The Glowing Edge

Tag: punch count

  • Do You Get Beat Up In Boxing?

    Do You Get Beat Up In Boxing?

    Once in a while someone asks me if I get “beat up” in boxing.

    It’s a weird thing, this fierce sport. And I completely understand why people associate it with phrases like “getting beat up,” “taking a beating,” and so on. But after studying and practicing boxing for several years now, I have a different perspective on it than I used to.

    Boxing is and extremely complex and challenging sport. Risky, yes. Potentially painful and dangerous, certainly. But it’s also a sport with lots of rules and boundaries, and it’s even more mental than it is physical. To me it feels less about “beating people up,” and more about mental and physical fitness and a very particular set of skills.

    I feel fairly certain that a skilled boxer with her wits about her could put a street brawler on the pavement in seconds flat, not because we are more violent than other people, but simply because we’ve trained so hard to understand the dynamics of fighting. Boxers work hard to be physically strong and mentally powerful. We’ve practiced the simplest punches thousands — hundreds of thousands — of times. We train our reflexes against flinching and looking away, we can see punches coming, and we have an arsenal of defensive tactics at hand. We are carefully mentored and guided into the ring, protected with the right equipment and challenge levels. And we know the rules of our sport.

    It’s fairly uncommon for us to experience “getting beat up,” or even “beating someone up.”

    Consider this: the number of hours a boxer spends in training that is not actual sparring or fighting in the ring far exceeds her time in the ring. One hundred percent of a new boxer’s time is spent outside of the ring; only after showing aptitude and willingness is a new boxer allowed to spar, and even then, it’s fairly light, careful training. My regular training week typically includes about six or seven hours a week of training, and around eight rounds of sparring. Those are 3 minute rounds, so I’m only spending 5% of my time in the ring. (Of course, that’s the time I tend to focus on and talk about the most.)

    However, we do get bested in the ring.

    My trainer loves to say that you don’t get to choose whether you win or lose in boxing; you only get to choose whether or not you will perform. Every boxer loses some of the time, whether in an official match or in their own gym. But we almost never consider a regular (or even a bad) day of sparring a “loss” or a “beating,” unless something went particularly wrong and an injury was involved.

    Yes, we get out-matched, out-maneuvered, hit hard, and even stopped in the ring. Mostly that happens in an actual competition when we are in the ring with someone better than we are, or if we are sparring with someone new and inexperienced, particularly a person who is scared. Those terrified new guys tend to throw punches like their life depends on it, but they often can’t last more than a round or two. Working with — and sometimes getting bruised up by — those people is a regular hazard of the sport, and the better boxer typically takes the blame for her injuries since we should have been able to defend better.

    I don’t help things when I talk about getting “beat up” myself. During my first year in boxing I said it when I felt someone took advantage of me in the ring. I’ve since learned how to protect myself against this situation by returning fire, demanding a different level of work, or simply rolling out of the ring.

    These days, saying I got “beat up” is a rueful way to mention my hard-earned bruises and sore muscles, and it’s normally followed by my determined recitation of new training plans and efforts.

    Interestingly, I almost never talk about “beating up” someone else when I am boxing better than they are, or even if I win a match. (Although I do like to talk about kicking ass. I like to be an ass-kicking woman! But that feels just a little bit different.)

    Otherwise I tend to use it when I see a particularly intense, damage-producing professional boxing match. Ten or twelve rounds with a heavyweight will temporarily (and sometimes permanently) change the shape of your face, whether you win or lose.

    So there is that. But those people are at the top of the field; most of us aren’t doing that. And even the pros don’t do it all the time. A seasoned pro may have 30 or 50 career fights, but you can bet your ass that most of their time is spent doing ordinary, hard, repetitive training.

    If you are new to boxing and just starting to train, you should definitely expect this sport to hurt. Most contact sports do. Football, basketball, hockey, soccer, rugby — all of them require training that is difficult and painful at times. Even non-contact sports like skateboarding or BMX bike riding can pack some serious pain.

    Learning to take a punch is a slightly different skill, but it is, in fact, a skill. Much of it is mental. And there are “tricks” to it, like staying relaxed, keeping in your stance, moving constantly so that blows glance off. And of course there’s the protective gear we wear and the rules about hit zones. But it still hurts plenty, and anyone going in should know that.

    But boxing isn’t first and foremost about beating people up, or getting beaten up. It’s about long hours of hard work and practice, it’s about building speed and power and quickness, and eventually it’s about sparring and fighting for a small percentage of your training time.

    And more than anything, it’s about the challenge and the reward. There is very little that feels better than standing in the ring, dripping with sweat, shaking from exertion, and having your fist raised by a referee as the winner of a fight.

    Damn, but that’s good.

    Image by CBS_Fan on Flickr.

  • How to Know If Your Boxing Is Improving

    How to Know If Your Boxing Is Improving

    Coby and me sparring

    Sometimes after you get in the ring you want to debrief, talk with other boxers about how you did. So most nights after the team is finished sparring I’ll ask some of the newer boxers: “How did you do tonight?”

    And I’ve found that many of them have trouble answering in a way that satisfies themselves. They’ll say, “I didn’t do as well as I wanted,” but they have trouble defining it further. Or else there are so many things that need improvement that they’re overwhelmed by it all. I find myself thinking, and often saying, the same things.

    First, remember that it takes years to get any good at boxing.

    You can’t get in the ring for the first few months and do anything worth remembering. Really. Because you did pretty much everything wrong: your guard was down, your shots were sloppy, you telegraphed your every move, your feet were slow, you looked away, you had no cardio, and overall you looked about as sturdy as a newborn kitten in the path of a bulldozer. It was probably embarrassing to everyone who watched, but everybody starts there, period.

    A lot of kids come in and think it will go like it did when they first picked up a skateboard, or a basketball, or a frisbee. They messed around with it for a day or so and pretty quickly they could get in the game. Not so with boxing, which demands a baseline bit of skill but a fair amount of cardio and a wheelbarrow of guts just to get through your first rounds. And that’s after you’ve convinced a coach or trainer that you’ve paid enough dues in sweat to be allowed into the ring.

    The best way to know if your boxing is improving is to set small, clear, achievable goals.

    Here are a few examples.

    Tonight, I want to (pick two or three):

    • Keep my gloves up
    • Move my head more
    • Not square up with my opponent
    • Make it through 3 rounds without sucking for air
    • Throw more shots than I take
    • Maintain control of the ring
    • Not look away from my opponent
    • Throw a solid double jab
    • Move my feet more
    • Not get locked against the ropes
    • Throw both head and body shots
    • Get some power behind my right cross
    • Work on my inside game
    • Regularly slip or block punches
    • Throw three excellent left hooks in every round
    • Work on my uppercut
    • Keep my balance between my lead and rear foot
    • Commit to and fully extend my punches
    • Utilize my pivot
    • Finish each round strong
    • Score shots heavily in the last 30 seconds of each round
    • Land ___ shots per round (you’ll need a punch counter ringside)
    • Work on my  _______ (jab-hook-pivot, right cross – left hook, etc.) combination.

    Sometimes I even tell my opponent what, specifically, I’m going to work on.

    Yes, they’ll then be on the lookout for my left hook, but at least they understand that I’m going to throw a boatload of them, and I may even ask them to stop mid-round so that I can go through some slow-motion in order to tweak my form, or ask them why a particular move keeps falling short of power.

    Your trainer will pick good goals for you.

    Recently I was in the ring with a guy who was my same height, but every single time he threw his jab, he brought his glove back to his shoulder rather than his cheek or chin. So I had easy pickings on a right cross to his face, and was taking them on an intermittent but regular basis. But between rounds, my trainer told me to take every single one of those shots in the coming round. I wasn’t to let his jab return — ever — without shooting my right cross into his face. “And put a little more power behind it,” he told me.

    Midway through the next round my opponent realized, without anyone having to tell him, that he needed to work on one specific thing, which was getting his glove back in the correct position after a jab. He knew very clearly at the end of the night what had improved in his boxing!

    And I’ve been in his position plenty of times. If you don’t pick a goal, your opponent or trainer may pick one for you, and you’ll discover it the hard way!

    Sparring is your absolute best opportunity to learn and improve your boxing, so you want to focus on and optimize that time as well as you can. Choose a goal (or two) and make them your priority.

    You can even keep track of your goals in a notebook.

    I know I’m going to be in the ring every single Friday night, so sometimes I’ll write my goals on a post-it and stick it on my computer at work so I’ll be thinking about it in advance. Then, when I’m in the ring, I know what to work on. And I’ll also know, coming out of the ring, just how I did that night.

    You can’t work on everything all the time.

    But you can box on a baseline, and focus hard on a few choice skills or techniques, so that you’ll be able to see clear improvement over time.

    Stay strong. Train hard. And box smart.

    Photo of me sparring with Coby by Ken Hall Photography

  • Make Your Punches Count

    Make Your Punches Count

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    I groaned.

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

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

    Yeah, probably that latter one.

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

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

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

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

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

    God, I want to box like that.

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

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

    Image of me sparring by Ken Hall Photography.

  • Sparring with the Pros

    Sparring with the Pros

    When I walked into the gym for sparring on Sunday I saw not one, but two pro boxing women. In a sport with a sparse population of women, two female pros in one small gym is nothing short of amazing. Of course, my trainer Bonnie is one of the pros, and I see her all the time. But Sandy is one I only see working there periodically. She’s been boxing for more than 15 years, and is a fury in the ring. She’s actually pretty small, tipping the scales at 110, but she’s a force to reckon with.

    I’d seen Sandy spar with some of our other boxers, and she’s so incredibly fast and relentless that one time my trainer and I counted her punches just because it seemed impossible for anyone to throw so many in a single three minute period, round after round. We waited several rounds thinking she would tire out and we’d get a more accurate count. We started in round 4. And in two separate counts Sandy threw more than 250 punches, most (at least two thirds) of which landed.

    Just for a little comparison, when Evander Holyfield beat Dwight Muhammad Qawi for the World Boxing Association junior heavyweight title in July 1986, both boxers threw an average of 154 punches a round and landed half or more. Granted, these are heavyweights, but they are definitely no slouches in the ring, as their records attest.

    In our gym, the amateur boxers frequently aim for 100 punches in a given round. That’s pretty high, and most of us throw more like 60-70 per round on a good day.

    And if you think Sandy’s 250 punches are cotton balls dropped by butterflies, you need to experience them up close and personal. I did not think I ever would, but my trainer had other plans for me. When I realized I would be sparring Sandy, my anxiety level went through the roof. It may have been the first time I ever actually thought I might puke before getting in the ring.

    Sandy and my trainer did the first couple of rounds. The gym was utterly silent except for the constant pop of leather meeting flesh, a sound that rose and fell in an eerie rhythm with the explosive hisses of the two women’s breath, and the creak of the canvas-covered ring beneath them. My blood pressure soared as I watched the unbelievable display of power and speed in front of me. I vainly hoped they would do another five or ten rounds before remembering I was there, but when the bell ended the second period, my trainer sent Sandy out of the ring and told me to get in. For two rounds she warmed me up, got me focused, and made me work. And when the third round bell sounded, she ducked out and Sandy rolled in.

    My gut churned. I leaned against my corner pad and tried to breathe slowly in through my nose for a two count, out through my mouth for a four count. It wasn’t working. The bell rang, I bit down on my mouthguard, and stepped out to the center of the ring to fight.

    It was my main goal to eat what punches I had to (and I knew it would be a lot), but to not let Sandy completely shut down my offense. In order to do this, I knew I would have to work as hard as possible to keep my eyes on her; it takes tremendous concentration and will to continue to look at your opponent when you’re being hit so frequently, but I knew I had to watch for a break in the onslaught and try to capitalize on it.

    Sandy is a grabber — she tends to want to fight in close and she frequently traps her opponent’s right/power hand and hangs on while whaling away with her own right. In the amateurs, a ref would break this up immediately, but in the pros they let a lot more go. I was expecting her to close with me right away, and sure enough she did, trapping both my gloves and releasing them one at a time with lightning speed to land a punch, then return to the pin. Damn, this woman was fast. She thrashed and struck, thrashed and struck with her whole body; it was like wrestling an alligator. I tried to use my 30 pound weight advantage to pull her down, to make her want to disengage. And eventually she did spin out to dance around me, grinning even as she released flurry after flurry all over my head and shoulders.

    I threw a shot when I could, a combination here and there, and every time she clinched I tried for the hooks to the head, landing them periodically and wishing for a solid uppercut to magically break through the whipping blur that was her head to connect with her jaw. I’d seen my trainer land a couple in those two initial rounds, but I couldn’t get one on Sandy. The hooks seemed to work, though, and after I landed one or two she would turn me loose, expanding the distance with a volley of parting shots.

    As it turned out, I prefered the clinch. Every time after Sandy released and spun out, she measured the distance and sent her bullet of a right straight for my face. This is not a woman who cares particularly to kill you with body shots, but she’ll take your head any day, all day long, including plenty of patently illegal rabbit punches, which land behind the ear and at the back of the head. She was sparring with 8 ounce gloves (mine are 14 oz, damn near pillows in comparison), and the first time she rocked me hard I felt like I’d just been hit with a kitchen appliance. “I need a second, I need a second,” I panted, trying to clear my vision and reorient. I heard my trainer’s voice talking me through it, urging me to fight off the dizziness, focus, and stay in the fight. Sandy bounced lightly on her toes, banging her gloves together.

    It may have been the thing I was proudest of, making it through that first ungodly hit. My trainer supported me with a calm, steady stream of instruction and I eventually felt steady enough to give Sandy a glove tap, indicating that I was ready to resume. We circled and engaged, and it was on again. It was a little like dropping from a helicopter into a river in the middle of a hurricane. I held my ground and beat my way upstream, never gaining ground, but also never letting the current take me under.

    The bell rang, the round ended, and I sagged against the ropes. I looked at my trainer, but I already knew what she was going to say. I had made it, and I had another round in me. She was going to send me in again.

    Midway through the next round with Sandy I could feel myself crumbling under the onslaught, and after taking a second staggering hit to the face, I switched gears, and began to stay exclusively on defense. I worked to stay out of range, tried to slip punches, kept my elbows in and protecting my ribs, and held my guard up, a small defense against her explosive 8 and 9-punch combinations. I could hear my trainer supporting me in this tactic, calling out reassurance and telling me that I was doing well. And so long as I didn’t have to take any more of those devastating face crushers, I really was doing okay.

    I got trapped in the corner for the last 20 seconds, and found that although I couldn’t escape, I could hold up under heavy fire by keeping myself well covered. I even lashed out with a hook to Sandy’s head once or twice before ducking back into my shell. “You’re making it,” Bonnie called. “You’re taking care of yourself and making it through the round. Keep covered and finish the round!”

    I did finish. When the final bell rang and Sandy tapped my glove in acknowledgement of my good work, I shook my head and saluted her. She’s a demon in the ring and I’m proud to have stayed on my feet for two no-holds-barred rounds with her. She didn’t treat me like a novice, she gave me a hard fight. I wouldn’t want to do it on a regular basis, but I took the hits, stayed upright, and finished the rounds with honor.

    A few minutes later, Sandy cornered for me as I boxed my last two rounds with my trainer, and again I was struck at how skilled Sandy was. Effective cornering calls for a deft touch; Sandy knew what I’d been through already, and she kept a steady stream of solid advice that I could act on coming from the sidelines. She called simple combinations that she knew I could throw, timed her calls for clear openings, and encouraged me with praise when I landed my throws or successfully evaded an attack. My trainer grunted in surprise as I repeatedly snapped off and landed a jab-hook combination that Sandy called. Even I got a little chuffed; there was something left in me! I was still in the ring! I threw high-low’s (one to the head followed by one to the body, or vice versa), keeping mostly to double-punch combinations followed by a pivot out and a jab.

    Nothing kept me from having to take a motherlode of punches from these two pro boxers; Sandy’s punch count was simply overwhelming, and my trainer matched me step for step and never let me rest. She also landed at least two solid blows to the ribs (where Sandy didn’t get any). But almost every single one of Bonnie’s deadly left hooks met my glove instead of my ear, and I even evaded a few of her overhand rights.

    After we all geared down, Bonnie talked to me about that first bad hit I took from Sandy. “When you think back on this,” she said, in that calm, intense way she has, “you remember that you stayed on your feet. You remember that you took the count but got back in the fight, and that’s more than most people can do. You boxed with pros today.” She nodded solemnly in approval. “You look back on all this and be proud. You should be proud.”

  • New Sparring Partner

    New Sparring Partner

    A new sparring partner can open up great swaths of unexplored territory in boxing.

    I am an active recruiter of female boxers in my gym; I try not to be a total vulture, but I do watch to see who is training hard and I try my best to create an opportunity to talk to them about training with our boxing team. Most women refuse outright. A few are willing to chat about it, and a couple have have shown up once or twice. There just aren’t many women who want to get in the ring.

    So I poached someone from the MMA group.

    I had mostly seen her training on weights; her biceps are like two pistols strapped to her arms. And I was impressed at her willingness to grapple with the exclusively male crew that trains in Brazilian Ju Jitsu and other martial arts. She is younger than I am (aren’t they all), but looked close to my weight category, and seemed dedicated to her training.

    After a couple of weeks of conversations, she showed up for boxing team and Friday night we finally had the chance to get in the ring together.

    Right off the bell I noticed that she was more accustomed to working without intent to actually hit, and my initial combination seemed to surprise her. Even though I was working with control, it wasn’t the level of power she was expecting. One of her contacts got popped out by my first straight right, and everything skidded to a halt. I flashed back to the last time I was in this situation and accidentally bloodied the nose of a new recruit, and I swore and mentally banged my head against a wall for not starting out slower; that first time in the ring can be such a delicate dance, and only a certain type of woman (or man, for that matter) will cross that border, see the territory, and be interested in staying to explore it. But my fears were unproven; she took a minute to recover and was game to continue, even with the skewed depth perception I know she was dealing with. I breathed a sigh of relief and we went to work.

    My first suprise was how many of my punches she successfully blocked. She tended to hold her guard extremely high with the palms of both gloves facing out towards me. I spent a fair amount of time trying to punch through her gloves, and later my trainer chastized me for taking the bait and headhunting rather than going for the body shots.

    I was also profoundly aware that with each shot she threw, she was loading a kick and having to hold herself back from throwing it. She switched her stance back and forth and our movement in the ring felt awkward. She finally defaulted to backing up as I advanced — never a solid practice in boxing — and Bonnie stopped her and pointed it out. I also suck at moving in the ring; my only real tactic is to constantly advance, and once she stopped backing up and starting getting the angles I had to work harder, which both pleased and irritated me and made our match better.

    While my punch count was higher, I was dismayed at how few jabs landed: she stayed just outside of my reach when she could, and kept a loaded overhand right ready to return the instant my left was deployed. I took a few out-of-the-zone hits to the head at first from that right, but with some ringside coaching — which I heard but didn’t employ defense in response to — her rights started coming straight down the pipe and I started taking them on the temple and chin. They consistently snapped my head to the side, clean and hard. It took me the first four rounds to learn the lesson, a point that was not lost on my partner. But I’m pleased to add that while I am slow, I’m not a complete idiot; I did start ducking under those rights and clipping her ear with my left hook in the fifth. Better late than never.

    She was also a slow learner in her own way: it was not until the fourth round that she quit apologizing for landing those rights. What is it with us women? We should all get in the boxing ring at about age 5 and start beating this ridiculous habit out of one another before it gets so deeply rooted. Seriously.

    Speaking of ingrained, my partner was even more of a talker in the ring than I am. I tend to talk a little bit, but most men don’t speak at all in the ring unless they are throwing dirt around and egging you on. There’s only one guy in our gym who would rather talk than box; I can barely work up a sweat if we have to work together; I would rather practice a move than discuss it. This woman was perfectly willing to box and talk, and I didn’t mind so long as we kept circling and throwing. Our coaches weren’t paying that much attention to us (there were beginners on the bags that they were working with at the same time my partner and I were in the ring) and in the absence of a stream of instruction we coached ourselves through those first awkward rounds. I think both trainers told us to stop talking at least once, but a good sparring partner is so hard to find I mostly ignored their censure.

    So it was slightly bumpy but overall a very good experience; and although she seems pretty dedicated to MMA, I have high hopes that she will return to the ring with me now and then. I think we have some real potential together.

  • 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?