The Glowing Edge

Tag: joy

  • The Hairball to Joy Ratio in Competitive Boxing

    The Hairball to Joy Ratio in Competitive Boxing

    ACFN6I’m still in that slightly blurry stage of tired where I don’t seem to have much to say about losing my fight in Atlanta this week. Actually, I have plenty to say (it’s what I do, no?), but very little of it is about the fight itself. I think part of that is the fact that my 6 minutes of actual boxing were overwhelmed by all the other craziness involved in making this happen.

    There’s this giant hairball which goes with boxing that can sometimes overwhelm the joy of the sport, and I think I’ve spent a lot of time experiencing the hairball (and poking, prodding, and trying to untangle the wretched, nasty thing) and my hairball vs. joy ratio is out of balance this time.

    Am I disappointed that I lost? Fuck yeah. Who isn’t? But it’s also really okay in another sense. I had a marvelous opponent (of whom I made a new friend), got to hang out for a very little while in a sparkling firework of a town with a range of interesting people, and was privileged to fight in an extremely well put-together event.

    I lost primarily for two reasons.

    1. I was feeling incredibly cold and low-energy and didn’t move enough. She was pretty good with her feet. (All that pro tennis she used to play, if I had to guess.)

    2. While I could work my defense pretty well by the second and third rounds, I absolutely failed to get inside her longer reach to build up my score. She had a long right cross that scored most of her points.

    Really, that’s it. It wasn’t a horrible fight or anything; and if it had been sparring I would have asked for another 5 rounds and we both would have gotten some good work in. So, overall the actual fight — while I didn’t perform like I wanted to — was really okay. And I would LOVE to box with her again, truly.

    But that 6 minutes counted for maybe 5% of the whole experience.

    The rest was a giant, pulsing hairball of…doom. Or irritation, if I dial back the dramatic echo a bit.

    And I can see you want to know more, more, more! So let me see if I can unpack some of the hairball for you, you lucky, lucky reader. If you’ve some experience of competitive boxing of your own, you already know much of this, but if not, you may be interested in seeing how the other 95% of training for and experiencing an actual match can sometimes be.

    If you’re already fit, don’t do a long training camp

    This is the first time I can ever remember where I simply got sick and tired of training. Training ate my life this time, and I crashed and burned, and (sort of) recovered. I didn’t enjoy this one the way I normally enjoy boxing training. It was just too much. Biggest lesson learned? Shorter training period! 6 weeks sounds good. More sounds like overkill.

    The single best way to train for a fight is to spar

    This was also the first time I have ever trained for a fight and had so little sparring. I was able to get weekly sparring up until Christmas, then only one sparring session in the month before the fight. Sessions were repeatedly cancelled, sparring partners were out of town, and other normal things.

    So I didn’t get sparring. And I still believe that the single best way to get ready for a fight is to spar. Once a week, minimum; twice a week is better. At least 5 to 8 rounds each time. (Along with your other training, of course.)

    It’s hard to hold weight steady when life is crazy

    I was having trouble controlling my weight in the last few days before my fight. I wanted to weigh in at exactly 145, but two days before the fight I was 144, the day before I was 143, and somehow during the long drive to Atlanta I lost yet another couple of pounds.

    I know those truckers thought I was nuts when I hauled my scale out onto the rest stop parking lots, kicked off my shoes, and weighed myself three or four times. If my weight dropped below 140 I could lose my fight, and I arrived at the hotel before weigh-ins at 141. During the drive down I’d been eating power bars, pouring water down my throat and trying not to pee. And most of all, I was twisting myself into a knot worrying about it.

    In the end, it all worked out — I just barely tipped 144 at weigh-ins. And had the best pee of my life immediately afterwards. Still, no fun was had.

    You want to be good at handling unexpected events

    I hate surprises. I try to factor as many of them out in advance as I possibly can. It didn’t work out so well this time.

    I was running close on time getting to my hotel, and because I couldn’t find a place to park anywhere to go check in, I got a little lost looking for a spot. Then I got lost, period. (No, I don’t have a GPS.)

    When I slipped into a vacant slot on the street and got out of my car to go see the names of the next cross-street up, the meter guy came and started to ticket me. I ran back and stopped him but was too angry and in a hurry to ask him for directions. I got out of there, quickly, found another spot, and logged on someone’s unlocked internet access and checked Google Maps, keeping my engine idling and watching for overzealous meter ticketers.

    Eventually I found my hotel again, discovered a metered parking slot after circling a few times, then the parking meter wouldn’t take my dollars. I put in the few coins I dug out of the bottom of my purse and bought just enough time to race into the hotel to check in and ask where their damn hotel parking was.

    That was when I learned that downtown hotels don’t provide parking for guests. You pay a good bit extra for that ($25/day), and if you plan to use a parking garage rather than the hotel valet, you have to pay every time you come and go.

    I raced over to two nearby garages, mindful of my meter time running out, and asked two very annoyed parking attendants for rates. I did some quick calculations and realized I’d have to pay the whole day rate more than once a day (due to coming and going), so I booked it back to the hotel and told the hotel valet where my car was parked and hoped he’d hurry, because my meter time was out.

    And by the thundering waves of Poseidon, I had to pee.

    By the time I got up to my hotel room, I saw that my weight was perilously close to 140. Shit. And the only travel food I had left was an apple and (I’m going to admit this) a few Corn Nuts. I ate it all, and chugged water. I had to get to the weigh-ins, and I was pulled about as tight as a Joan Rivers facelift.

    The giant hairball was gaining girth and momentum.

    Beware of drinking, odd food, and sleepless nights

    I hope I’m far too smart to screw up by drinking too much the night before a fight (I only had one much-enjoyed cocktail after weigh-ins), but I sometimes forget the many other factors that go into lowering your performance levels and increasing your stress.

    I wish I had brought my own foods. I normally always do this, because I am such a weird eater. I love to talk about junk food, but the truth is that I eat extremely clean most of the time. Almost no fast food, no processed stuff, no fast carbs, no refined sugars. All of which is fine, until you go on a trip and eat whatever is available. Vending machine garbage, fried food, white bread and pasta, etc. After a (too) long training camp of stricter-than-usual eating, I didn’t realize how hard the crap food would hit me. BYOF, y’all.

    Add to this mix a shortage of sleep. Is it hard for you to sleep in a strange place, too? I remembered to bring some over-the-counter sleeping pills, but they don’t always work. Feh. Bleary.

    I walked downtown with a crazy friend (Hi, Amy) to Peachtree Center and had a great brunch on fight day though. Kale, grilled chicken, broccoli, mushrooms…real food at Cafe Momo.

    Unfortunately, that was the last time I had a chance to eat before the fight. BYOF, as above.

    Triple your estimate for the time you’ll spend WAITING

    The hours of waiting feel endless, like sitting through the 1934 version of Les Miserables (running time 5 hours, 5 minutes) followed by 2012’s Rock of Ages (2 hours, but feels like 9).

    This is possibly the single factor I hate the most about ANY official fight, and the reason why sparring is the real joy-filled heartbeat of boxing for me.

    There are good reasons for all the waiting you’ll do. At weigh-ins, boxers not only weigh in and have their passbooks and gear checked, but they all have to go through a physical, usually with only a single physician in attendance. I’ve been at some fight nights where there were over 60 boxers, all of whom waited for 3 or 4 hours in order to be checked out. (Then they had to wait for their turn to fight.)

    Fights are expensive to put on, almost nobody is paid, and it’s a logistical nightmare unless you have dozens of volunteers who already know the routine and can help everyone get where they need to be in an orderly or timely fashion. Even when you have enough volunteers, it’s a lot of thankless work, and it takes a lot of prep time to pull one off, even on the day of the event.

    Fighters typically have to be at a venue at least a few hours in advance of start time; for this particular night the cab dropped me off around 4:30 pm, and the event was set for 7 pm. That was kind of a record for me, only having to be there 2 hours or so in advance, although of course then I had to wait another several hours to fight. At my last fight weigh-ins started at 9 am, and fights didn’t begin until that same evening.

    In this case, I had six hours of waiting at the event for six minutes of ring time. That’s a suck burrito, baby.

    The fancy is for the audience

    Most amateur fight nights, you’ll be lucky to have a folding chair to sit on, whether you’re a boxer or not. But even the time I did an exhibition match at a big-arena pro fight where the arena was nice, the digs for the boxers were still pretty grim. Pretty much everyone was crammed into a tiny 8×10 room with ancient carpet and a grimy couch; hands were wrapped by coaches in the narrow hallway as fighters shadowboxed, and there was always a wait to use the sole bathroom.

    Unlike most amateur fight nights, the venue for my recent match was gorgeous, with spotlights, a DJ, a three-piece jazz band, bartenders and caterers with spreads laid out on crisp white linens for fight attendees. Valets opened doors for women in sequined gowns and 4-inch heels, who strolled on the arms of their impeccably-dressed men down a red carpet (not kidding) to a brilliantly and professionally lit step-and-repeat for photo ops.

    The fighters, however, were sequestered behind a filmy curtain in a long, narrow strip at the far edge of the main event room. For some reason, there seemed to be a shortage of chairs, and all of the 6 or 8 chairs that could be snagged were appropriated by coaches for hand-wrapping. Everyone else stood, sat, or laid down on the poured concrete floor, which was fiercely cold.

    The doors to the venue were all kept open so that the crisp January breeze flowed through during the long hours of waiting before the official start time arrived, making that concrete floor particularly wicked. I spread my thin scarf out to keep something between me and that vicious concrete, and laid down like many of the other fighters with my head resting on my gear bag. I kept both my lightweight jacket and my heavier coat on until shortly before I walked out for my fight. I don’t know how all the women in cocktail dresses kept warm; it’s hard to imagine I was the only hothouse flower in the place.

    By the time of my match I was feeling like someone had laid a sizzling-hot curling iron down the back of my throat. Even two days later my throat is still painfully sore. I’m pretty sure it was that damned cold concrete and chilly breeze.

    But this is the sort of thing you simply ignore. It’s part of boxing. The fancy is for the audience, and if they were as tough as you, they’d be waiting to get in the ring while you sipped your third dirty martini and smiled for the camera.

    Whine if you must, but suck it up. You might not be able to make the hairball your friend, but it’s damn well gonna be your roomie.

    Brace yourself for human drama cyclones

    I took my iPod and earbuds, but there’s only so much you can do about the human drama happening all around you. Hell, even I turn into a human drama cyclone (albiet a smallish, boring one) in the 15 minutes or so before I roll under the ropes. Boxing calls up strong emotions in everyone, and when you’re in extremis, all your wretched, painful baggage comes barreling to the fore.

    Worried about money? You’ll feel it strongly before your fight. Just split up with a boyfriend? You’ll be consumed with it before your fight. Shit going down at work, home, where ever… it’s all going to choke you like a mouthful of rancid, greasy flour and you’ll wish you could spit it out and get a clean breath of air and a double vodka to clear your head and dull your pain. Good luck with that.

    You have nothing to do but wait, for hours and hours. You’re most likely going to be in uncomfortable spaces. You’ll do nearly anything to avoid having to obsess about your fight. So you’ll probably interact with the other boxers, hear their stories, and because emotions are so ungodly high, be buffeted about by their dramas.

    And because every boxing match has a loser, you’ll see the women who are crushed by their loss, and the guys who had no idea they’d be taken down the way they were. There will be cursing, frustration, tears.

    I do try to insulate myself emotionally from some of it, but the truth is I’m also compelled by it. I can’t help but want to hear the stories and be a part of the incredible, scary, wonderful, terrifying thing that is happening to all of us together.

    But it’s also exhausting.

    You may have to fight stone cold

    I surfed the seas of human emotion for nearly the entire wait. I had a few minutes of joy shortly before fighting, followed by a miserable realization that I was feeling emotionally and physically tired, stiff, and absolutely freezing cold. Also my throat hurt like flaming hell. I asked someone to work pads with me for a few minutes and just that few minutes left me oddly weary. Trouble on the horizon.

    I was so chilled down during my first round I couldn’t get my body to move. That warmed up a bit as we went, but 6 minutes does not give you much time; you gotta work your ass off or risk losing the fight. I was barely moving and it was all over before I ever felt warm. I certainly never broke a sweat.

    This was the first time I considered that I may actually fight better in the heat than in the cold. But this was just one small tangle in the giant hairball, and not even a particularly unusual one. Most amateur events are held in gyms and community spaces that are drafty in winter and stifling in summer. For that matter, most boxing gyms don’t have reliable heating and cooling. Working HVAC is not something a boxer should need to function well.

    Factor in the toll that travel takes

    For me it wasn’t so much the 7 hours or so that it took to get to my fight location; it was more about the other hairball components, including getting around while in Atlanta. And getting home, which was a nightmare.

    I don’t have a GPS, but I had run off a series of Google maps: How to get to my hotel downtown (noting one-way streets), how to get to and from the weigh-ins from my hotel (which was walking distance), and how to get to and from the fight venue from my hotel. All of my maps were essentially useless for various reasons, and in the end it felt like so much stress that I simply decided to hire a cab to get me where I needed to go. Which, of course, also drove up the cost of the trip (3 tanks of gas, 2 nights in a hotel, two nights of hotel parking, cab fares, tips, a couple of meals — around $300).

    The real stressor in this case was getting home again the next day, as an ice storm moved in and forced me to change my travel route in order to try and stay ahead of the worst of the weather.

    My slightly lengthier route helped me avoid the storm for the first 6 hours, then I crossed the NC state line and the sleet wall hit me like a sledgehammer. Traffic slowed to a crawl as we struggled to drive on sheets of packed ice, with more sleet falling hard. I passed at least 10 wrecks, including one pickup truck flipped over onto its cab. I drove between 15 and 30 miles an hour for the next three hours in low visibility and terrible conditions, finally arriving home as my wiper blades were failing and the right half of my windshield was entirely obscured by ice. I had to break a heavy layer of ice just to get my door open.

    I hate winter.

    And 3000 words later…

    I’m ready for a break. I’m ready to recover the joy of boxing, which I find most in sparring. My next fight will damn sure be in-state, and if I can have TWO big wishes, during warm weather.

    Meanwhile, I’ve vented a bit about the hairball of competitive boxing, and I can’t believe you actually read the whole gawdawful thing. I love you for that.

    And I love boxing, I truly do. But it ain’t no bed of pink Bourbon roses, y’all.

    Special high-fives to my worthy and powerful fight opponent Lisa Belcher, the incredible boxing women of Atlanta, and Terri Moss, promoter of Atlanta Corporate Fight Night. More fist bumps to Cheryl Smyth and Connie Gomez-Joines, NC boxing girlfriends who made the long trip to see the fights, loaned me boxing gloves at the last possible minute, bought me drinks, loved me despite my moodiness, served as my “entourage,” and who just may be on a future ACFN card.

    And most of all to YOU. For cheering, listening, and continuing to push along with me on this crazy-ass journey of ours. You inspire and amaze me.

    PS: I had my long-awaited Cinnabon cinnamon roll tonight, sore throat be damned. It was amazingly delicious.

    Image by Action Fighter Media

  • A 2013 that Doesn’t Suck (at All!)

    A 2013 that Doesn’t Suck (at All!)

    It’s that time of year. The gym is jam-packed and your Facebook stream is clogged with manic resolution-making fiends. That’s fiends, not friends. Although they’re probably your friends, too, and otherwise normal.

    I resist the resolution-making frenzy, probably in the same way I unplug from Thanksgiving (“traditionally,” we do a day hike, and eat PB&J or Vienna Sausages from a mountaintop), Christmas and birthdays (we do parties but not gifts), and other shit. Oh, and we don’t have a television, of course.

    Go ahead, call me a Luddite and a grinch. But I’m a pretty damn happy one, as these things go. Srsly, getting untangled from all that stuff (and it IS only stuff) will liberate your soul, de-clutter your house, and renew your spirit.

    And with that in mind, here’s what I did this year — more how I try to live every year — and why it might just offer YOU a juicy, yummy, spinning-in-the-sunny antidote to the ridiculously intense pressure you may be feeling to lose weight, finally write your book, quit your job to become an internet millionaire, etcetera.

    Not that there’s anything wrong with those things. But these are bigger, better, and easier on the soul…

    Make Joy the Boss of You

    You know me, I fucking love a spreadsheet. And I have a sliding, screaming avalanche of ideas that could kill me (if I were to let it) with the weight of all the new project spreadsheets I create to get them done. But in the end, the deadline doesn’t rule. Joy does. It’s not about constantly chasing happiness, it’s about letting the things I already do every day be things that nourish my soul and bring me joy. In daily doses.

    So. Search out beauty. Be unabashedly goofy. Indulge your creative passions. Tolerate less bullshit. Sharpen your ignoring skills. And don’t let fear make you her bitch.

    If you aren’t doing stuff every day that brings you joy, do something different. That’s the spreadsheet to put at the top of the motherlovin’ pile.

    I’m not saying all that’s easy, you’ll have to fight for it. But you can get there.

    Find and Build Your Tribe

    Go on a serious, single-minded pleasure-treasure hunt for people — in real life and online — who are living according to joy and make them your friends. Cheer madly for them, support them, and send them sparkly things. Skype or coffee with them regularly.

    Relentlessly unlink from the people who are sucking the life out of you; instead make connections with people who are sheer, unapologetically badass life-livers. Hah. “Livers” sounds like an organ nobody wants to eat. (Amazing how easily distracted I am.) (But that was funny, wasn’t it?)

    Use A Sledgehammer to Break Shit

    You’ve been nice long enough. You’ve probably been repressed, actually.

    When do you get to grow bigger, rather than constantly being shoved into progressively tinier boxes? Fuck that, break a few of those rules and restrictions you think you have to live by. Not the big ones, like being faithful to your spouse, but the little ones, like believing you have to maintain a clean kitchen, or worrying that you’ll be laughed off the team if you can’t do as many push-ups as everyone else.

    You are surrounded by tiny-minded rules! You’re inundated with them! Please: the rolls don’t have to be homemade. Just because it says shampoo doesn’t mean it can’t also be used for body wash. You are allowed to go on a wild goose chase. You can speak your (actual, real, substantial, and intelligent!) (and sometimes wonderfully ridiculous) mind. You get to overuse parentheses! (AND wear your slippers to the grocery store, I just need to add that.)

    I can set me some big fat badass goals, and I love me a To Do list. But I can also take a sledgehammer to them if I need to.

    Embrace Your Inner Mule

    I love mules. They are sturdy little bastards. I don’t care how fugly you think they are, they are patient, strong, and independent-minded (polite word for “stubborn”), and they will flat get the work done.

    I’m a writer. And my rather embarrassing mulish vision of myself and my creative work process was utterly crystallized and confirmed when I heard Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED talk about her own rather mundane source of creative genius.

    If you haven’t already seen this one, you MUST watch it! (The “mule” part comes about 11 minutes in, but if you’re a creative — and you ARE — invest 20 minutes and watch the entire thing.)

    I don’t walk around just waiting and hoping to be sparkled with inspirational fairy dust. Um, actually I DO, but the way I get work done is by showing up and writing — a mule plowing the field — Every. Damn. Day.

    Well, most days. Sometimes I get a little burr under my saddle and I honk and bray and gallop off in search of wild romp or a mouthful of something delicious and forbidden with friends, some of whom are as mulishly awkward as I am.

    Make a little progress every day, and laze away your off days. Be stubborn, sturdy, and hard working. Embrace your inner mule. Hug her and pet her and bring her apples and tell her she smells fabulous. Where would you be without that gal?

    So. That’s my version of New Year’s resolutions. Not so much resolutions as a way of living that I find deeply satisfying, year after year. Meanwhile, I’ll try not to slap you when I see you posting that shit about “getting to the gym more often.” Cause you’re part of my tribe, and I love you.

    And I hope you’ll bring me sparkly things. Or bubbly things. And maybe something to get all these mule hairs off my couch.

  • I Love to Fight

    I Love to Fight

    You knew this. I knew this. But periodically I’m reminded.

    Last night I went 4 rounds (at the end of my workout, I must add, because I’m vain. Also a masochist.) with a good friend and freaking awesome sparring partner at my boxing gym.

    Sinclair is a phenomenal peer coach; he’s forever smiling and goofing around with the kids, and yet he moves so fast on the bags and in the ring you’ll wonder if he’s real, and not just a ghost. You punch, he’s not there. Except for that blinding mouthguard-enhanced grin.

    He also spontaneously breaks out and dances. In the ring, in the gym. He just a dancin’ kinda guy. I love Sinclair.

    And yesterday he offered to give me some rounds in the ring and I took them before he could change his mind.

    All my joy comes out when I fight well, but with someone like Sinclair, it comes out even if I’m tired and draggin’ ass, which I was.

    Somewhere in the middle of the second round, Sinclair did a little stutter step, looked off to the left, and before I could pivot he nailed me with a gorgeous stiff right. I stopped in shock — not because the right stung (it did), but because the whole combination was so unexpected and… so pretty! So danceable! And damned effective.

    I immediately demanded that he do it again.

    Well of course he loved that. He laughed and took me to the whupin’ shed again. And this time I tried to watch for it, but he still caught me. Fast boy.

    I made him stop, of course, and insisted he show me the move. He did, patiently demonstrating several times and encouraging me to try it.

    I got it in my mind, we bumped gloves and circled, I launched my offensive and waited for my opening.

    Whoop, I slipped it in, and found myself reeling from his counterpunch. I say counter punch, but he actually anticipated my tricky new move and prevented it! That wily rat. Taking advantage of a mere uneducated girl. (See what cards I pull when I want my way?)

    I shouted my outrage, and dug in for a battle.

    He told me to bring it, and I did. What I had left, anyway. I caught him once or twice with a power right (my fave) and a couple of inside shots in the clinch, but I held off on the tricky new move, instead opting for what I knew worked.

    That and any other slop I had left.

    He shouted for our coach to come over and watch just as the bell for the fourth round sounded.

    Crap. Tired as I was, I scraped the bottom of the barrel and dove back in. I had one goal: pull the new trick in front of Coach Massey and give Sinclair a little party favor to remember me by.

    And I did it!

    I was so overjoyed at catching him clean that I turned around in the ring (don’t ever do that, boys and girls) and demanded acknowledgement from Coach Massey. Sinclair was laughing his head off behind me.

    Massey tried not to grin. “You need to sell that move better,” he commented dryly. “You got to look off in the direction you’re stepping off in. Make him believe it. Then the right.”

    I sighed happily, and plowed back into my round.

    Massey had 6 succinct words for me, as I staggered out of the ring.

    “You gotta get in ring shape.”

    He’s right. I’ve been out, maintaining “normal athlete” fitness levels, but ring fitness is a totally different level, and after my last fight, I took a break from it for a season.

    But damn, people, it just feels so good to fight.

    It’s it’s own motivation, truly.

    If you’re thinking about boxing with any kind of seriousness, I hope you find a great gym, a great trainer, and an incredible sparring partner like Sinclair.

    There’s plenty of joy in there for you, too.

    Image: That’s me in the gold and black, fighting in Atlanta (my second fight).

  • Back in the Ring to Take Another Swing

    Back in the Ring to Take Another Swing

    In an attempt to lever myself out of my post-fight funk I’ve been listening to lots of hair metal, so that’s the post title and you can laugh all you want. But while hair metal might address the out-of-the-ring blues, it can’t cure it. There’s only one cure, and that’s to get back in.

    I had been lamenting via email to my fight sister in Ireland, Niamh, and she reminded me that down time is good and necessary after a big fight, and she recommended wine and chocolate cake (don’t tell your coach, she said) for the depression. Her gym mate calls the week or two after a fight “fat time” for obvious reasons. But I still seem to be losing weight and my appetite for chocolate cake is minimal, although I did have a drink when I went to see a favorite band perform live over the weekend.

    So it felt pretty good to get an email from one of the owners of a gym nearby me last week, while I was stewing in my misery. She has two women training at her gym (Two! Can you believe it?) and she invited me to come spar with them.

    As we exchanged emails and set up the date, I could feel myself perking up a little.

    When the night approached I started to feel the normal anxiety of going to spar with strangers. Boxing can be dangerous, and it’s just smart to approach an unknown fighter with caution. However, my first trainer Bonnie had been unreserved in her favorable opinion of this particular gym and had told me I could trust the coaches there, and that counts for a lot with me.

    Still, I found myself dialing Jay’s number that afternoon for reassurance. I knew he had to be at work soon. He didn’t answer, so I told myself to buck up and I drove through downtown and out to the warehouse district where the gym is housed. About the time I got there my phone rang. It was Fury.

    “Talk to me,” I told him. “I’m parked across the street from the gym and I’m not ready to go in yet.”

    “Hey, this is what you want,” he reminded me. “You are completely capable of handling anything you find there.”

    I took a deep breath. (Jay was supposed to tell me to breathe, but somehow I remembered this time.) “Yeah. I am.”

    “You just need to keep a jab out there. Keep your feet and head moving, that’s all. Basics. If you find yourself badly outmatched or getting injured, roll out. There’s no point in getting your ass kicked.” He paused, and let me have a moment to digest that. It’s always the biggest fear in boxing, getting slaughtered in the ring. And it does happen. All of us have been through it at one time or another.

    “And let me remind you that you’re not there to kick anybody’s ass, either,” he continued.

    I can’t tell you how good it feels to hear this. I’m capable of kicking someone’s ass. It’s true, and it’s exactly what I’ve worked for. But you save that for a fight. Which is where his speech — which I was shamelessly luxuriating in — would go next, I knew. I closed my eyes, propped my feet on the dashboard, and focused on his voice.

    “This is sparring, and you want to get work and give it. Lower your punch count and power if your partner isn’t as good as you are. Match what you find. And remember, if you tee off on someone you’re gonna get it back, so make a smart decision on that.”

    I know all these things. But it’s the second-greatest gift of boxing to have a trainer who knows what’s in your head and can help you win the mental battle of boxing as well as the physical game.

    The greatest gift of boxing is doing well in the ring.

    I signed off with Jay, drove across the street to the gym, and hauled my gear into the warehouse.

    NBS Gym is gloomy, cavernous, and cluttered with the detritus of three sports. There are a dozen or more wooden fencing strips down the center of the gym, a regulation boxing ring, a kickboxing ring, heavy bags in all stages of repair, a small free weight pit, some tractor tires with sledgehammers nearby, and shelves and stacks and piles of epee swords, jackets, masks, boxing gloves, kickboxing pads, and headgear. It smells like concrete and canvas and sweat; wonderful.

    I had hardly wandered in before I saw an arm raised and waving; they were watching for me. I tried to smile, remembered to relax my shoulders, and walked over to get the lay of the land.

    My sparring partners were obvious — outside of the coaches, they were the only two women in the gym. I picked them out of the milling group of athletes quickly, and we exchanged nods and waves. I was vibrating with nerves, but was reassured that neither of them weighed significantly more than me, so I would probably be fine.

    There are at least two kinds of scary boxers. New fighters are tough because they’re scared as shit, and throwing shots wild and hard. They can be unpredictable, and you can easily get caught if you don’t stay on your toes. But even worse are the heavyweights. No matter what they land, you’re gonna feel it. Twenty, thirty, forty extra pounds is huge in the ring, huge. And if they don’t control their power you are going to suffer, and the next day you’ll have a solid boxing headache, and maybe more than a few aches and bruises. Part of the deal.

    But these two women were closer to my weight, thankfully. The first, Amy, was close to my height (I’m 5’8″ or so) and I think pretty close to my weight, which is currently hovering at 143. Amy, I found out, had good reach, too. Maybe better than mine.

    The second, Amber, was shorter than me and also light. This would be okay.

    I took out my jump rope and found an empty patch of concrete between two fencing strips and their accompanying cables. I shut my eyes and tried to let the varying rhythms of my rope warm-up soothe me. I shadow-boxed a couple of rounds, worked the heavy bags. The trainers periodically glanced my way, but otherwise gave me space and let me find my own pace and timing. Amy and Amber both smiled generously when our eyes met or our work patterns intersected. I pretended Jay was lounging ringside, watching with his usual calm demeanor.

    When I was ready to gear up and spar, Amy was waiting. We touched gloves, and began to sound each other out.

    The first round was a little spooky — two women not sure what their fight plan is going to be, trying to determine how this would go. I felt stiff and nervous. I know I was leaving my guard down even though I was fresh, because her jabs were tapping my headgear with regularity. She had some combos in her, too. Body shots, yep. We were a reasonable match. This is going to be interesting! I thought, feeling my heart rise.

    On the bell I was intensely pleased to have one of the trainers walk over to my corner. Good coaching is so incredibly valuable, and sometimes ridiculously hard to get.

    “Your guard’s down,” she mentioned, without belaboring the point.

    Gotta fix that or risk embarrassing myself, I thought.

    “Get your jab out there more,” she continued. What, did Jay phone her?

    “Don’t worry if it doesn’t drive home, just keep it out there and make her think. You’re moving nicely underneath her shots, keeping your head going, that’s good. Try some body shots.” She was calm, professional, helpful.

    The second round was more intense. I was still shedding the last of my anxiety and boxing a little woodenly. I found myself impressed with her ferocity, and waited for my body to start operating in a better fashion. This wasn’t a match so I knew we could have as many rounds as we wanted, and I wanted. I took my time.

    My right hook came out before I could stop it. On Amy, it had no chance because we were both fighting outside. It was pure slop, wide and ugly. I gritted my teeth, and sure enough I heard a ringside comment, coach to coach, but not to me. But I knew anyway. I will straighten that damn thing out, I vowed.

    “Try a right cross instead,” was the only comment made about it during the interval. And it was perfect advice, of course.

    The third round finally started to feel good. I started to tap down her jabs and return an overhand right. We had that precise exchange about six times in a row before she determined how to stop it. I felt myself grinning. My brain was starting to operate, and hers was too. She landed a smart solid right to my chin and I nodded. “Nice,” I commented, both of us appreciating the beauty of a punch perfectly timed and weighted. And we both laughed when she tossed out a wide and ridiculous right hook. Just us women, being crazy, loving our work.

    “You can hit harder, you know,” one of the trainers mentioned from below the ring after the third round. “She’s doing fine and you are too. Go ahead and box.” I was starting to feel a little weary but also quite happy. “Also try a few uppercuts. She’s coming in low for those body shots.”

    Uppercuts are so hard to land, but I thought it was worth working toward.

    She also told me to try punching off my retreats. Jay had been working on that with me too. It’s awkward, moving backward and throwing a jab at the same time, it takes a shift of balance and the exact right timing. I suck at it so far.

    She was still fast on her feet during the fourth round and incredibly game, but her punch count was dropping precipitously. I started waiting on them, and worked to redeem the tired final round from my last fight in Atlanta, where I wanted badly to return at least one more shot than was thrown by my opponent in every exchange. I did okay on that this time.

    It was good, it was all very good work. We rolled out after four and took a short break. I sat on the apron of the ring, leaned against the ropes, and relaxed into the pleasure of a warehouse filled with working fighters and waited for the next session. This is so much better to me than many things life has to offer, so much more encompassing.

    I wish I had discovered boxing years ago. I hope more women will find it early on, too.

    Amber, like Amy, was instantly likeable. She has such an open smile, and freely chatted with me both before and after I sparred with Amy. In fact, she cornered a bit for me, and had very well-reasoned, calmly delivered, and effective advice. I was looking forward to our session.

    And I wasn’t disappointed. She brought game, even though she had a difficult time landing a lot of her shots. I have height and reach on her, and was still able to fade off most of her punches. If she had been a better boxer I would have had trouble for all that damned fading. It’s a bad habit of mine, and I need to slip to the sides more, rather than fade backward. If you’re in with an aggressive boxer, they can surge forward as you fade and set you on your ass right quick.

    After the first couple of rounds I could feel her frustration rising. She was having trouble getting inside on me, and I’m quite sure she experiences the same thing when she spars Amber. She shook her head a few times but relentlessly pushed her attack. I stayed primarily on defense and threw mostly jabs. Miraculously, my guard stayed high and tight. Now why couldn’t I have done that in the earlier session? I felt comfortable, and coasted far more than was appropriate. But I was relishing my joy at being back in the ring, being pressed by fighters so full of game, coached by trainers so confident and at ease.

    Amber and I did three or four rounds, I can’t remember. But I do remember how happy I felt leaving the warehouse. Driving home, singing songs by Warrant and AC/DC and King Kobra. I have it all, don’t I?

    I have it all.

    Image by BinaryApe on Flickr.

  • It Will Be Enough

    It Will Be Enough

    There are days when you train really hard.

    You put in so much effort, you sweat and sprint and throw and suck for air. You push yourself through the last rounds, then the ab work and the slow stretches intended to keep your muscles from cramping on the long drive home from the gym. Or the gravel lot, or wherever you’re training.

    The next day the soreness kicks in, and the lactic acid makes itself known in one or another muscle group that you didn’t realize you’d been neglecting.

    Today I’m giving myself an unplanned day off of training. My knee aches, my abs ache, and I have a few spots I’m icing. (What’s up with that right forearm and wrist? Ah, the uppercuts. Need to stiffen that wrist, maybe back off on the arm power and put body power behind it.) My fight is coming up but I’m not fretting about a missed day of training.

    I’m not fretting about it.

    Because it will be enough. I will look back on this and be able to say that there were days when I could have added another set, another round. But on the whole, I’ve done well and it will go exactly how it goes in the fight because I’m doing all the things I set out to do.

    If your trainer moves, you find another. Things shift, you muddle through the transition. If you can’t work in the gym, you work in a gravel lot. You don’t worry about the money. If your knee hurts, you rest it. You delight in the many cheers of your friends.

    And you live in the midst of hard toil, intermittent pain, and the sheer joy of laboring toward something you love.

    That’s what I’m doing. And it will be enough.

    Donate to support Lisa's fight in Atlanta

  • Give Heat to Get Heat

    Give Heat to Get Heat

    After one of my trainers told me to take the week off (except for running a few miles), I came into sparring on Friday night and felt incredibly rested and strong. I did rounds with everyone on the team, but had some especially interesting rounds with Ryan, who is notable partly because he is one of the few sparring partners I have who is close to my weight. (Of course, he’s half my age, but they all are.) I call him Harlem, since that’s where he’s from, with a boxing family legacy to boot. That’s us squaring off in the photo.

    We went in easy, testing each other out. I spent a fair amount of the first two rounds flitting in and out of his range, seeing if he was going to let me land shots on him without taking serious collateral damage. Ryan has one of the longest reaches on the team, and I frequently lose on points with him because so many more of his punches land.

    This night was different.

    We were both playing it safe, landing mostly touches since I wasn’t willing to fight in close with him. I worked my ass off to stay out of range, but it was resulting in low-score rounds, and I knew it would take more energy than I had to dart in and out forever. I was boxing strong and wanted to trade punches; I wanted to see if I could outslug him before I got too tired to move my feet.

    I started calling him out. “Bring it,” I told him. “I’m not feeling your jabs. Fire something, man.” He ignored me and we circled.

    So I decided to move in. The coach wasn’t going to give us many more rounds like this, and we’d already had quite a few that night. Go ahead and spend what you have, I thought, and go out with guns blazing.

    So I brought some heat. Straight down the pipe, gritting my teeth and pivoting out quickly to evade the inevitable reprisal. Another one, and a double. His head snapped back and I once again danced out scott-free. “I can take what you got,” I told him evenly, like it wasn’t costing me anything to chatter.

    Harlem never talks to me in the ring. Not with words, anyway. But he’ll bring the heat if you dish it up yourself.

    He rocked me one to the face, hard enough to make me grunt. “Hah!” I told him, biting down on my mouthguard and shoving my headgear back into place. “Nice one,” I commented, and unleashed my own fireworks. And we were on.

    It was our last round, and we ripped into each other. I kept my guard tighter than Fort Knox because I was taking damage now. I leaned into my rights, punched through. There was no time between exchanges; the punches were flying nonstop. We were sucking for air and splattering sweat onto the canvas. We started to hear the calls and comments of our teammates ringside, who were getting into the spirit of our brawl.

    Damn, it feels good to go all out once in a while.

    Saturday morning my forearms were bruised all to hell (a sign of a tight guard), and scraped raw from the relentless pounding of leather against flesh. Next time I may coat them with Vaseline so that some of those monsters will slip better.

    I smile every time I press my fingers against the bruises. Sometimes you just gotta do it.

    Image by Ken Hall Photography (Thanks again, Ken!)

  • 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?

  • Joy to share

    Take a moment out of your day for this guy. It gives me so many smiles to watch him dance his simple (kinda goofy) dance all over the world. I love seeing the interaction he attracts and the impromptu micro-communities he joins or creates. If I saw him, I would totally get out and dance my own little (really goofy) dance.
    Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.

  • Easter!!

    Yesterday we dyed our eggs and this morning at 7:15 am we released the screaming hordes into our chilly Easter backyard to hunt down 39 eggs. They were stuck to the side of the house, hanging from trees, camouflaged in the gravel or garden, and (a couple) in plain sight. I hope we didn’t wake the neighbors, but I’m pretty sure we were loud enough to do the job. In the end, they only found 38 eggs. Hm. Well, we’ll get back to it after church.

  • Signs of Maturation

    This morning the Maker took a bath in my bathroom. Normally this means that not only do I have to harry him to get clean in a reasonably conservative fashion (“Get your hair wet.” “Wash your feet.” “Turn off the water.” “Have you washed your feet?” “Rinse your hair.” “Honey, stop letting the water out and filling it back up.” “Did you use soap?”) but I also have to remind him to go through each of the cleaning-up-afterward stages.

    So I was rather astonished, when I reminded him to hang up his towel and put his dirty clothes in the hamper, that he smiled and said “Already did.”

    SO astonished that I got up and went in to see this miracle. Sure enough, it was all clean and tidy, except for a wingnut and a can tab, which presumably fell out of his pockets during the process. Only a wingnut and can tab! I think he’s reached some sort of milestone in his development.