but I wanted to stay. I got to be in the ring with this woman, I was going to see her wear the belt up close and personal. I earned this. When they gave her the microphone, she thanked me gracefully, promised her fans she would not disappoint them — they would see a title fight soon — and posed for photos. I got to see it all from the red corner.

I rolled out of the ring and descended to the arena floor, my heart soaring ahead of me.

In the back halls Paul “The Italian Hitman” Marinaccio (24-6-3) enveloped me in one of his rib-cracking hugs. Paul was the promoter of this event, had cornered for me during a recent sparring session with Bonnie during her training camp, and is Bonnie’s best friend. “Girl, you were incredible out there. When are you going pro?” he grinned. “I can get you a fight right this minute.”

The rest of the evening passed quickly for me; everyone from my crew won their fights in spectacular fashion: Trevor Hayes, Will Wilson, and Antoine Alston, I salute you!

And to Bonnie The Queen “B” Mann I offer a heartfelt thank you for giving me the most amazing gift and highest honor of all my boxing to date. I’ll never forget this. Never.

Special thanks to all the people, particularly Trish Shugars, who took most of these photos with Bonnie’s camera! Thanks also to Angie Fagan Fielder, who took the one at the top.

December 11, 2010
I Won My Fight!
On my post-it note for Atlanta Corporate Fight Night I had written: Go Breathe Fight Party. I really tried to use all single-syllable words for simplicity’s sake but it just wasn’t worth giving up that last one.

And the hardest one of the four? Coming in at number two, over and over again: breathe.

It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? And yet it’s so easy in the strenuous work of boxing to forget to do this one simple thing. I can still hear my corner — the well-known fighter-turned-boxing trainer Xavier Biggs — standing over me like a giant shield as I panted on my stool between rounds, saying in his quiet but dead serious way, “Breathe. Breathe.”

It was an amazing first official fight, all told.

I hated the nearly endless waiting, which was followed by a “we’re behind!” last-minute rush of hand-wrapping and gloving up, all of which was briskly and meticulously overseen by a series of intense and polite officials.

Once wrapped, signed (one of the officials signs your wraps to show it was done within regulation, and also so that you can’t change it after) and gloved I began to panic. I was stone cold, the first match had already begun, and my bout was up next. I was in a small, carpeted waiting room with several other fighters and their posses, and I was about to fight with no prep. I paced and banged my gloves together over and over again; I couldn’t seem to shadowbox, and I was frozen with uncertainty.

One of the men slouching nearby in low-slung, crystal-studded jeans uncrossed his arms and tipped his chin up at me. “Want me to give you some pad work?” he asked.

I felt intensely grateful. I nodded my head in a quick affirmative, not trusting myself to words, and watched his muscles ripple as he slowly unfolded himself from the chair, dug a pair of mitts out of his gear bag, and loped over to my corner of the room.

Working those mitts was the real turning point of the night for me. You look at that white dot on the center of the pad and hear the echo of your shots smacking against the leather with a deeply satisfactory pop, and everything beyond those staccato bursts simply fades back, and you’re where you wanted to be all along.

He called the standard jabs, but also gave me body shot after body shot, and I leaned into them with pleasure, power flowing up through my body. He started to nod and smile. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” he grinned, stepping away and circling out. I barely held myself in check, stalking after him with my arms coiled and loaded.

I later learned that he was a well-known boxer in his own right: Darnell Boone, a super middleweight with 36 fights under his belt. He was there with a friend who was on the Atlanta Corporate Fight Night card, and I’ll never forget how he turned on the power for me.

The call came, and I trotted down the hall behind Biggs, entered the ballroom, climbed between the ropes. I assume the ring announcer was talking, but nothing registered. I bounced restlessly and gazed around the ring as the dull roar of hip-hop and shouting washed past me. People in tuxedos and ball gowns made eye contact with me in the ring, but I didn’t feel like I was about to perform for them; something was coming but it had little to do with this sparkling, crystalline crowd.

My opponent came down in her silk robe with her entourage; I was vaguely aware of her husband, whom I had met at weigh-ins the night before, standing just beyond her corner with a video camera raised in the air.

Only a tiny handful of details were noted and filed in my head; my body and brain were consumed with the coming work. My corner told me quietly, “Open the fight with a strong statement. Show the judges you are here to dominate. Make a statement to open the fight, and one to close it. In just a minute I want you to go do that.” I nodded and banged my gloves. My trainer, Bonnie Mann, had texted me the same advice earlier in the day.

The ref put us through the pre-fight routine (the particulars of which I cannot recall), held out her arms like a ballerina, and gave us the signal to box.

That sign I registered.

And we fought.

I don’t know if I threw the first shot. It was my intent, and I hope the tape shows that I did. I know I felt power in my body; the peculiar exhaustion of adrenaline drain mixed with the undeniable force of training, habit, and strength. I had power, and I could feel it at my disposal.

I had no grace.

While my arms remembered their job, my feet seemed to forget. My opponent came at me with plenty of punches, but I couldn’t feel them, and I can’t tell if I blocked or slipped any. I only remember landing punches, over and over again with power. I remember stalking her, walking her down, demanding the ring.

Partway through the first round I landed a bomb of a right cross. At least I think it was a right cross; my memories seem to be encoded in physical experience, and I’m missing many of the other normal details. Whatever the shot was, it felt like a tidal wave and my opponent stumbled and nearly went down. I went after her, all restraint forgotten. Instantly the ref was in my face, directing me away to the neutral corner while she gave the eight-count.

All feelings were still barred from entry to my mind, so I bounced in the neutral corner and waited to fight again. My opponent recovered and we finished the round.

In the corner, Biggs leaned over me. “All right,” he murmured. “All right.” He poured water in my mouth, making me splutter. “Spit,” he said, and I nearly did so all over the ring judge below me on my right before he said “On your left! On your left!” and I looked left, saw a red bucket thrust through the ropes, and spit. Water dribbled everywhere. He poured another mouthful, although I shook my head no. “Drink,” he commanded, and I did.

“That round was all yours,” he commented wryly, not bothering to brush off the droplets of water I’d spattered all over both of us. Then he probably told me other things, but I can’t recall them any more. The bell came amazingly quickly and I was on my feet and fighting again.

The second round was slower; I still refused to move, but the ring, though it was the largest of the standard sizes and had felt enormous when I saw it being set up earlier in the day, wasn’t nearly as large as I had thought it would be.

In fact, I thought with satisfaction, it was just about perfect. It was a good fit. I liked this ring. I would take it home with me. I started seeing right hooks, and knowing that my coach wouldn’t like it, I decided to throw some. The connections were satisfying, even though at least one was all air. Woops. I may have been taking a few shots onboard, too – I remember a few to the body, anyway. I know I was about as graceful as a plate of spaghetti dumped on the ground. I was slop, moving through glue. And not moving much, at that. But power was in my hands and I was not holding back.

At the bell I sat and went through the water torture again. “Hmp,” Biggs said, as he towered over me. “That wasn’t as decisive as the first one. It’s time for you to go out and make another statement. Go win the fight.”

I nodded, thinking, Well, of course. I got up, and got on with it.

Again the ref shot between us to give my opponent another eight count, and this time I wasn’t sure why. I had landed a punch on her, but it wasn’t the same kind of power shot like the tidal wave had been at the beginning. I crinkled my forehead and banged my gloves again in the white corner.

When we came back together, I tried to ask the question with my eyes – Shall we finish? – and she gave me a nod and a sweet little slug down the pipeline to my jaw. Heh! This was good, this was all good.

We mixed it up. We fought like demons. We threw bombs and nobody flinched, or looked away, or backed off. I walked her down and she pummeled me and I refused to give up territory. Even though it was messy – my nerves having drained any grace I might have had – it was beautiful. It felt like music. And it was over too quickly.

We finished, and I headed back to my corner, thanking God that I wasn’t going to have to take another damn drink of water. There were no words from Biggs. He stripped off my headgear and gloves, tossed them to his assistant, and directed me back to the center of the ring with his chin. All my energy was back. I briefly considered running back to NC, rather than flying AirTran.

It’s a strange feeling, having the ref lift your fist as the ring man announces the win. I was almost too overwhelmed to look up, and instead I gazed at the canvas and privately exulted. This canvas, these ropes, this beautiful, stark 22-foot square space was mine. This was what I’d worked for. And I’d won.

I want to close with a word about the amazing woman who gave me such a great match in the ring. Her name is Trecia “The Nail” Neal (“The Hammer” might have been a better ring name, given what she did to my face), and she went above and beyond, all behind the scenes, to make my trip the incredible experience it was.

Meeting your opponent in advance of the fight is awkward at best. But Trecia (like several of the other women boxers) understood that I was the only one there with no family, no corner, no posse or support system. When we were introduced at the weigh-ins she greeted me with a smile and a kind word. She introduced me to her husband, who was also incredibly gracious.

But more than that, Trecia rescued me from sheer terror when I learned belatedly that the boxing commission would not allow me to weigh in wearing my jeans. I was already standing by the scale, and there was no way on God’s green earth that I was going to strip to my underwear in front of that crowd and the photographers. I would call off the match first. It was Trecia who stepped up and offered to let me change into her shorts (not kidding here!), weigh in, then she would do her weigh-in. Amazing, right? That’s not all.

I also didn’t know there was a black-tie after party. I only brought jeans and fight clothes. When I learned of the party for all the boxers, I tendered my regrets and she heard of it. That night before the fight she came to the hotel and brought me a lovely dress and a beautiful matching scarf to wear. It was a perfect fit.

An hour before the matches began we were asked to turn in our “going in” song. It was yet another detail I didn’t know about. Trecia brought me her iPod, and told me to pick a song (she had Ozzy, so I was all good). To her credit, she grimaced a bit after this exchange; “That’s all I’m doing for you,” she promised as she left to get wrapped for our fight. I had to grin. She could take out her irritation in the ring. And damn, did she ever.

After the fights that night I walked in (wearing her dress) to the after-party – a ritzy affair in the Marriot Century Center bar and restaurant. Every boxer sat ensconced within a clutch of friends. She had lost the fight to me; I felt she surely wasn’t interested in speaking to me now, so I carefully walked among other tables first, speaking words of congratulations and condolence to the boxers I had met. She met my eye and I walked over. Instantly they made room for me at the table and told me to sit. Her husband even bought me a drink.

Does this happen in America anymore? I’m here to tell you it does. And it’s what makes our lives unbelievably good. Trecia, I salute you, and hope to see you in the ring again. Fight on, friend.

Are you ready for my award speech? Here it comes.

An incredible “Thank You” goes out to the woman with more contained energy than a powder keg with a lit fuse, Terri “The Boss” Moss, who organized and put on this phenomenal event, shuttled me around Atlanta, fed me pancakes, coached fighters, and probably wrestled alligators afterward in order to relax a bit. She also rightly chastized me for the right hooks — which are not for beginners — that I threw during my fight, which Bonnie will also do later. I’m also grateful to Xavier “Bad Pads” Biggs for his quiet, effective cornering, to first-time fighter and Biggs’ Blue Corner woman Laura Messier, who also went out of her way to become a friend to me, and to women’s boxing publicist Amy Green, who texted my win to my coach for me, got one of my all-time boxing heroes Chevelle Hallback on the phone to congratulate me on my win, and who tactfully will not tell anyone how ridiculous I got over celebratory Pina Coladas at Trader Vic’s in downtown Atlanta the night after. And of course, my trainer Bonnie Mann, who inspired all this craziness in the first place.

I am honored to have encountered you all.
October 25, 2010
Make Your Punches Count

Eight phenomenal non-stop rounds in the boxing ring last night with my trainer.

I am consistently amazed at how much my boxing improves when I’m in the ring with her. I work so hard, learn so much, and have such an incredible experience.

I had gotten to the gym an hour early to do 30 minutes of slow cardio and a long, careful stretching routine. I felt pretty warm and flexible, but wanted to preserve my energy for our rounds. I have not been training with intervals lately so I knew I’d have to work harder than usual to go whatever distance she chose. She knows I always want at least 6 rounds, but she has the capability to do far more; I’ve seen her go 15 straight rounds as fresh boxers on our team cycle in and out with her. She has phenomenal stamina.

Last night I was a little nervous before we began; I couldn’t get the image of Bonnie’s last fight out of my mind. The jab-right combo — which instantly dislocated her opponent’s jaw and ended the fight with a first-round TKO — played itself over and over again in my head. I didn’t want to say too much about it in advance to Bonnie because I didn’t want listening bystanders to make jokes.

It helped that she was relaxed but very serious as we geared up; this is a pro boxer coming off a big win, maintaining her form for her next fight in August. It could be a title fight. What we’re doing together is for real.

Right before the bell rang I caught her eye. “I’m a little nervous,” I said, tapping my left glove to my jaw.

She immediately caught on. “No need,” she returned quietly, shaking her head slightly. My fear immediately dissipated. What this woman says, you can take to the bank. The bell rang, we tapped gloves, and began to box.

She almost always lets me throw the first combinations. Sometimes it’s spooky; you have the sense that she’s sizing you up and once she has your measurements will quickly put you on the canvas. When I’m in the ring with her I can feel her coiled power, all that potential energy swirling and packing into her body and awaiting release. Mostly I take the open shots she gives me with the sure and certain knowledge that I have one solid defense against a boxer who is better than I am: one million jabs.

I have to throw more shots, whether they are good, bad, or otherwise. Jabs are the way to keep your opponent from thinking and planning. They keep her off of you, make her hesitate or defend. A wall of jabs is the surest way to open a path to a real shot, a solid right or a hook to the body, whatever it takes to get in on your opponent and score some pain.

Lucky for me the old Bonnie, the pre-getting-ready-for-a-fight Bonnie, was back last night. She was content to make me work hard for four rounds while she sat back and sipped lemonade, periodically shooting a wicked punch out to make me remember just how deadly she can be.

I was thrilled and amazed at how many of her left hooks I slipped. I got into a pattern with my combos — finally! — of punch-punch-punch SLIP. And it worked, because Bonnie loves to throw those hooks at my head when I come in at her. Several caught me clean, but many more slipped, catching no more than the edge of my glove or headgear. I was jubilant.

In round four I began trying to throw my own left hooks. We’re both orthodox boxers but I frequently circle left on her for fear (respect, I meant to say respect) of her left hook. Last night I was circling right, having figured out the left hook but now being wary of that deadly right cross. I threw several hooks, but they were all in my arm, no body power behind them because I was staying to my right. Where the hell is Mike Tyson when you need him? I kept at it until I saw her grinning.

“What? I’m trying to get in a left hook, dammit,” I slurred over my mouthpiece.

“I know,” she said, “but you have to move in closer to get it.”

Yeah, right. Move in closer to that right cross. My jaw ached just thinking about it.

“Use your jab,” she advised. “Get in behind it, then whoomp.” She demonstrated for me.

I tried a few times, even demanding that she slow down and let me move through it a few times on her. But when we got back into the action, I bailed. Back to a thousand jabs and slips, at least that was working for me.

In round five she started in with her real power. “Bonnie’s warm!” I shouted to the gym. “That means cheer for me, not her,” I joked to one of the guys watching ringside. I was comfortable, in the zone, stoked. Honored that she knows she can unleash that kind of power on me, and more: I can take it!

The gym echoed with the sound of serious blows being exchanged. I went ahead and exchanged all my chips for power and threw the hell out of what I had. She and I both roared with that crazy, brutal, we’re-in-it-now joy. I was drenched, working hard to breathe after combos. The world faded and there was only boxing.

At the bell for the seventh round I realized a small crowd had gathered to watch. I suddenly realized that this was the first time Bonnie had been seen in the ring since her fight. I had made my six rounds with joy, with pleasure, with power. And now I was sucking for air and people were watching. Oh well, I thought, let’s see what I have left to give. And we boxed.

Unfortunately, I caught a solid uppercut to the diaphragm toward the end of the seventh round, and all oxygen exited my universe. Bonnie knew it immediately, and I turned to the ropes and raised my arms to let some air back in to my lungs. “Just a second,” I gasped, “…need just a second.” She backed off and paced, and I cursed gently (because I find this helps) until I could breathe again.

Ten seconds later I banged my gloves together. “Let’s finish this,” I called, and we touched gloves and worked.

I finished the seventh round and collapsed gratefully against the ropes, finished. Except Bonnie wasn’t finished. “That was seven rounds?” she asked our ringside crowd, sneaking a look at me. “That feels so… unfinished.”

I groaned.

“I hate odd numbers,” she continued, laughing. “And I’m not even tired. Let’s do one more.”

She knows I can’t resist. I’m helpless against her charm. Or else I am stone cold crazy.

Yeah, probably that latter one.

“You got it, Boss,” I told her, dumping half my water bottle over my head. I had no jabs left. I’d thrown everything I had. My arms were marshmallows. I got back in my corner, mentally prepared a battle plan for keeping out of range and covering up with a tight guard, and awaited the bell.

It was true, she looked fresh. She performed with power and precision, hardly winded at all. I survived the eighth round with determined grace, and stripped my gloves off at the bell. I felt incredible, awesome. Best night of my week.

But I was thinking later about why she was so fresh after eight rounds.

As I looked back on it I realized that as the better boxer, she knew she didn’t have to throw as many punches as I did. She threw far fewer, but many more of hers were good or even excellent hits. Many of my jabs, which are effective at keeping her out of my space, don’t land with power or don’t land at all. They are still effective, but it means I’m throwing far more than she does. I go after her with everything I have, staying on offense at least 80% of the time, rarely resting.

She boxes as if on very serious holiday, absolutely nothing is wasted, no moment is unplanned. Every combination, every segment of footwork, each careful moment of rest and defense is laid out like a fierce ballet. Every single punch counts.

God, I want to box like that.

I’m guessing she’ll give me more lessons. Meanwhile you can call me Woman of 1000 Jabs.

And keep your eye out for my left hook, people. It may be young, but it’ll mature and bring a house of pain with it.

Image of me sparring by Ken Hall Photography.

May 20, 2010
Blood and Uppercuts

Last week I was in the ring with one of my trainers, Nassir, who will be making his pro boxing debut in the next month or so. Nas is blazingly fast and uses his considerable hand and foot speed as not only a physical but also a mental advantage over his opponents. Boxing with him can very quickly leave you with that upsetting “what in the hell just hit me?” feeling.

As I rolled under the ropes for our sparring session I noticed that Nas was not wearing a mouthpiece or headgear. Pros fight their official matches with mouthguards but no head protection, although most everyone spars with complete gear. He caught my questioning look and told me that he wasn’t going to gear up, but that I was still to box with my full power. He didn’t say anything as crass as “You’ll never land a thing on me,” but I grinned, and readied myself for a couple of hyperextended elbows: I knew he was going to show me the speed demon footwork. He was gonna make me work for the goods.

And the bell rang, and we were off. I saw my main trainer standing ringside with her arms crossed; she’s pretty strict about headgear in our gym but was willing to let this one ride for a bit.

Nas kept himself primarily on defense (he didn’t throw many punches), and restricted me to jabs only for the first round; he’s been helping me extend my punches to my full reach, and by forcing me to shoot the same left hand over and over I would eventually begin to burn in the muscle memory. This simple restriction also meant I could stop worrying about what shots were open or what combinations to work so that I could concentrate on my foot speed. I knew I’d have to run him down to land any shots.

It felt like a magic combination. My job was clear: shoot that jab like a machine gun and move my feet as quickly as I possibly could. Step, slide, pivot, double step, slip inside, whatever I had to do in order to land my jabs.

And midway through the first round, they began to land with some consistency. I felt a thrill of energy running up in me, and by the second round I was adding a periodic straight right to the jab just to help maintain my balance. Nas gave me the nod when the power hand began to land. “That’s the kind of extension I want to see,” he grunted, darting out of reach again.

I began to feel a new, sweet ache running up my left arm that told me I was burning the shot in; these were muscles I hadn’t been using correctly before and it felt painful and fantastic all at the same time. To save my aching arm I began adding hooks by the third round.

And I began to see something very juicy. Nas was repeatedly leaving himself open for an uppercut.

The four punches (left jab, straight right, left hook, right hook) I was throwing are the bread and butter of most amateur boxers. The last two standards are the left and right uppercut, and are the hardest to land with strength and power. You have to be in close, see an opening in your opponent’s guard, and react incredibly quickly. It’s a bit like standing by the railroad tracks and trying to pitch a strike through the open window of a speeding train as it passes you by.

I would see the opening, but not be close enough in or fast enough to try it on him. At the end of round three I said as much to Bonnie, watching ringside.

“I see that uppercut, I swear he’s teasing me with it,” I panted. “But I can’t get it in there. He’s too fast.”

My trainer raised her eyebrows at me. “You’re not ever gonna land an uppercut if you don’t start throwing some,” she commented dryly.

She was right, I wasn’t even trying for them. I ground my teeth in frustration and desire. The bell for round four was about to sound. I was gonna pitch every fastball I could muster at that train and if all I had to show for it was busted windows, well then at least I was pitching.

I pulled back to jabs to free my mind and kept my foot speed up. Nas swung down in front of me, swatting me now and then with a hook. Every time he ducked low I shot the uppercut, but nothing connected.

His guard was wide, too wide. I could easily fit my glove through that pipe he was showing me, I just had to stick to him like a burr and throw till I got it.

And damned if I didn’t get me one.

The instant I felt it land — solid leather to his face — I whooped with delight and leapt about the ring like a kid who has unexpectedly gotten her first win by knockout. I pumped both gloves in the air and yelled around my mouth guard, “I got it! I got it!”

Bonnie was working to keep from smiling, but I turned and saw Nas shaking his head and grinning. He slapped my glove in congratulation. “You got it,” he agreed, “now get back to work.

I bounced up and down a few times on the canvas; my tired legs were suddenly made of springs. I whacked my gloves together, gave Nas a glovetap and returned to my stance.

Which is when I saw the blood staining his teeth, and running into his mouth.

I whooped again, then my inner nice girl reigned it in. “Uh, Coach, you’re bleeding,” I mentioned, and tried not to cheer out loud. I had not only landed the uppercut on the fastest man alive, but I’d made him bleed!

Looking ringside to see who was watching, I pounded my gloves on my chest like Godzilla. Me, I was banging. That was me.

Bonnie gave Nas a quick glance then crossed her arms again. “I told you to gear up,” she said, with only the barest hint of a smile.

Image by anarchosyn

December 7, 2009
Are You A Feminist?

I was recently interviewed by Marie Hardin from Penn State’s Center for Sports Journalism about how women who blog about sports are empowered through blogging and use their sites for feminist activism. It was a pleasure to speak with her about my blog, my boxing, feminism, women’s sports in general and the Women Talk Sports network. You can be sure I’ll be posting more about the interview and the research that Hardin and her team are doing once the transcriptions come in.

And an interesting thing happened when I was telling my sons about the interview.

“Are you a feminist?” the oldest — who will turn 15 in February — asked.

What an incredible question, I thought, and he and I embarked on a fascinating discussion, which he agreed to let me record.

*************

Me: In your opinion, what is a feminist?

The First: I think a feminist is someone who wants changes for women. Cultural changes. A new way of living.

How would that look different from how the world looks today?

Women are kind of excluded today, even though legally I don’t think they’re supposed to be. A feminist would come out and address that.

How would they address it?

In my mind, they would be the rebels. They would do things other women don’t do or don’t want to do. For you, it’s boxing. Most women don’t want to box because it’s considered a “men’s” sport and they’re intimidated by that, or they think it’s a culturally wrong thing to do. Of couse, they could also be scared of the pain of boxing.

(Laughing) That’s all true.

When I tell my friends about it, the girls all think it’s awesome, probably cause they wish they could do something that cool. But the guys say, “Doesn’t that hurt?”

So are you a feminist?

Technically no, because I’m not a rebel for women. But I think women should be able to do the same things men get to do.

I think you’re bumping up against the difference between feminism and activism.

Yeah, okay. I think you’re both a feminist and an activist. You believe it and you work for it. But I guess I’m not really doing much about women’s rights.

What could guys like you do to be active feminists?

We could be actively supportive. Like telling all my friends about you, and encouraging other females to try it out. Most of my female friends wouldn’t try boxing, though.

Do you think they might try something else that sounded difficult or scary?

Yeah. They might, depending on what it was, and who I was asking. But I would say most girls don’t actually want to do things like train for a construction job or go out for the wrestling team because it’s so intimidating as a “man’s” domain. She would be scared that people would talk about her and say she should be doing laundry for her husband.

Who does all of the laundry in our house?

(Laughing) Me!

Well, your Dad puts it all through the washer and dryer, and you fold it all. Guys do the whole thing.

True!

Why do you think there is conversation among feminists about women’s issues and rights today?

Because they’re ready for change.

Whose job is it to create change?

Feminists, and not just the activists.

How will this change come about?

Keep pushing boundaries on the lines between “men’s” things and “women’s” things. Women have to continue to do things in men’s areas of expertise.

So there’s work for women to do. What about male feminists and activists, what should they be doing?

They should support their wives and girlfriends and also tell their friends about it. They should talk about it, share website links, and give out tickets to women’s boxing shows!

I’m down with that! Do you think all this is hard work?

Yes, because there aren’t enough activists to make the change. But more are coming. You did that survey; Women Talk Sports publishes your content, women are doing boxing, fight sports, extreme sports.

I think that’s cool that you see so much positive forward movement. Thanks for talking to me. I think you’re pretty cool.

Why thank you.

November 2, 2009
Dorm Room Archaeology: 1984

I uncovered two pictures from my college years, possibly the only two that were ever taken during that period, and boy did they bring back memories. Omg! We had a vaccuum cleaner! I’m pretty sure that belonged to my roomate Lee Ann. She ironed her jeans, for heaven’s sake.

So that’s me in my mother’s University of Kentucky sweatshirt (which she wore 20 years before I was in college at University of Tennessee, Knoxville), grinning like a monkey in room 513 of Massey Hall, where I spent my first three years of undergrad before moving in with my boyfriend (whom I later married), see next picture.

Just look at that hottie! Yeah, he dug me. I guess he had brought us Chinese take-out for dinner; that would have been a major splurge for us in those days, probably why we got the camera out to document it.

And here’s what else I learned from inspecting this photo.

1. I had a Playgirl calendar. There on the wall! I swear I had totally forgotten about that. Note the strategically placed cat. That was either one brave dude or one placid cat. Not all of the models were so modest, but my roomie and I were. We routinely cut out paper doll-like shorts to tape up on the guy of the month.

2. Electric typewriter, yeah baby! It was my high school graduation gift, and it got a lot of use since most of my papers had to be turned in typed. I DID take a computer class, since that was the rage. It was Fortran, and I damn near failed the class since I was a rank beginner and all the rest of the class was budding geeks. To work on the computer we had to GO TO A LAB. Yep, we trudged across campus to a dank dark basement somewhere and WAITED IN LINE to get on one of the dozen or so ginormous ugly PCs. I decided then that I hated computers. But a year later UTK was on the Bitnet and 8 PCs arrived in one of the dorm lobbies and I was hooked.

3. Sock Monkey!! (Leaning up against the speaker, on top of my albums.) Sigh, I miss Sock Monkey. My great grandmother, the same one who made my pink pantsuit in grade school, made him for me. Wonder where he ended up?

4. Albums. CD technology came out while I was in college, and my friend Robert Bowers invited me over to his dorm room one day to hear a Billy Joel CD (Glass Houses), but I didn’t actually acquire a CD player until well after college. I can almost tell you every single artist that was in that cardboard box of albums: Rush, Prince, Eagles, Queen, Boston, Billy Joel, Air Supply (that’s right, I’m telling the truth here), Asia, and maybe one or two others.

5. Weight belt (hanging on the wall behind my lamp). I actually took a class in weightlifting. Everything other than the weightlifting in that class was stoopid,since it mostly required cutting pictures of buff people from magazines and glueing them on posters for a grade.

6. Analog clock. That just strikes me as odd, now that I’m so used to seeing digital alarm clocks.

7. Gone With the Wind. I was a theater geek in high school. I could recite many of the scenes from GWTW, but fortunately didn’t do so often. I wonder where in the heck that poster came from. Prolly the same place the lame “New York” (Theater Geek!) poster came from. (I’ve never been to NY).

8. TV! We invariably had a television in our dorm rooms, which was a huge treat for me since I didn’t grow up with one. That’s probably why I have the cart over in front of my bed rather than where ever my roomie had placed it.

9. This picture was taken in November. I can’t read the month on the Playgirl calendar, but I think I’m right on this because we didn’t have AC in that dorm, and we baked from August until October. On some magic date near Thanksgiving the radiators in Massey all kicked on and we had heat, but once fall hit in earnest we broke out our sleeping bags and blankets and piled them on. That’s the yellow inside of my old sleeping bag, and it looks like there are at least two other blankets under that.

Thanks for joining me on that little jaunt down memory lane. What weird things do you remember from your way back years?

October 16, 2009
Electric Lizard Hair and the Blue Duck Cake

By the time the Ice’s fifth birthday party drew near, he had been thinking and planning out his options like a grad student plans a thesis. There were three primary components.

The Hair
The first was that he had determined by a thorough research of the subject that he was going — by the age of five — to be old enough to have his hair permanently dyed bright blue. His big brother, an infinitely more mature eight, had had his hair dyed outrageous colors several times, and the Ice had decided it was now his turn to sport a similarly grown-up fashion. I agreed, and a celebratory outing to the Sally Beauty Supply store was undertaken with much excitement and hopping up and down.

The Ice and his big brother followed me eagerly into the Sally. They knew precisely where the Manic Panic hair dye was laid out in neat rows like jewels in a case. I lingered at the front of the store with the baby while the two of them whispered and deliberated. There are only so many shades of blue, and when they didn’t reappear pretty quickly, I went back to find out what had happened.

“This one!” the Ice called, seeing me coming down the aisle. He waved a container of lime green goo. The First wore a satisfied smile.

I scowled. “What happened to blue? You’ve been telling me for weeks that you wanted blue.” I cast an irritated glance at the First.

“I changed my mind,” he stated perfunctorily. “We,” he cast an adoring glance up at his brother, “we both want our hair done for my birthday. And we,” — again that emphasis, that secret collusion — “like green.”

I looked at the label: Electric Lizard (“Glows Under Black Light!”) was the name of the color, a most brilliant and obnoxious chartreuse. Sighing, I asked, “You sure?” He nodded happily and I shifted the Maker to my other hip, gathered up bleach, developer, and gloves and took the Electric Lizard to the counter with me. Green it would be.

The Cake
While I bleached and dyed the boys’ hair, the Husband got busy with the second part of the Ice’s Fifth Birthday Plan. We didn’t have the faintest idea where the Ice had gotten the notion, but he wanted a blue (blue, not green) duck cake. On the details he was most emphatic. It was to be a cake in the actual shape of a duck, entirely iced with blue frosting.

For this task we brought out our big guns: a diminutive booklet called “Baker’s Coconut Animal Cut-Up Cakes,” copyright 1959, one of the great treasures of our household. This little gem of a pamphlet listed careful instructions for cutting a sheet cake into the right number of shapes to form Spot the Fox Terrier, Tortie the Turtle, Ella Elephant, and Deer-ie the… well, you get the idea. A friend had found the cookbook in a used book store, thought of us, and delivered it forthwith, knowing the many uses we would put it to.

On the page descriptively but unimaginatively titled “Quack-Quack the Duck” we repeatedly read aloud and giggled over the poem:

Quack Quack the duck waddles down the street
With coconut feathers and yellow feet.
Her voice may not be very sweet,
But Boy! will she be good to eat!

The poem’s mention of yellow feet threw off the plan for blue; I suggested we make the feet and bill dark blue (I was still irritated about the hair dye change of plans) but in the end the Ice ruled in favor of yellow.

It was most fabulously fowl.

The Gift
While our family had, and still has, a clear policy against birthday gifts (“The party and the people are the gifts,” our deeply annoyed children have heard us say many a time) we bent the rules for Gram, who had made the trip from Memphis in order to celebrate with us. She had promised the Ice a trip, all by himself, to Alley Cat, a nearby toy store, where he was to be permitted to choose ANY TOY HE WANTED. One toy, but anything in the store. I was rather worried about this, but as I was banned from participating, I waved them nervously out the door and returned to cake clean-up detail.

The Ice returned in clouds of ecstacy, clutching a rumpled brown lunch sack twisted at the neck. I laughed delightedly, but had to contain my curiosity as the Ice told us all to remain inside while he huddled on the front stoop alone with his prize for a few minutes. The five of us watched through the plate glass picture windows, Gram with a knowing grin. He hugged his sack a time or two, then carefully, slowly untwisted the top. He drew out a strangely familiar square cardboard box, which he opened to reveal an old school metal Slinky. A wave of laughter rolled through our family and the Ice glanced over his shoulder at us, waved, and displayed his new acquisition in the last of the sunlight.

August 22, 2009
How I Accidentally Saw Elvis Dead

It was hot as hell on August 17th, 1977, the day I accidentally saw Elvis dead.

It was the year that Star Wars and Close Encounters of the Third Kind hit movie theaters like a neutron bomb, the year that Rocky won an Academy Award for best picture. I had my first kiss that year — at Skateland, under the disco lights — an abysmal experience. It was a year for events of cosmic proportion.

I had grown up in Memphis, steeped in the tradition of Beale Street, the Memphis Queen, and rhythm and blues. I knew who Al Green was, and I’d wired up my own little crystal radio set so that I could lie in bed at night and listen to ELO, The Bar-Kays (a Memphis group), and Boz Skaggs on WHBQ.

I’d heard Elvis before, of course, and knew dozens of people who’d seen him tooling around the city in one of his Stutz-Bearcats, but I wasn’t a particular fan; Elvis and Graceland were just a part of the place I grew up, same as W.C. Handy, the Orpheum ghost, and the muddy Mississip.

I was in no way aware of Elvis’s slow, drug-hazed decline nor his ignominious death. I was eleven, going on 12, and had already been (badly) kissed. I had no idea that 300 National Guardsmen had been called in to deal with the 75,000 fans who had converged on Graceland and were camped outside the distinctive ugly wrought-iron gates, hoping to be allowed in to see Elvis laying in state.

I was, however, forced to tag along with my mother, who (also unaware of the Elvis insanity) went to visit her friend Martha, who lived not far off Danny Thomas Boulevard. Martha had a teenage son about my age, and after the adults had settled in the kitchen with iced tea, we decided to do some urban hiking.

We headed out through the back yard and into the light woods that fringed their neighborhood; it was about 3 in the afternoon, and as humid as a steambath. I was wearing my favorite pair of bell-bottoms and a tee-shirt with a groovy iron-on (all my tee-shirts had groovy iron-ons). The bell-bottoms I remember especially because as we hiked out, we shoved our way through some deadfall and came upon a chest-high rock wall topped with jagged rocks or barbed wire.

To an eleven year old, a rock wall says Climb up! rather than Stay out!, so we clambered over, and naturally, the seat of my jeans caught and I tore a two-inch L-shaped hole in them. I was wearing white underwear (all my underwear were white) that managed to escape the talons of the fence, but still I was deeply mortified to be in the company of a boy I barely knew with my jeans ripped and my underwear showing. In later years I would cultivate this fashion, but at the time I was far too eleven. In even later years, my own children would cultivate this fashion even earlier than age eleven.

But I was talking about dead Elvis, sorry.

I was still flushed with embarassment when I began to notice the change in our surroundings. Urban wooded trash had given way to smooth expanses of groomed pasture. I could see what looked like a tidy barn just ahead, and some smaller outbuildings. We hiked amiably in silence, making our way toward the barn, then on past, toward nothing in particular. Everything was strangely, persistently quiet. I guess I was aware of the two-story Colonial house rising up in front of us, but I was eleven, and my underwear was showing, and it didn’t seem important.

So it was a considerable surprise to me when some security guards materialized and came striding quickly over. “You’re not allowed to be back here,” one of them said, taking hold of my elbow and directing me firmly toward what appeared to be a back entrance to the house in front of us.

I found myself with absolutely nothing to say, but I had the sense of being caught up in something far bigger than myself (that was how I always felt). My recollection is that we were taken through a kitchen into a foyer-like area and inserted into a shuffling line of people. I didn’t realize what was happening until I saw the open casket, sitting there like a giant, buffed-up asteroid, and Elvis Aaron Presley, bloated and pale in his white suit, blue shirt, and white tie, incontrovertibly dead.

I stopped, stunned, in front of the casket. A woman moaned behind me, and a guard pushed us all along. Horrified, I averted my gaze from the dead man, who only barely resembled the rock star I knew. I stared at the floor in front of me as we were hurried out past tremendous heaps of flower arrangements (later I read that it took 100 vans to cart them all away), past the stone lions, and down toward the front gates.

“Why wasn’t there shag carpet?” I wondered inexplicably. Even my family had lovely burnt orange shag carpet, and we weren’t fashionable or rock stars.

And turning to the boy I’d arrived with, I asked, with more than a little sense of displacement and worry, “Do you have any idea how to get back to your house from here?”

Image in the public domain

July 7, 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