The Glowing Edge

Tag: punching

  • Putting Snap in Your Punch

    Putting Snap in Your Punch

    Power is an open secret in boxing, and most fighters hear their coaches talking about “punching through” and “putting your body behind” a solid, powerful shot.

    But there is another, sneakier and equally effective method to score punches, intimidate an opponent, and win your game, and that’s in developing a stinging snap in your punch; particularly your jab.

    A regular jab can be used for a variety of purposes in the boxing ring. It can measure the distance between you and your opponent or it can open the way for a power shot, among other things. But it can be a devastating shot all on its own if you can make it into a snapping whip of a shot, the kind of punch that comes out of nowhere, hits like an electric shock, and disappears before your opponent can even register its presence.

    What gives a punch snap

    A snapping punch is created out of speed and minimal contact. It’s a punch that goes out fast and returns fast. You have to turn it over (right at the end of the shot), touch with sting, and bring it back to guard position in rapid-fire succession.

    A well-landed shot of any kind has a distinctive sound on the heavy bag or mitts. There’s a particular thwack or pop that gives you the feedback you need to know you’ve scored with precision and pain. But a snapping punch has a higher sound, almost like a dry stick being cracked in two.

    The advantages of snap jabs

    1. They save your power.

    When you’re punching for power alone, you will burn a lot of energy quickly, and you run the risk of gassing out. You can’t launch bomb shots rapidly, either. Nor can you spend the entire fight throwing one knockout punch after another; there’s a dance, a balance to be maintained. Boxing is a conscious mental play of the game pieces, and rather than blindly launching everything you have at once, you have to choose your shots.

    2. They’re fast! They buy you valuable time.

    A snapping punch has the great advantage of being incredibly fast. When you get one off, you startle your opponent and buy yourself even more time to launch and score again before they recover. It also allows you to throw more shots than you could if you were loading up power hits one after the other.

    3. They preserve your guard.

    Because your return to guard so much faster, you’re more protected than if you’re leaving yourself open during a push-through or penetrating power hit.

    How to throw a snapping punch

    You have to have your distance exactly right. Throw some measuring jabs out there, and once you know the range for a snap-touch, fire a couple off. If you’re advancing on the jab, you have to put that into your calculations. Try from your stable stance before tossing in an advance, because advance-jabs tend to be more “punch through” than snapping jabs.

    But the biggest secret to throwing a snapping punch is relaxing. It sounds counter-intuitive, but it’s absolutely necessary. Think about a coiled whip. The stiffer the braided leather is, the less bite the tip will have when it makes contact. But if it’s supple and loose, Indiana Jones is going to make you cry.

    Got snap?

    Leave me a comment and tell me your technique!

    Photo credit: Marco Crupi Visual Artist via photopin cc

  • The Most Critical Boxing Rule Every Fighter Should Follow

    The Most Critical Boxing Rule Every Fighter Should Follow

    If you ask any ten boxers what the most important rule in boxing is you’ll hear things like “wear the right protective gear,”  “find a coach you can trust,” or “learn the straight punches.” And all of those are important in learning to box.

    But as I work each week with the new fighters at my gym, I see one major factor dividing the up-and-coming boxers from the ones who will never make it far in boxing…

    These things are important

    In no way am I trying to diminish the critical nature of the boxing advice you hear online, from other coaches, or even here on The Glowing Edge. Boxing is an enormous, complex sport, and there’s just no way to accomplish much in it without years of solid training and practice. Here’s a list of some great boxing tips, and you’ll get plenty of oil to grease your boxing engine if you follow them:

    But THIS is the dividing line…

    So day after day I’m in the boxing gym, training, coaching, and watching other boxers. And there is one factor that tells me whether or not someone is willing to do the real work of boxing. One single thing.

    And that’s training to the bell.

    I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen guys belly up to the heavy bag, fire off a handful of full-power combos, and then sit back in sheer self-appreciation and deep personal satisfaction.

    Of course it feels great to blast the bag a few times. And there are plenty of days when you want to use every ounce of strength you have, play it all out to see what it feels like.

    But being able to throw 15 hard punches means absolutely zero, zip, nada in boxing.

    Strutting around the gym dabbling here and there is worse than useless — you’re actually in the way of serious boxers and you’re a distraction and bad example to other beginners. It would be better for everyone if you’d just go home and nurse your boxing fantasy in front of your mirror while the rest of us get the real work of boxing done.

    (I so wanted to find a picture of a guy posing in front of his mirror at home, enjoying his boxing superstar fantasy. Go find one and post the link in the comments so we can have a good chortle.)

    If you want to box, train to the bell

    If you can’t go a single full round (2 or 3 minutes) of doing something — punching, footwork, jump rope, shadowboxing, padwork, running, agility dots, slipping, rope work, ring slides, planks, or some other fight-related action — you have not even begun to work at boxing.

    There should be a round timer going in your gym most of the time. If there isn’t, get yourself a timer, or learn to set your watch/phone/music player to time your rounds. Do every single training exercise in rounds of 2 or 3 minutes, with 30 second recoveries. If your round timer has a 30-second bell (which rings to indicate there are 30 seconds left in the round before it ends), use that time to double your efforts and power your way toward the bell.

    If you take a round off, be back at the bags, on the mat, or in the ring and ready to roll when the bell rings. That bell going off should not be your reminder to put down your water bottle and saunter over to the speed bag to resume your work; you should already be there ready and waiting to get the first shot in.

    If you’re running or jumping rope and planning to go multiple rounds, keep going during the 30-second recovery period, but slow down to an easy coast. Then rev back up when the timer sounds the new round.

    If you can’t do a single serious round out of the ring, you have no business getting in the ring.

    If I have any single rule at the very top of the pile, it’s this one. Drill in rounds, practice in rounds, sprint in rounds. Do all your training in rounds, and your transition into the ring will be much faster and better.

    Yes? No? Maybe? Fire away.

    Your turn. What’s your top rule for boxing training? Leave me a comment below!

    Photo Credit: kizette via Compfight cc

  • Taking a Knockout Punch

    Taking a Knockout Punch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Reggie stayed in range.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It was.

    Image by JD Hancock on Flickr.

  • 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 Throw A Punch

    How To Throw A Punch

    Every woman should have the opportunity to throw a punch, just to see how it feels.

    Lots of guys have done this already, either in the mosh pit at a Bad Brains concert, behind the high school where the bad kids smoked, or in a bar after three too many PBRs. Sorry people, Wii Boxing does NOT count.

    So, ladies. They’ve done it, and now it’s your turn.

    Get in position
    If you don’t know anyone who has a heavy bag, get a friend (preferably male, just because you’ll enjoy it) to hold up a big fat couch seat cushion in front of their upper torso. If you are right-handed, stand with your left foot ahead of your right, with your left toe pointing toward your human punching bag, and your right foot pointing out to the right. Bend your knees just a touch, and keep the same amount of weight on each foot. You should feel solidly planted, not tippy. Your left shoulder should be in front of your body, so that you’re slightly sideways to your opponent. (Switch the whole deal if you’re southpaw.)

    Make a fist
    Curl your fingers into your palms, and DON’T put your thumb inside your fist. Curl it around your clenched fist, not over the top. Bring both fists up to your chin, and keep your elbows in. Keep your chin down. The second (middle) knuckle of your left index finger should be touching your chin or cheek.

    Since you don’t have wraps or gloves on, you’re going to throw a few easy punches rather than all-outs. After you fall in love with boxing (in oh, about 10 minutes) you can run down to Dick’s Sporting Goods and purchase wraps and gloves and hope your friend is still game. But for now…

    Throw a slow-mo left jab
    Slowly push your left fist straight out from your chin toward your, um, friend. If he doesn’t have the cushion up high enough yet, he soon will. As your fist goes out to make contact, it should rotate so that the point of impact is between your first two knuckles (index finger and next finger). Your arm should be fully extended. If you are too close, now is the time to back up slightly so you can get full extension.

    Stance check
    Leave that jab out there and check your stance. Are you still balanced? Is your right fist still up at your chin? Is your chin still tucked in? Alrighty, then. Bring your left jab back home and prepare to throw it again, only faster this time.

    Throw a real left jab
    Give your partner an evil grin. Here comes the fun part. This time when you throw your left jab, let it start slow and finish fast, with a snap at the end. Mmm, this is gonna be yummy.  Technically your left jab should be aimed toward his nose, but since he’s being helpful, keep it aimed at the cushion on the center of his chest. (For now.) Throw that left jab a few times and enjoy feeling it thwock home. Lovely, isn’t it? Does he look slightly worried yet? He will.

    Now throw the right
    The left jab is your lead punch; it sets you up for the Real Deal, which is your power punch on the right. Where the left jab has pop and sting, the right should carry weight and pain. Throw the right with the power and motion of your body behind it: when this punch is fully extended, your right hip and shoulder will rotate forward and your right heel should leave the ground with a slight pivot. Throw this slow-mo, and make sure you aren’t putting yourself off-balance when you throw it. Do two or three for practice.

    The old one-two
    Now put the two punches together. Left jab, right power. Be sure to draw back each punch before you throw the next one. Keep your fists high and don’t square up to your opponent — stay in your stance.

    Has your friend asked for a break yet? Feels powerful, doesn’t it? You like it, don’t you?

    I thought you would.

    Image credit: ajdagregorcic on Flickr
  • 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?

  • Bettah WATCH OUT for my jab, baby.

    Bettah WATCH OUT for my jab, baby.

    jab

    Well, well. I received the UNDIVIDED attention of both my trainers last night, and the Shred of the Century ensued. Apparently my jab is more poorly constructed than a Louisiana levee. So it got bulldozed and I proceeded to throw ten bafillion left jabs on command, mostly wrecks.

    One of my coaches put me through the jab shredder and the other one kept dogging my stance. I already knew my stance needed adjusting, but as you know I can only think of one thing at a time, and pretty soon I was in such poor form that I would have had trouble going the distance against Paris Hilton in the ring.

    Well, okay, let’s not be extreme — I’d have put her on the canvas in no time, and used my crappy but ingrained and heartfelt left jab to do it. Heh.

    Whew — just got lost in that fantasy for a minute. Where was I? Oh yeah, whining.

    The evil glowing laser of destruction was humming so loudly and focused so intently on me that eventually my team mates abandoned their heavy bags and came to watch the show. They began to offer their own versions of advice on my jab, stance, guard, position, reaction time, mouthguard, eye color, and choice of hand lotion. I think I took it well. I bit no one, and counted that my victory. And I threw forty craploads (and I mean that intentionally) of jabs.

    I threw so many left jabs that when I got home my sports bra had abraded a line of skin off the left side of my back. It’s a wonder I can move my arm today. But I can, amazingly. Of course, I can’t move it through the motion of a CORRECT LEFT JAB, but I can do 40 standard push-ups in the midst of my regular workout today and hardly notice.

    Okay, I feel better now, thanks for listening. My jab must be fixed. My stance must be fixed. We have the technology. We can repair me.

    And I want to say that I’m actually very grateful for my coaches, whom I adore (in a sick and twisted way), for having taken me to the woodshed. Better them than the boxers I face in the ring. And a particular squeeze of affection fist bump goes out to my team mates, who really did offer me good advice and believe in me despite my inconceivably grotesque left jab.

    I plan to show them my new one up close and personal.

  • Eyes on the prize: beating back the flight impulse (again)

    A good workout and five decent rounds in the ring today. It was the first time I ever came away with a headache, mild though it was. My trainer’s been letting me take more frequent and intense punches, I think, and she’s also set off my flight reflex again. It’s unbelievable how strong the desire to step backward and turn away is.

    Today she pointed out how, after I take a jab or a hook to the head, I am (belatedly) throwing my guard up and physically turning my head away so that I can’t see her, thus allowing her the chance to reset and prepare her next move. By the time I turn my head back into position she’s already launching her next attack. It’s amazing how dramatically your boxing game can improve if you can take a punch and continue to stare straight ahead at your opponent, while also keeping your (ringing, buzzing, just clocked) head clear enough to plan and release an offensive. Aaargh. Who knew boxers had to think and work so hard?

    It sounds incredibly simple, doesn’t it? Keep your eyes on your target. Sharpshooters do it. Ballplayers do it. Even guys tossing darts in a bar do it. And boxers absolutely have to do it, yet over and over again we fail to do it. It would seem to be natural and obvious. Yet so often I hear our coaches tell us, “Open your eyes! Keep your eyes on your opponent.” Why would we have to be told that?

    The difference for boxers has to do not only with the flight impulse, but also with cultural notions of appropriate space and aggression. Basketball players may get in each other’s personal space, and even look at each other intently, but the basketball and the goal are the real focal points, and the visual interactions between players are rapid-fire rather than prolonged. Runners look toward the next hurdle, the horizon, or the finish line, not at another runner’s eyes. Football players, particularly linemen, probably come closer to understanding this issue than any other I can think of, but even they don’t continue to stare down the opposing lineman after the block. It’s incredibly hard to be that close to an obvious and understood aggressor and watch them intensely, even after getting hit. It feels completely unnatural.

    Some parts of the complex interactions in boxing can be practiced. Obviously we train for power and endurance. Our coaches also work hard to prepare us to overcome or be resistant to dizziness and head shock (spin training, neck exercises, etc.), and to increase our ability to react quickly (speed and timing drills). But there’s not a single exercise I know of that can help you learn to keep your eyes on your opponent after they rock you a good one to the head; it just takes experience in the ring.

    And it’s just plain crazy how happy I was today to not only get some of that experience, but also to begin to tease out the reasons for what makes it so difficult. Now. Somebody please pass the ibuprofen.

  • I’m Learning to Box

    It sounded good at the time, anyway. This summer I decided to shift away from running as my main aerobic exercise since I felt like I was always complaining about how many miles I wasn’t able to do. My right knee has that distinctive Rice Krispies sound that tells me I may have to schedule a doctor’s visit in a few years and I probably won’t like what I hear when I do it. So, in classic avoidance technique I decided I should shift to boxing. Me smart.

    Me hurt now.

    After a month of anticipation, phone calls, and research (I watched Rocky and browsed fashionable boxing accessories), I had my first boxing class today.

    Apparently boxing is like church: no one arrives until after everything begins. But I was there, and after the instructor helped me wrap my hands, he tossed me a pair of gloves, put me front and center and we were off and running. People drifted in while he put us through a basic full-body callisthenic routine, and once we began punching combinations on the heavy bags the serious sweat began to flow.

    The words “speed rounds” may give me nightmares tonight. I kept my feet moving (boxing is more like running than I knew) and my hands up (mostly). Who knew two 14 oz. gloves could weigh as much as anvils? Or — and let me say this is the worst part of boxing so far, worse even than the pain I feel right now before the aspirin kicks in — stink so horribly?? Next order of business: get my own gloves. Which I’m sure will always emit the fragrance of fresh and dewy roses.

    Speaking of roses, I was the only woman in my class today. And it could be that I wasn’t dressed appropriately, but I won’t know that until I see what other women wear. The standard outfit I saw on the guys consisted of ginormous baggy shorts, skull motif tee shirts, and ragged sneakers. Scruffy is presumably the way to go, and my trim aerobics shorts and cheery sport tank were decidedly out of place. Also, today I noticed that I’m really tall. Everyone else is crouched down, hunched into their punching bags. I move less like Muhommad Ali and more like Gumby. Maybe later I’ll get the gist of that “float like a butterfly” thing.

    Overall, I kept up. I was in better aerobic shape than most of the guys there, although I’m sure my punches are about as hard as room temperature butter, and I just laughed and laid on the floor when the instructor called for (and snapped off) fifty push-ups during the “cool down.” Riiiight.

    My shoulders, upper back, and neck are all crying for a three-day vacation in Maui with complimentary Mai Tai’s now, but I’m mentally psyched, and I find myself saying “Yo, Adrian!” when I see someone in the hall. I’ll let you know how it goes.