The Glowing Edge

Tag: Anthony Bradley

  • 8 Rounds Boxing and a Personal Best

    8 Rounds Boxing and a Personal Best

    Bonnie’s ramping up for her title fight on December 10th, and as her sparring partner, I’m getting schooled (again).

    To be in the ring with someone so much better than me is an incredible thrill and it stretches me, grows me, teaches me, and absolutely makes me work my ass off.

    About 8 weeks before a major fight, most pro boxers begin their training camp. They shift up from maintenance mode training: they push up their cardio, increase their weight training, raise their punch counts, and begin creating a strategy for the specific opponent they’ll be facing in the ring.

    Bonnie “Queen B” Mann (13-9-0, 6 KO) will be facing off with Carlette “The Truth” Ewell (14-7-0, 9 KOs), who is officially a light heavyweight, and has fought most of her career against heavyweights, including German champion boxer Natalia Ragozina (22-0-0, 13 KOs).

    Heavyweights often move differently in the ring than lighter boxers do. You’ll see more walking, stalking, and knockout punches than you will dancing, circling and flurry combos. There may be a much lower punch count, but each punch is a cinderblock. Although Bonnie is ranked #2 in the world in the Light Heavyweight division, she has spent much of her career in the lighter weight categories, so she comfortably incorporates both types of boxing, although she tends to default to the heavyweight style.

    Because I spar enough with her to know her tendencies, I generally count on being able to hold up well against her in the first four rounds while I’m fresh, and I know I’ll have to keep my guard and my defense incredibly tight in the later ones when her power comes to the fore.

    But this training camp has been very different.

    Before our latest sparring session we spent some time discussing styles with her trainer, Derrick Reed, a wiry New Jersey fighter who boxed in the army for 7 years before beginning to train fighters with US Olympic boxing coach Anthony Bradley. Reed was in Bonnie’s corner when she won her first championship fight and gained the World Boxing Empire title.

    I alternately skipped rope and stretched while Coach Reed (Bonnie calls him Coach D) and Bonnie discussed the upcoming fight.

    My interval sprint training has really helped with my cardio lately. I had the usual pre-ring anxiety, but my confidence has increased as I’ve sparred the last few weeks with Bonnie. I’m starting to know the people in her training camp, and understand what they are all working toward. I’m aware that training with these people is the highest honor of my boxing life; I’m doing my best to savor every tension-filled minute.

    They discussed fighting style, potential strategies, and training plans as I listened in. It isn’t often that you get to hear a coach prepping his fighter for a title fight.

    After 6 rounds of shadow boxing, I was restive and bouncing, anxious for the bell. Coach D leaned over the ropes in my corner and gently hooked a finger on my headgear to settle me down as he spoke quietly into my ear.

    “You’re going to work your hardest tonight,” he said calmly. “You are not going to rest, and you’re not going to let Bonnie rest, either. I want you to to constantly attack. Move in on her and do not let her circle. Never stop your attack. Even if she tries to lead you, cut her off and make her engage.”

    My heart rate skyrocketed as the thrill of the battle plan filled me. I felt I would do anything to please this coach. I could give Bonnie this, I could mimic the unrelenting forward pressure of a heavyweight, even if I didn’t have the bombs.

    Bonnie had her own strategy. Normally she lets me open the session with my jabs and the first combination or two. She lets me test the waters, measure the distance between us. But this time she came out of the corner like a racehorse out of the gate; I threw one jab before she covered me up with a double salvo of combinations, hard.

    Nothing like eight fast punches to the head and body to sober you up. We were ON.

    I shook off the charge, pivoted out, then began my real work. I could see Coach D motioning from the corner: Come at her. Move forward. Advance.

    And I did.

    I mentally marked off the center of the ring as No Go zone. I would force Bonnie to stay on the outside, against the ropes and in the corners if possible. I would stay relentlessly in her face and push the attack.

    Bonnie skipped lightly backwards as I came forward. We would exchange shots and she’d be gone, out the side door. Round after round went by with the same intensity; she worked the angles and I stuck on her, forced the play, did my best to prevent her from exiting the encounter. I’ve never seen her move so quickly, lightly, and constantly; our punch counts were double their usual numbers, or more.

    We returned to our corners again and again, focused and dripping with sweat. The game never varied; it was the hardest I had ever worked. Several boxers watched us interestedly from below the ring. I lifted my chin in the boxer’s salute and was rewarded with smiles.

    With such constant engagement, we found ourselves in a frequent clinch — a situation I hate with a passion but can’t avoid. I hate it because I can feel Bonnie’s uppercut wanting to destroy me from underneath, I feel her incredible power trying to shove me out of the ring, I know she’s going to demolish me on the exit with a bomb hook to my ear.

    Coach D began to talk to me about it between rounds. “Let your hands work even in the clinch,” he counseled. “Lean on her, punch with anything that’s free. Make her pay. Never stop.”

    I listened, nodded, and cut my eyes toward Bonnie in the opposite corner. She grinned. The bell rang, and she taunted me, “C’mon Carlette, if you’re gonna fight,” she teased. I felt my own grin rise up.

    I growled and charged, willing the weight of a Mack truck into each of my gloves. The original six rounds Coach D had called for were past; we were still gunning.

    We clinched, I banged her ribs and head with my free fist. Coach D shouted encouragement. I was unable to throw off her weight, but I increased my speed on the exit and was rewarded with fewer head-ringing clouts to the ear.

    I refused to stop fighting and stayed on her, in her range, and tried to keep my head moving to slip her shots even when I couldn’t throw any punches. I’d never boxed better.

    By the eighth round Bonnie was on fire. I was winded but thrilled with my performance. In the corner Coach D asked me how I felt and I banged my gloves together. “I feel incredible,” I panted over my mouthguard. Sweat ran in rivulets down my arms and dripped off my elbows. He gave me water, slapped me lightly on the back of my headgear and smiled. “You’re doing great,” he affirmed. “Go finish it.”

    Whatever I had left, I put into that eighth round. Smack talk flew, when we had breath. Our punch count was through the roof. The 30 second bell signaled and I knew the round was about to close. Bonnie charged me with a flurry that looked to last the entire rest of the round. I covered, retreated, stuck a jab in her face. She ducked under and launched her right to my liver.

    Liver shots suck. You never see them coming because they’re only thrown when your opponent is deep inside and low. I was still in stance, left shoulder leading, and had just thrown a jab and was shifting to load a right. It was perfect timing.

    Bonnie ducked and threw the low right hook upward, above the hip and under the short ribs, and the effect was devastating; I got an immediate surge of cold shock-sweat and a sickening wash of nausea. I hate liver shots!

    I spiraled out, raised my gloves in surrender, and bellowed as I walked it off. “If you do nothing else in your fight,” I yelled, “you better deliver one of those to Carlette! Now gimme the rest of this round!” I spun and drove back to center, shaking off the effects.

    “That is the rest of the round,” Bonnie laughed as the bell rang to cut off my charge. I leveled my glove at her. “Next time,” I threatened. “Next time you are mine.” And we banged our gloves together with the deep satisfaction of a fight well-fought.

    Mark your calendars for December 10th, 2010: I’ll be posting news about the title fight, information about where you can get your tickets, and an exclusive interview with Bonnie!

  • Boxing Royalty

    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

  • Bonnie Mann: Breaking Ground, Discovering Boxing

    Bonnie Mann: Breaking Ground, Discovering Boxing

    I recently had the opportunity to talk with my trainer outside of the gym, and she shared a little bit with me about how she got started in boxing and the one woman and two incredible men who have made all the difference in her 14 year professional boxing career.

    Beginnings in Baseball
    She was always an athlete, she told me, and was the first girl to play on the formerly all-boy team in Grasshopper Baseball when she was 7 or 8 years old. She laughs and relates the story of her coach telling them all to be sure and get a “cup;” information which she promptly and obediently relayed to her mother once she got home that day.

    She played Little League, then switched to fast pitch softball, and even did a stint  as a pitcher and shortstop with Raleigh’s Women’s Professional Baseball Association. But after more than 20 years of  baseball, she grew tired of it, and dropped out of the scene. She found herself messing around in gyms trying to occupy her mind and body by lifting weights, but the horizon looked empty; she was bored and restless.

    A Chance Encounter with a Female Pro Boxer
    One day she found herself interviewing for a job with North American Van Lines, thinking to put her strength to work to earn a paycheck. Her interviewer seemed eager to hire, and threw a sweetener into the deal to draw Bonnie in: “If you take the job,” he offered, “I’ll introduce you to Teresa Arguello. She was a pro boxer in Texas and California.”

    He’d gained her interest. She took the position.

    It wasn’t long before the two women met, and Bonnie indicated her curiosity in finding out what boxing was all about. Arguello told her to meet her at a warehouse one night after work. She gave her an old pair of boxing gloves and when they both arrived Arbuelo put her through a workout for about 30 minutes. The next day Mann was so sore she could hardly walk. And she was hooked.

    It was new, it was incredibly difficult, and the challenge drew her in like a wounded surfer draws sharks.

    The two women went to a baseball field in Morrisville, to a tiny 4×6 concrete slab, where Arguello made Bonnie jump rope in the 100 degree heat. Then she would hold the mitts and have Bonnie work them. They utilized outdoor spaces, garages, and warehouses; wherever they could get permission to spend an hour or so working together.

    A Run-Down Gym, a New Friendship
    Mann eventually found a hole-in-the-wall gym in Durham that someone had mentioned to her. It was on the second floor of a building that looked to be condemned. There was no sign or any indication that somone had knocked out cinderblocks to enlarge an interior space, constructed a makeshift ring and hung two heavy bags upstairs. They had power for the lights strung across the ceiling, but little else. There were no other women, of course, and Bonnie didn’t have the first idea how to even work a bag. So she lingered on the fringes, watching and learning.

    If you follow boxing much you may know the name Paul “The Italian Hit Man” Marinaccio (23-3-3). In those days he was working out at that same tiny gym, working his own business during the day and training for amateur boxing matches with whatever time and places he could find in the cities where he traveled. Marinaccio is an imposing man at 6 feet, 5 inches tall, with dark hair and shoulders that fill a doorframe. Paul was the first one to approach Bonnie at the makeshift gym where they both were training, and his fierce love for the sport, along with his kind manner and willingness to accept Mann as just as serious as he was, made for a friendship that would flourish during the amateur and professional fighting careers of both boxers.

    One story that Bonnie loves to tell is how they both were on the card for a World Boxing Federation event; his fight was a headliner and hers was a featured event. Her opponent withdrew, which meant she was able to watch him win the heavyweight title that night.

    She also fought her World Boxing Empire title fight on his birthday, and dedicated her win to him.

    A World-Renowned Trainer
    The two have also shared a trainer. Paul and Bonnie had been working out in a small gym of their own, born of an extra space not being used by Paul’s girlfriend’s dance studio. A ring had been installed, heavy bags hung, and a sign which pronounced it “Jawbreakers” made it the official place where Paul’s trainer, Coach Anthony Bradley, would come to put him through his paces.

    An Army Middleweight World Champion boxer himself, Bradley has won respect around the globe as a three-time US Olympic Boxing Coach (1996, 2000, and 2004) and US Olympic Committee Coach of the Year.

    Bonnie asked Paul if he thought Coach Bradley would consider training her as well. Marinaccio wasn’t sure, since at the time he didn’t know whether Bradley was willing to work with a woman. But he determined to find out, and together they concocted a plan. By their arrangement, Bonnie was training hard in the gym when Bradley arrived to work with Paul. Coach Bradley couldn’t help but notice this dedicated woman, working her heart out in the small space of the gym, and Paul casually introduced her as his friend and training partner. Just as they had hoped, after Paul and Bradley began to train, Coach Bradley called Bonnie over and worked them both.

    Bonnie recalls how she would have killed herself to please the Coach, and in fact she did win his admiration, and later he became her official trainer. He watched her respond to his commands that day and told Paul, “Now that’s how you train.”