The Glowing Edge

Tag: corner

  • Why Does Boxing Gives Us More Language for Our Lives Than ANY Other Sport?

    Why Does Boxing Gives Us More Language for Our Lives Than ANY Other Sport?

    I’ve been boxing for a few years, but it was only recently that I began noticing that most of the sports metaphors I used or heard during the course of a regular week or month came from boxing.

    You might think that is because I’m a boxer, that I’m attuned to those expressions more than others.

    But then I started trying to come up with everyday metaphors and idioms from other sports, and it found there was a notable imbalance. There seem to be far more boxing expressions than phrases drawn any other sport.

    I can think of a few idioms and metaphors from basketball (slam dunk, home court advantage), baseball (bring it home, major league, threw me a curve, struck out, hit one out of the park), golf (par for the course, below par), wrestling (no holds barred, take it to the mat), horse racing (neck and neck, by a nose, chomping at the bit, free reign, home stretch)…

    But when it comes to boxing, there seems to be a much longer list.

    Why are there so many boxing expressions in our everyday language? Why are so many phrases and common metaphors drawn from a sport that simply doesn’t have the kind of widespread adoration that baseball, basketball, or soccer has? (Why can I come up with more horse racing metaphors than football metaphors?)

    Is it because our lives are a fight? Because the world is a contentious place filled with opposing forces? That doesn’t seem to fit, since most sports are about opposing teams or players.

    There IS something gritty and painful and dark about boxing that I just don’t see in other sports. Many famous fighters came up from the poorest, most dire situations. And boxing puts us in a gut-wrenching, heartbreaking, bone-crushing kind of place at times. It publicly exposes our bodies and our vulnerabilities. It requires both the basest human physical violence as well as a sharp mental acumen, along with truckloads of courage and heart.

    It’s more stripped down than football. More messy and violent than basketball, volleyball, or soccer.

    It is certainly filled with more extremes… Boxing is both brutal and graceful, painful and glorious, terrible and triumphant; more so than any other sport I can think of.

    Perhaps it names something viscerally true and primal about the experience of being human, and that’s why it gives us so much language for our lives.

    I’d love to know the answers, but meanwhile here’s my list of common metaphors and expressions that are derived from boxing. I wanted to compile and explain them from a boxer’s experience and viewpoint, and affirm for myself just how clear, common, and predominant these words and expressions are.

    Feel free to add your own thoughts about the boxing “corner” on metaphors, or expressions I’ve missed, in the comments below.

    In your corner

    This one is probably my favorite. The corner refers not only to the spot where you can stand or sit down and rest between rounds, but also the person who is in that spot taking care of you. When someone’s in your corner, they’re thinking, strategizing, cheering for, and supporting you.

    A good corner (person) is critical in boxing because you need an outside perspective, someone thinking for you when you are too physically engaged to be able to work the mental game. A corner can call the shots for you (another metaphor you hear used in many sports), give you an idea of your opponent’s weaknesses, keep you on strategy, calm you down, and even take care of your injuries.

    Down (or out) for the count

    If you go to the canvas after a hard punch, you automatically get an 10-count from the referee. If you can’t get back up and continue the fight, you’re down for the count.

    Related is “take a knee,” which is from old-school boxing, where a fighter voluntarily goes to one knee to concede the fight. You don’t hear that much in everyday language (although coaches might do it to call everyone into a huddle), but once in a while someone will take a knee to beg off doing something they really don’t want to do, like attend a long graduation service or a family reunion.

    Pull your punches

    Not putting your full weight, power, and reach behind a shot. When you are in an actual fight, you wouldn’t do this. But in sparring and everyday boxing you don’t necessarily want to punch with your full power. Training is different than competing, and if you hurt your training partner you don’t have anyone to train with.

    Other reasons for pulling your punches are because of a dramatic weight differential (I’m a welterweight, but I spar with heavyweights who could hurt me if they didn’t pull their punches), or experience level (an experienced boxer is careful to bring the game to a new boxer’s level and routinely pulls punches).

    Punch drunk / Punchy

    I can attest to the woozy feeling you get when you take a really hard punch, or several of them in a row. And it never occurred to me until recently that the adjective “punchy,” which I associate heavily with my college years, was in fact a boxing term. After a long weekend of drinking rather than studying, you stay up all night prepping for an exam and you get to feeling pret-ty punchy indeed…

    On the ropes

    There are some boxers who are awesome at fighting while pressed up against the ropes (Melissa “Huracan” Hernandez comes to mind), but for the most part it’s a position you don’t want to find yourself pinned in.

    Being on the ropes means your opponent is controlling the game, and they are keeping you in position and racking up points punching you relentlessly because you can’t get away from them. It typically means you’re tired, not thinking clearly, and your opponent is actively winning the fight.

    Roll with the punches

    When I first started boxing I thought defense was all about completely avoiding being punched. In fact, a slip or roll is just a way to defuse some of the power of a shot that is most likely going to land. In other words, you’re probably going to take the shot. But you don’t want to take it full on, in all it’s power. Instead, you slip quickly an inch or two to the left or right, or roll under or to the side.

    It’s how a sailor might walk on the deck of a ship that’s pitching and yawing in high seas; they aren’t avoiding the swells, but rather moving in concert with them so that they aren’t tossed to the deck.

    Knockout

    Obvious, right? But by the sheer prevalence of usage I’d say it points to one of the reasons we viscerally identify with boxing over other sports. It’s about power, winning, and losing, and we connect it to sex, life, and death.

    Take it on the chin / Lead with your chin / Glass jaw

    This sounds different to me in common usage than the way I experience it in boxing. In the ring, you keep a tight guard, or you slip and roll in order to not take punches to your face or chin. Of course you DO take shots to the nose, chin, jaw, cheek, ears, and forehead; it’s part of the game.

    But most people use the phrase to describe being brave in the face of adversity, or courageously taking the full brunt of a bad situation.

    In boxing, it’s stupid to voluntarily take it on the chin — you can get your head snapped back, and you can be knocked out.

    And leading with your chin is the rankest of newbie mistakes. Some coaches even train boxers with a racquetball between their chin and chest in order to get them in the habit of tucking and protecting their chin.

    Related is “glass jaw,” which is used to refer to someone easily knocked out when hit on the chin. Most boxers aren’t going to go very far in the ring if they have one of these.

    Toe to toe / Infighting

    In today’s boxing, this is used to describe inside fighting, where your toes are likely to touch. Sometimes you even step on each other’s feet when you’re fighting close and inside.

    It’s NOT, however, standing squared up and face to face (which seems to be the common usage); that’s just poor fighting position. You box with one foot forward and one to the rear, your lead shoulder in front. So you’re slightly sideways to each other, and presenting the smallest possible target.

    The only other time you’d be toe to toe with your opponent is when you greet each other at the start of the fight. The ref calls you in from the corners, you listen to your instructions and agree to the match, bang gloves and return to your corners to wait for the bell.

    Square off

    Presumably this is derived from the shape of the modern boxing ring (which is a square, but we call it a ring because of how a circle forms around fighters). You wouldn’t actually face an opponent “square on” or face to face in boxing today, as mentioned above.

    Saved by the bell

    This was a boxing reference long before it was an internet hoax about people in the 1500s being buried with strings and bells to protect against being buried alive. Snopes has this one correct, while Yahoo Answers is still wrong.

    Being saved by the bell in boxing also predates the 80’s television show and all the times we felt that way in high school.

    Being saved by the bell does not necessarily mean you don’t lose the fight, only that you get a few seconds’ rest to try and recover to go another round if there is one. It might mean you narrowly avoid being knocked out if you took a bad shot and were about to go to the canvas or were being counted out when the bell rang.

    Throw your hat in the ring

    This has nothing to do with boxing today, but apparently once upon a time you could challenge a boxer to a fight by throwing your hat in the boxing ring. Presumably prizefighter would take on all comers? These days we just send an email, hah.

    Beat them to the punch

    This is a beginner’s fundamental strategy in the ring, and one of the main uses for a jab, the first punch you learn in boxing. A jab is primarily used to keep your opponent at bay or to interrupt their shots. Very effective, very basic, and part of the bread and butter of every boxer’s work.

    Low blow

    The thing you may not know about it is that in amateur boxing, you can’t score from any shot below the waistband of your opponent’s trunks. The reason is obvious.

    And sometimes if a boxer is wearing the same color tank and shorts, the officials will require them to wrap a band of athletic tape around their waists to mark the scoring boundary. This is why you’ll see most boxing trunks with contrasting waistband colors.

    Throw in the towel

    I read somewhere that this one used to be “throw in the sponge” — or at least, that was how a corner could end a fight and thus save damage when his or her boxer was clearly losing. These days we use towels, of course.

    It’s not all that uncommon in amateur boxing (although it’s more likely that you’ll see a ref call off a fight), but I rarely see it in pro fights.

    Keep your guard up / Taken off guard

    This is another fundamental of boxing, just as in life. When you see a boxer’s gloves begin to drop below the chin, you’re seeing a boxer who is tired and open for full-face shots. If you’re in a boxing gym you’re likely to hear the phrase “Gloves up!” repeatedly called by coaches. It’s so important that many of our non-boxing-specific exercises — like squats, for example — are performed with our guard up, too.

    Come out swinging / Go down swinging

    Coming out swinging is a standard strategy in boxing; the goal is to take your opponent off guard (see above) and show the judges that you intend to dominate. Or that you’ve recovered from a bad round.

    On the other hand, if you go down swinging, you show that you weren’t too gassed (didn’t prepare or train well) or too disheartened to give it your all, all the way to the canvas.

    Heavyweight / Lightweight

    I find it interesting that weight categories are so standard and equal in boxing, but in life people only want to be heavyweights.

    The only time you see issues of inequality in weight categories in boxing is during sparring, where you might find a featherweight working with a welterweight, or when a fighter who is naturally one weight class has cut or gained an enormous amount of weight to get into a different class.

    Take a dive

    It sounds like a swimming phrase to me, but it comes from the boxing tactic of going to the canvas and intentionally losing a fight. Typically it’s used when a boxer (illegally) loses for money. They threw the match by taking a dive.

    In the clinch

    This could originate from wrestling, I’m not sure. But in boxing, your performance in the clinch is critical because you get in one either to stop your opponent’s flurry of shots, or to rest while also leaning on and tiring your opponent.

    Clinches happen all the time and are a basic part of every fighter’s strategy, but they’re technically illegal, and referees break them up pretty quickly because the object of the round is to fight, not rest.

    Fight until the bell rings / Go the distance

    I had to put this one last, for effect. Rocky taught the world about going the distance — all 15 rounds — in the ring with Apollo Creed; it wasn’t about beating Creed, it was about finishing the fight. But boxers have been fighting to make it through their scheduled rounds since long before then, whether they were “bums from the neighborhood” or not.

     

    Creative Commons Image by  SuperWebDeveloper on Flickr

  • Boxing Win in Wilmington

    Boxing Win in Wilmington

    I had my first fight with my Second Round team in Wilmington.

    It’s always a toss-up, fighting Masters, as to whether I’ll actually get an opponent. I weighed in at an event last month and my opponent didn’t show. Women over the age of 35 who want to compete in the ring are few and far between, then there is the further narrowing of the field because of weight class, experience level, geography, and the random unexpected injuries, family demands and other contingencies.

    Because it’s so difficult to get opponents, my goal has become to get one fight every year. Last year got checked off with my October fight. (The December fight was classified “exhibition” and doesn’t count toward my goal.) This year got checked off with my fight in March. I’m feeling a little gleeful to have met and exceeded my goal for this year now!

    My opponent got connected for this match through a coach in Wilmington about 3 weeks ago. He had let my coach know she was light and we’d have to get our weights closer in order to get the match. I got down from 142 to 135 and I think she came up from 125 to 132. And she drove 6 hours from Virginia to be at the event; I only had to drive two hours.

    We both arrived just before weigh-ins were scheduled to begin. There were only 6 women out of the 44 total boxers fighting at this event, and only one Masters bout; I picked her out immediately. She was really beautiful, and just a bit shorter than me. I smiled and spoke to her.  Not everyone wants to chat with their opponent in advance of a match, but she was entirely polite. We made weight, turned in our passbooks, and parted ways to wait out the endless, miserable hours of the day until we could get our fight.

    I love pretty much everything about boxing except the day of a fight.

    Well, and cutting or gaining weight; those both suck, but they are at least bearable. The endless hours of waiting for a tiny, six minute test of your skill and power are excruciating.

    Everyone has different tricks and coping mechanisms, but there’s no escaping the endless circus of weigh-ins, passbooks, medicals, getting your food/liquid intake right and timed, sitting for hours in metal folding chairs, finding a bathroom (this one didn’t have toilet paper), constantly tamping down your anxiety, keeping an eye on the time, meeting your opponent, staying limber, and maintaining sanity in the loud din of the crowd.

    Every time I go through it I take a paperback to read, but this never helps. There are too many things you must pay attention to during the long hours of waiting. Even having my Shuffle (finally got the playlist right — the quiet stuff from my exhibition fight had failed at fight #2 in Atlanta, so I went back to hard rock) didn’t help much, because I constantly had to take out my earbuds to answer questions, find out what I was expected to do next, help someone find scissors, etc., etc., etc.

    Finally I dressed out and sat for my coach to wrap my hands. I normally love this ritual, but in this case, I was wracked with anxiety because my fight got moved up at the last minute so I felt late, after all that damn waiting. I straddled my metal chair, draped my arms over the back where Coach Massey could reach them, and spent the next 15 minutes staring at the bright silver dog tag on his chest. It says “One Bad Jab.” It was his ring name, from his pro fighting days.

    “Do you miss fighting?” I asked him.

    “Hell, no,” he responded, laughing and flashing his gold tooth. For just a moment I felt entirely aligned with his sentiment. Why would anyone want to go through this misery on a regular basis?

    “I miss sparring though,” he continued, and I nodded in understanding. All the guts and joy of boxing without the hellish hours of a fight day.

    Once you’re wrapped and gloved, you become entirely dependent on your coaches. I had to ask Coach Mandy to find my headband and put it on me for the short period before my match. She gave me a drink of water. She found my mouthpiece (in my sock — this is a great place to keep it in the hour before you fight, btw) and checked my laces.

    I made my usual joke: “I need to go to the bathroom,” I said as I stretched out and began to move. The big gloves make this impossible, unless you have a reeeeeallly close friend.

    “Can’t help you there,” she said quickly, and we both laughed a little.

    I continued to chatter nervously, almost mindlessly: what I should remember, how I should move; combos, tactics, offenses and defenses.

    At some point she stopped me quietly with a hand over my gloves.

    “You’ve already trained for this,” she reminded me. “You’re overthinking it. Just let your body perform.”

    She was absolutely right, and it was the perfect advice, the best possible thing I could have heard.

    The match before mine was finishing. I stood ringside amid the din of screaming onlookers as the two fighters ahead of me battled. I couldn’t hear Coach Massey’s advice anymore. He held pads for me but I couldn’t hear the combos. I shuffled like an anxious racehorse, frustration rising in me.

    Finally, the closing bell.

    Massey held one pad. “Gimme the power,” he said, “Jab, right.”

    I sighed in deep relief. If there is one thing I can do, this is it. My jab was fierce, and the right was at full-scale knockout level. It was like a pistol shot: bip-BAM.

    “Again.”

    Bip-BAM. Bip-BAM! I could hear it echo in the rafters.

    “Keep going.”

    Six more combos in a row I gave him, every one as perfect and loud and solid. He grinned and shook his head, and his gaze did a slow circle of the crowd around us; all eyes were now on us.

    Later I realized that the eyes of my opponent were probably also on us. Massey knew what he was doing, letting me show my power like that. Letting me go in confident in my own strength.

    Outside of the actual fight, it was the best moment of my entire night.

    I rolled under the ropes and felt the deep satisfaction of the ring settle around me. Time to do what I do.

    My opponent surged out with a flurry. I tapped out measuring jabs and began to circle, assessing what I was up against. It’s probably better to go ahead and claim the early part of the first round, but I wasn’t really expecting such a long, light string of flurries. She had punches in bunches, no doubt.

    It didn’t take me long to see what I would be doing. Her hands were busy, but she was staying squared up a bit, giving me a sweet little pipeline down the center to her face. An invitation to my power right.

    Bip-BAM, bip-BAM, bip-BAM. Yep, those were actually gonna work.

    My jabs weren’t connecting every time, but my rights were absolutely solid, and every single one was on target. I suppressed my glee and put my brain back in gear. She was not bringing pain, but she might be scoring with the sheer number of shots she was throwing.

    In the amateurs it doesn’t matter if you can throw a bomb; a hard hit scores the same as a medium hit, so long as it connects. Bombs are intimidating, but they aren’t 3-pointers.

    I had to shut down her scoring machine. I clinched, got my arm around the back of her head and squeezed and leaned, hard. The ref nearly decked me himself, breaking the clinch and yelling at me for my patently illegal move. But it broke the onslaught and didn’t cost me. They’ll warn you before they take a point.

    I glanced over to see how my opponent was taking it. Her face was flushed from the power rights already. I absolutely had to keep her on the end of my jab and prevent her inside game.

    She rushed back out and we worked hard to the end of the round.

    At the break both of my coaches told me I was ahead, but I wasn’t confident about it. I knew I wasn’t moving my feet and I thought the judges might be counting her shots higher, even though they were coming mostly from the sides. I felt like I’d only taken one or two solid shots to my head — nearly everything else was on my arms and shoulders, which meant my guard was good, but I wasn’t moving around enough.

    The second round was where I began to rely on Coach Massey’s strategy. Once you’re in and have tried your game, it’s unbelievably helpful to have someone calling your shots and guiding you through the hard mental work while you do the physical work.

    My attempts at longer combos were not scoring all the way through; my hooks often missed because I wasn’t getting in position and getting them off before she moved. She was fast, and seemed to throw four and five shots at a time.

    Massey 86’d my hooks. “Straighten it out,” he called from my corner. “Give me the straight right….Thank you.”

    The right was scoring and I still had all bars in my power meter. I wasn’t gassed. My feet were not moving, but my one-two continued to hold the fort.

    She was slowing and starting to pant. The left side of her face was beginning to swell. I felt like a robot, an automatron, an idiot on repeat. Surely I could do something besides this, surely. Lord I wanted finesse, grace! I wanted to move less like a wooden toy; I wanted to show beauty as well as power. Why can’t I be pretty in the ring??

    “Go to the body,” Massey called from the corner.

    I sent up a mental thank you, and suddenly had something new to do.

    “Double the jab,” he called, and I did. I did lots of things, but there was one thing that worked every time…

    At the round break, I had the feeling we were going change gears. I don’t remember what either of my coaches said (other than their reassurance that I was still ahead), I mostly only recall going back out, still feeling slow but strong.

    Massey held me back, over and over again, with a steady call of “Wait for her…” She was struggling now, and I could stand and deliver. If I could time it just right each time, she would come forward into my shots.

    “Don’t advance,” he warned, “Hold…”

    It was hard, because I felt I had to advance to score, but he was right, she was coming and with a surge of joy I realized I was beginning to see her shots arriving. Midway through the third I ducked a spectacular all-in jab-right, and she went sailing past me; the crowd roared. Belatedly I realized I should have come up with a quick left hook.

    I sighed inwardly. Someday I may finally put all the pieces of this game together, but not today. Today I was a particularly skilled kindergartener, and my rights would have to carry the day.

    And they did.

    My opponent was wonderful. She never quit, she barreled forward and burned energy at a ferocious rate. She threw far more combos than I did. She didn’t let the hard power put her out. She gave game to the very last bell.

    I deeply respect that. ANY woman — or man, for that matter — willing to go through what a competitive boxer goes through deserves the title Bad Ass. Sara (I never heard her last name), I salute you. You were awesome.

    I was happy to be handed the gold medal, and once again I was stunned at my instant “I want to do this again” response, even though I’d spent the 24 hours before my glorious 6 minutes in pure anguish.

    There’s no rational explanation.

    Only the challenge to be better. Only the relentless push to master my body and make it perform in concert with my brain in the complex intricacies of this sweet science.

    And the sheer, brutal pleasure of a fight.

    Image: Coach Willie “One Bad Jab” Massey with me after the win. Thanks to Cathy Linkous for the photo!

  • Taking a Knockout Punch

    Taking a Knockout Punch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Reggie stayed in range.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It was.

    Image by JD Hancock on Flickr.

  • 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.

  • I Won My Fight!

    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.

    1. 3 New Lessons in the Boxing Ring

      3 New Lessons in the Boxing Ring

      My newest sparring partner is 6’4″ and two hundred and please-don’t-hit-me pounds. Monstrous. And wonderful in the ring. We had a very respectable five rounds in the ring this weekend and he taught me a lot.

      Obviously a guy this big has to work with care when sparring a skinny chick like me. So we did what you do when you know it’s not evenly matched: you warm up a round or two, then begin to work on some very specific skills. In his case, defense, and in mine, getting past his defense. So I started out working my way past his ridiculously long reach to land a punch to his head or body, and being deeply satisfied when I could land something solid without taking too many of his jabs in exchange.

      But after a while I began to notice how much chasing I was doing in the ring. We were circling at a pretty high speed, and I could feel myself wearing out. The constant advice from my trainer and my corner was to keep moving, keep moving. It was imperative to slip and dodge as many of his punches as I possibly could. And I was pretty damn motivated to do so, but was starting to really get winded by the third round.

      On the bell I heaved my mouthguard out and panted, “I feel like I’m having to chase him all over the ring. I can’t figure out what to do; I have to keep moving.”

      “You do have to keep moving,” my coach replied, “but you need to quit chasing him. Move your head, slip his punches, but stay in the center of the ring and let him come to you for a change.”

      You would think this would not be so difficult, but I feel like I’ve been diving after my opponent since the first day I stepped into the ring. I’m not sure why I do this, but for the first time ever I forced myself to put all other systems on auto-pilot (keep the jab out there, move the head), stop circling, and try to wait for my opponent to come to me.

      It’s agonizing, the waiting. And it wasn’t working right, I could tell. At the end of the third round I groaned my frustration to my trainer. And she gave me a magic word that made it fall into place. “Pivot,” she said. You can’t stand there and get pounded, you have to move. But you don’t want to burn up your energy circling all over the ring. So stay in the center, throw your combination, then pivot away so that his returning fire hits the spot you just left. And then he has to come to you to throw again.” Suddenly everything came in to sharp and immediate focus. I saw — literally, as if someone had projected it on a screen — how this tactic could work. I bit down on my mouthguard, banged my gloves together, and when the bell rang I surged to the center of the ring.

      It worked. Throw, pivot. Throw, duck, pivot. I was awkward and sloppy, but onto something. Coby grunted encouragingly when I got it right, and we worked the round three more long minutes, swinging, sweating, and making our brains teach our bodies new patterns. The fourth round passed in a haze of hard labor.

      At the bell I poured water over my head and asked for help again. I could feel it coming together, but was having trouble keeping command of the center of the ring. “Why am I still losing control?” I asked, working to recover my breathing.

      “Because,” she said, “you are moving at the same speed as your opponent. You’re running less because you’re pivoting, but he’s able to circle the ring on the outside enough to keep wearing you down. You have to cut him off, and to cut him off you’ll have to move faster than him for a minute. Dart in front and force the confrontation. Punch and pivot. Recover while you wait for him to come to you. If he starts circling again, cut him off again. Dart ahead, throw, pivot, rest. You’ll get it. Keep working.”

      How did I never realize I was constantly matching, but never exceeding, the speed of my opponent? But it was totally true. And I found that the short darts, the burst of energy, served me well. There was no finesse left in me, no secrets, no subtlety. But new knowledge buoyed my spirits and I pushed myself on, finishing our fifth and last round feeling like a rock star.

      Stop chasing and pivot. Wait for him to come to you. Cut off the ring by moving faster than your opponent. Three new lessons, and dozens of sparring sessions stretching ahead of me in which to practice and learn them. It feels awesome to be growing and learning in the ring.

      And it’s even better knowing I have incredible sparring partners and trainers there helping me become a better boxer. Exuberant and grateful fist bumps to all of you: Coach Bonnie, Lisa (in the corner), and Coby. You guys rocked my week.

      Image credit: helico on Flickr
    2. First (Unofficial) Match!

      First (Unofficial) Match!

      On Thursday I received a two-sentence email that made me shriek and caused at least one co-worker to check in on me. In two days, some women from Wilmington and Fayetteville were going to be getting some informal matches at a Raleigh gym, and I was invited. I was invited!

      I emailed my trainer, who gave me the thumbs-up for the event, and instructed me to get in touch with Tim, to see if he could go as my corner. During team training the next night I was distracted and couldn’t concentrate. I finally reached Tim by phone around 9 pm, and he agreed to help me out, even though he was moving into a new apartment that next morning. I was set, except for trying to get some sleep that night, at which I failed miserably.

      Oh, and except for the “get there on time” part, too. I was so wound up that I got up Saturday morning, called my corner to check in, got in the car and drove to the wrong gym.

      Whereupon I called my corner, admitted I was an idiot, and drove to the correct gym, arriving 20 minutes late. Arrgh.

      Tim was waiting on me and we walked in together. I immediately saw a woman already in the ring whom I’d seen fight in Fayetteville. I knew I would be okay if I had to get in with her. But she was working with another boxer who was even better: this woman was fast, light, and throwing multiple flurries that snapped and popped and echoed in the otherwise empty gym. “Crap,” I said. “I hope they don’t put me in with that girl. She’s good.”

      “She has a lot more experience than you do,” Tim noted smoothly, adding, “But you’re fine. You’re ready for this.”

      Corners are always like this. They tell you stuff that initially appears to be an outright lie: take for example “You’re fine.” On the face of it, this is a pure-dee falsehood. I was not fine, I was triple-knotted and soaked with anxiety and terrified out of my wits. But somehow when they say “You’re fine,” you are so conditioned to listen and obey that it begins to be true. Your anxiety level immediately dips and you begin the journey toward fine. Actually, it’s somewhat miraculous. Doctors should get in on this act, but they never will because it won’t make them any money.

      Once he had me listening, Tim followed by telling me in the quietest, calmest, you-better-listen-to-me-or-I’ll-personally-kick-your-ass voice, his top most important instruction for the match. “I’m going to be in your corner, I’ll be giving you instruction and you are going to listen to my voice without turning to look at me. Ever. Are you with me on this? You are not going to stop, you are going to keep boxing and I’m going to corner for you. But you are not going to turn or look at me. Right?”

      I hope I had the grace to blush. It’s a hard impulse to overcome, and I’ve screwed this up numerous times. Part of it is that the headgear blocks out so much hearing, and part of it is 43 years of cultural conditioning that says you look at someone when they talk to you. Periodically I do this when I’m in the ring and I risk getting clobbered. “I’m not going to look at you,” I promised, watching the women in the ring dance around each other.

      “Right,” he affirmed, then repeated himself a few more times for good measure.

      When we got ringside the two women climbed out of the ring for a break. Their trainers watched me with eagle eyes as I warmed up on jump rope, sizing me up ten ways from Sunday. I pretended to be impassive and tried to relax into my rope work, which I frequently find soothing anyway. My rope whizzed and clipped the concrete and sent quick, staccato echoes ricocheting off the cinderblocks. I broke a sweat pretty quickly; it was an oven in there. No one spoke. Or maybe it just seemed that way.

      By some silent signal, two fighters took the ring for a match. I skipped rope and watched, carefully evaluating the performance of each boxer and deciding in my mind what tactics I would take in response. This is a constant mental exercise for boxers: you view everyone as your potential opponent, and make lists of the strengths and weaknesses of each match-up. Already I had the first list in my head: the boxer whom I’d seen fight in Fayetteville? She was tall like me, but slower; I would beat her on punch count. She was slightly heavier than me; I would prepare myself to take harder hits and try to move and slip punches more. The young woman currently in the ring with her was a complete beginner, but a good bit heavier than me. I would stay away from her wild loaded punches, wait until she tired, then overwhelm her with simple combinations. The scary fast woman with experience? Employ my reach to keep her away from the inside game, and tighten my defense. And throw a boatload more punches. Ugh, the thought of that particular opponent was making my stomach flip and it didn’t bear thinking more on.

      I coiled up my rope and walked back over to the ring, where Tim picked up his quiet stream of instructions as if we’d never been interrupted. I gloved up and he fastened my headgear and smeared my cheeks, forehead, and chin with Vaseline, which prevents minor cuts and helps gloves slide off the face. There’s something humbling and intimate about accepting these small services from your corner or trainer; it makes me intensely grateful to not be alone in facing an opponent.

      One of the other trainers put the fast and experienced boxer in the ring, caught my eye, and lifted his chin toward where she was waiting. My heart skittered off like a covey of birds exploding into flight. I turned to face Tim. “What?? They’re putting me in with her? She’s the best fighter here!”

      “You’re fine,” he reminded me (see above). “This is why you came here today. And you’re not going to stop or turn when you listen to me.”

      He paused, then added, “I want you to do one thing today. I want you to keep your right up.” He eyed my opponent and turned back to me. I thought of her flurries popping like buckshot on plywood and nodded, banging my gloves together for emphasis. “Right up. You got it,” I mumbled over my mouthpiece.

      I climbed between the ropes, Tim climbed up to my corner, and I tried not to think. The ref called “Box!” and we bumped gloves, circled, and settled in to work.

      I almost always throw the first combination; it’s a testament to my nerves but it also happens to be a smart way to start scoring, especially with a boxer who excels at flurries. My opponent danced out of reach and waited. In what was to become our pattern for the next four rounds I advanced and threw a combination, whereupon she darted inside and unloaded as many body shots as she could.

      After the first two rounds of body shots, I felt the dawning of a glorious revelation: she wasn’t hitting me as hard as all the guys at my gym! I suddenly realized I was in the ring with someone close to my weight who was a woman. Most of my sparring partners, with the sole exception of Tim (my corner), are heavier than I am, which makes a big difference in the power of a punch. And almost all of my sparring partners are men, who often have better upper body power. Even though Tim and I are actually in the same weight category, his punches make my head buzz. Her punches weren’t nearly so hard to take!

      But I still needed to stop the inside game. My typical fallback is a double right hook to the head and body, although it isn’t the most powerful response in a close-in situation. Later that night I replayed the scene over and over again as I tried to fall asleep: I should have stepped out and thrown an overhand right. I should have tried some uppercuts. Uppercuts are incredibly hard to time and land right, but they are by far the most effective punch on someone whose head is butting toward your chest. If you can get in. This woman’s defense was pretty tight, and truthfully, I was keeping two points of contact (elbow to ribs and gloves to chin) pretty well, which kept many of her shots from meeting my midsection. She was also pretty good at jabbing out when she had to get out of the clench, but I was doing my best to lean on her, pin her gloves when they slipped under, and jab out myself when we separated. Amazingly, I was holding my own. Revelation number two.

      After the first round I returned to my corner sucking for air (anxiety is a massive energy killer) but thrilled. “You’re not tired,” Tim informed me, and I felt my battery charge immediately reverse direction and begin creeping back into the green. “And now you know what she has. This is good. This is all good.” I listened while keeping my eyes glued to my opponent in the opposite corner. Her trainer was talking calmly to her, too. About me! I remember thinking, This is so cool. They have to figure out what to do about me. Heh. I tried on some swagger. Tim told me dryly, “Lean back against the ropes and rest.” I did. “And keep your right up. Do you hear me telling you that? You’re dropping your right. She’s gonna catch you clean if you don’t keep your right up.” I nodded, and the ref called “Box!”

      We worked. We mostly worked in the same pattern the entire time; she continued to allow me to lead (I even became aware of her corner counseling her to wait for my lead) and she would power in with her body shots. I would hook to her head and body, lean on her, capture her gloves, and make her break out or shove me off. Over and over again we worked on that, neither of us able to make a major change in how it was being played. We didn’t care, we were too intensely focused and powerfully engaged to care. Three rounds went by in an eyeblink.

      Tim had been saying over and over again from the corner “Keep your right up, Lisa.” And while I heard with my ears, my body had ideas of it’s own. So in the middle of the third round she caught me clean (as predicted), in one of the most perfectly timed, beautifully executed straight rights to the face as I’ve ever taken. It had pop, it had sting, and it was gorgeous.

      I was so impressed by it that I broke ranks — just for a heartbeat — to exclaim, “Damn! Nice shot!” And for the first time I saw her grin, the white of her teeth gleaming behind the clear double mouthguard she was wearing. I did not stop, we did not even pause in our work, but there was a moment in there where I just really appreciated the beauty of that one punch, even though I was on the receiving end of it. And I tried, I really did, to get my right up to block future beauties like it. I’m sure Tim audibly cursed and sighed, and he was justified.

      But I caught her a few times too, and those shots felt equally exhilirating. Once I popped her a good one as she straightened her headgear, and inwardly did cartwheels of glee that I had not been the one to make that mistake this time, like I have so many times in the ring before.

      At the end of three rounds (typically the length of an amateur bout) the ref looked at us and raised her eyebrows. “You wanna go another round?” she asked us, and my heart sang. We both jumped at the chance. It was a beautiful thing, to find a match that feels that good, that solid, where you’re learning so much and working so hard you don’t want it to end just yet. Tim gave me another tiny sip of water, I dribbled it out (now I get that part — never did understand before how the anxiety makes you not want to drink any water), and he sent me back in.

      My opponent threw more shots than I did; if it had been an official bout she would have won. But we would never have been able to fight for points, since she is in her 20’s and I’m 43. We also would never have gotten that fourth round. So I came out thrilled about the experience and utterly unconcerned about the score. We had given each other a match, and we both came away richer. It could not have been better, as far as I was concerned.

      Once I geared down I went over to where she was resting and thanked her for the match. “I’m Lisa,” I said, and she stared at me, surprised perhaps, for just a moment, before saying, “I’m Latiesha.” I’ll be watching for her next fight, and if I ever get a chance, you can bet I’ll cheer for her.

      As Tim and I left the gym I was happily surprised one more time: my opponent’s trainer came over to us and shook hands. We had not spoken before, and I didn’t even know his name. “When you get back and see Bonnie,” he said, smiling, “you tell her Coach Andre said hello.” I was stunned that he knew who we were. When I told my trainer about it later, she just shook her head and laughed.

      “I told you before,” she grinned. “It’s a small circle of people in the boxing world. We all know each other.” That’s kind of cool, don’t you think?