The Glowing Edge

Tag: coaches

  • When You Have a Bad First Sparring Experience

    When You Have a Bad First Sparring Experience

    Sparring is NOT boxing for fitness. When you get in that ring, everything changes. It’s not like drills, it’s not like working the heavy bag, it’s not like padwork.

    Sparring is radically different. Someone is trying to punch you in the face, and when you’re new to it, this can be not only terrifyingly alien, it can be downright demoralizing.

    Here’s an email I received recently about exactly that:

    I love The Glowing Edge, and it has been an invaluable resource to me as I begin to take the sport more seriously. I wanted to write to get your take on beginning to spar.

    I have been going to a boxing gym for two years. The structure of the gym is mostly boxing-for-fitness classes. There’s only one other woman at the gym who spars and I finally had my first experience sparring with her.

    I only went three rounds and I was rattled. It’s much more intimidating than I thought. I don’t know this fighter well. I didn’t feel comfortable asking her to ease up, I was worried that it would embarrass my coach and even though I’ve been going at it so hard in classes and training, all of a sudden I felt like there had been a gap in my education.

    1. What can I do to move forward from a first night of sparring that felt sort of demoralizing?
    2. Am I just being a whiny dumbass?

    I don’t want to be one of those types who only shows up to sparring once or twice and then fades out. But I don’t know how to approach my coach about this. I also don’t want to go back to just doing classes for fun.

    Hey, sparring sister. I know EXACTLY the stage you are in and NO you are not a whiny dumbass. This is 100% normal, and many of us have this same experience. More in a sec. First let me say this…

    Sparring takes some getting used to

    It really does. It’s a whole different game than pad work, drills, everything. That you went 3 rounds as a newbie is damned impressive. It’s some scary shit, right?

    You had your first sparring experience with someone you didn’t really know, and I get that you wanted to not disappoint your coach. Sounds like she kinda overwhelmed you.

    Here’s what the BEST sparring partners do for you

    The best sparring partners hold themselves TO or JUST ABOVE your level so that you can get some good work without getting hurt or demoralized.

    Sure, you may be bruised and headachy, but not so much that you’re like, “I don’t know if I want to do this again.”

    The best coaches make sure this happens. But not everybody gets this kind of attention. Just a fact of gym life.

    This is why you might not get much help when you’re new to sparring…

    Boxing gyms do not survive because pro fighters train there. They don’t make money because someone wants to learn to compete in the amateurs, either. The trainers and coaches are not always even boxers themselves.

    Boxing gyms survive financially because people want to get fit, not hit.

    That’s just how it is. That’s where the money is, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

    However, that means you have to take some initiative if you want to get your higher-level training and sparring work. SO. Here are a few tips for that.

    The process of finding and getting to know sparring partners takes time and balls (ovaries?). If your gym doesn’t always give newbies excellent sparring partners who know how to do this, you gotta start building your own sparring program…

    How to build YOUR OWN sparring program at ANY gym

    1. Get to know some sparring partners.

    Good sparring partners are SOLID GOLD to have. So make sparring friends. Travel to multiple gyms if you have to. Trade phone numbers. Friend them on Facebook.

    The more you actually know other boxers as friends, the more comfortable you will be talking to them in the ring, letting them know what you need, helping them adjust to you.

    Guys are fine for this. Just because you’re female doesn’t mean you have to only spar women. (That is such a bullshit attitude and I see it now and then from coaches.)

    In fact, befriend some big guys. Charm them. Ask them for their opinion, for tips on certain moves. They are men, they love this shit. I’m telling you, this works every time. Hello men? Am I wrong? No I am not. 🙂

    Let them feel like they are “mentoring” you — because guess what? They actually are.

    Then when they’re getting in the ring, ask for their “warm up” rounds. In other words, you’re making it clear that their “warm up” is your “training.” They stop feeling pansy-ass working with a “girl” and start feeling all helpful to a woman.

    I know, cheesy manipulation tactics.

    But it really does work. Women have to be sneaky-asses sometimes in pursuit of bigger goals.

    There will come a day when your rounds are nobody else’s warm ups, and when you’ll shine in the ring. You will be the one all the new people ask for help.

    2. Don’t wait until “sparring night.”

    Hijack the process and make your own timeline.

    I told you this would take balls. Stop being so damn polite!

    The more you can pass off your sparring as “just working on some tactics with so-and-so” the more pressure you take off everyone involved, including any coach who might be nearby.

    FAKE it till you make it. Pretend it’s all very casual — force it to be. Believe me, that helps SO much.

    3. Be consistent.

    Keep at it. The longer you go without sparring, the scarier it gets.

    I’m still boxing while I stare 50 in the face, and loving every day of it. I love when sparring is magic, and I even love the days when I get my ass kicked (the good kind of ass kicking, not the demoralizing kind).

    There’s so much joy and empowerment in this sport; I really hope you’ll stick with it!

    Let yourself be a newbie for a few years

    You are brand-freaking-new at this. I know it doesn’t seem that way, but boxing takes FOR EVER to get good at.

    You’re going to get better at dealing with the punches. You’re going to get better at moving your head and feet. You’ll learn to control the ring.

    And you’re going to get to know more and more people in the boxing world the longer you stick with this. This may be the biggest, most life-encompassing challenge you’ve ever faced on a daily basis.

    It’s totally worth it.

    Photo Credit: kate.gardiner via Compfight cc

  • Fighting the Dread of Boxing Training

    Fighting the Dread of Boxing Training

    Having just moved to a new boxing gym, I’m once again reminded of how hard it is to make inroads into a new gym, a new team. I don’t mean overcoming the reluctance to train, but rather the simple and profound fear of boxing itself, and all the insanely hard work it takes to stand in the ring.

    Part of my newly re-awakened dread has to do with moving up several levels to train with a much more intense, powerful, competitive crew. I really did think I was in shape until I showed up at Second Round, and I’ve been struggling for several weeks to be able to train there two days in a row, without at least one or two days in between to recover.

    So my first tactic in fighting the dread of boxing training is — crazily enough — to train harder.

    My husband thinks it’s ironic that I run several miles, jump rope for 20 minutes and do hurdles on my “off” days. But we’re both starting to understand that some of that off-day training has to do with a mental leap that I’m making every time I show up at the new boxing gym. I need to know that I’m capable of working hard on my own, that I can endure the heat and the struggle without someone urging me forward; I need to believe that I’m doing this because I choose to do it, even on the days I don’t love it. The power is mine.

    I also maintain a fair amount of mental radio silence.

    Every day that I plan to go to the new gym I start to get gut churn around noon. I could give myself pep talks, but I’ve found that there really isn’t anything I can say to convince myself not to sweat it so hard. Boxing training is not about talk, it’s about work.

    You would think that I might have learned this life lesson by now. It’s true in my writing, which I do both professionally and recreationally. I don’t waste much time telling myself that I should write, or that I’m good at writing. I don’t spend much time planning my writing, either: I write. I sit down, power up my laptop, and do it. I make mistakes, I edit, I polish, I publish; that’s how it gets done.

    Unless I’m actually prepping for a fight, it doesn’t help me to think about boxing training in advance. Instead, I have to jam the channel. I mentally tune my brainwaves to a smooth light hiss, not unlike the sound of the ocean. And I trust myself to be able to face it when I’m actually stepping into the gym.

    It can be difficult to accept all the unknowns in boxing.

    If there’s a sparring opportunity, I get in the ring. It’s the hardest thing in boxing to do this, over and over again. And everyone who has ever rolled under the ropes understands firsthand how terrifying it can be to not know anything about the person you are about to fight. But there are other, more common unknowns as well.

    For example, I’m still learning how training happens in my new gym. There doesn’t seem to be a regular way of doing things (regardless of any schedule that may or may not exist), but team training does come together under the direction of a coach sometimes; it’s almost like the conditions just have to be a certain way for it to happen — and you have to be there at the right time to catch the wave.

    You also have to be willing to drop in on the wave when it happens.

    I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep up. I don’t know if I’ll hold back the entire team, or be able to give my drill partner the kind of work they want and need. I don’t know if I’ll slip the right way or get repeatedly punched in the face. But I’ll never know unless I jump in and take my place with the team. No one invites me to join in; I have to do it myself. But every time I’ve stepped forward, I’ve won another small nod of respect from my teammates and coaches.

    I’ve learned that I perform well under pressure.

    Channeling fear into energy takes practice. There are always plenty of fighters who are better than you. There are four boxers currently in the Olympic pre-qualification process at my small urban gym. Four! They are extremely skilled and they work far harder than I do, every day. It can be intimidating for me to walk in and share a heavy bag with one of them, or join their training rotation, but I do it. I work very hard to channel that intimidation into training energy in the same way that I let faster runners spur me on. And while I might find that I don’t measure up to someone else’s level, I have discovered that I consistently perform better when I’m challenged.

    More and more I’ve come to wonder if boxing imitates life.

    And I’m laughing, because boxing is so much gentler. There are rules, and safety precautions, and coaches. You get to leave the gym any time you want. You might be bloodied and bruised, but there are no broken hearts, or terminally ill friends, or moral dilemmas in boxing. There are no looming deadlines or financial disasters.

    But every day you step forward and fight, despite the dread. Not to win a prize, or build a record, or turn back the clock, but because it’s what you do. It’s how you live.

    It’s who I am honored to be.

    Image by jnyemb on Flickr

  • Transitioning

    Transitioning

    I’ve been offline, trying to catch my breath between wave sets and wipeouts.

    The turbulence of job shifts (I’m now working from home rather than from an office in another city), training shifts (my trainer moved out of state, my fight is coming up in April), and other big and small events and financial re-arrangements have significantly changed the shape of my days for the past month, and I’m working to discern how I will fit into my own life for the next bit of the future.

    Out of necessity I withdrew from nearly all of my social hubs and just tried to hang on. Now the first and biggest wave of the set has passed (that was the biggest one, right?), and I’ve wiped out but I’m upright, catching my breath and trying to figure out how to meet the next one, which I can already see coming. Hell, I can see ten of ’em from here.

    I’m in transition, I know this feeling.

    In boxing, we work to get good at transitions. The entire purpose of training with intervals, for example, is to get good at physically working hard (sprinting, punching, etc.) for a 3 minute period, then to recover well in 30 seconds or a minute in order to work extremely hard for another 3 minute space. During that recovery time you mentally shift into neutral and try to convince your body to slow down. Deep breaths, hands in the air if you have a stitch, slowing down the heart rate as much as possible. Standing straight, never bending double with hands on your knees. Straight and tall, breathing, looking forward.

    I’ve rarely been aware of much outside my boxing corner during the periods between rounds. I don’t hear the perpetual thump of hip-hop over the sound system, the rapid-fire gunning of the speed bag, the shot calls of other trainers in the gym, or the thwack of leather meeting leather on the heavy bags. All those external stimuli are drowned out in the deafening roar of my blood and the heavy buzz of focus that narrows your vision to a 20×20 square of dirty canvas and the ropes that give it boundaries.

    The one thing I can hear — and in fact what I am listening for — is a corner.

    During the period between rounds, your corner is telling you that you performed well, that you can breathe, that you are okay. You stake everything on believing them.

    After a few seconds your corner begins to set your course for the next interval. She outlines a strategy, notes what strengths you should employ, and points out the lapses in your opponent’s style or form and how you can take advantage of them. And in all of this, more than anything else, your corner communicates that she believes in you. I know few powers on earth more significant than that one.

    When you are in transition, you need someone to believe in you.

    Someone to remind you of the many things you already know, to point out the skills you have worked so hard to build, and the goals that brought you to this point.

    As I write this I am one week into training for my next fight, without the trainer I’ve loved, learned from, and counted on for the past two years . Her life has undergone a series of changes as well, and now she’s in New York launching her next big thing.

    I’m sporting a black eye just turning to green and nursing a severely strained shoulder. My normal training schedule is completely wonked because I’m no longer at my office, no longer enjoying the work perk of a fitness gym one block from our building. I’ve missed two weight sessions and am looking at a week of restricted activity because of this injury.

    I can feel myself thinking, “Well, you aren’t off to a great start, are you?” I took my first round hard, and am having a hard time figuring out how to get through the next.

    Listening for the voice of a corner.

    And there has been a new voice — entirely unexpected, but there nonetheless.

    When I called Terri “The Boss” Moss, promoter of the upcoming Atlanta Corporate Fight Night, to let her know my job had changed, my trainer had moved, and I’d been injured and might have trouble getting ready for my fight, I was expecting her to be polite as always, but privately frustrated and annoyed. After all, she has a lot riding on this event, a thousand details to oversee, and lots of boxers to coach.

    What I got was a corner. The voice of an experienced boxer, a woman who knows how training can go awry, who understands the position I am finding myself in, and who immediately began the litany of “You’re doing fine. Breathe. Here’s what I want you to do.” It looks like I may be driving down to Atlanta for some serious corner time.

    I have to say this about the women boxers I have met during this strange and beautiful journey: you are the most incredible women I’ve ever known. I can’t imagine how I would have made it without you. Thank you for the hard training, the indefatigable spirit, and most of all, the graceful cornering.

    Here’s to the next round.

    Image by akeg on Flickr.