The Glowing Edge

Tag: rib

  • Back in the Ring


    Back in the Ring from Lisa Creech Bledsoe on Vimeo.

    Exactly six weeks to the day post rib-fracture I had the chance to get back in the ring. I showed up Sunday about 10:40 am to warm up, and worked out hard until noon. By then several of my team members had arrived and there was a good crowd waiting to get in the ring and get down to business. I couldn’t believe the level of nerves I had and how my anxiety was sucking the life out of me. But my trainer is whip smart, and she let me wait through about five rounds, then called me in with her, offense only.

    Now you would think that if I knew for a fact that no one was going to punch me that I wouldn’t be so full of anxiety. And you would be wrong. For some reason it’s the hardest thing in the world to get in that ring and go. Part of it is knowing I’m already pretty exhausted and fully understanding how demanding and endless three little minutes can be, part of it is wishing I didn’t look so crappy in front of my team, and another part is simply the strain of boxing. It’s a tough place to spend time, that ring. But the triumph of making it through is somehow worth the dead-hard work of preparing for it and the misery of anticipating it. Because we go back again and again.

    My first round in was pitiable; my feet are still anchors and I still don’t have much in the way of combinations: I tended to throw one-twos or a right hook most of the time. I had a trouble sitting down on my body shots, and I had forgotten how much of my vision is cut out by the headgear. I was able to keep my head up (well, no one was swinging at it!) and my eyes on my opponent. But the strain was stealing my energy, and once when Bonnie called me to throw faster I grunted in sheer frustration, “I can’t!” Thankfully, she  refuses to accept that kind of attitude from me (or anyone else, for that matter), and she let me know it, and I found a little power to bring. I was glad it was over as I climbed out through the ropes, but I still didn’t feel like I was back. I hadn’t performed well, and somehow it’s not real until at least a few punches come your way. I didn’t want to leave it there. Only one way to get back, and it’s to get in again.

    So as I waited my turn again, one of our big guys, a boxer who is unutterably graceful in the ring, agreed to throw me a few light jabs ringside so that I could practice slipping and paring away. That was actually the turning point for me, even though I had lost what little gains I’d made in the reaction department, and paired up with Dustin’s smooth-as-whiskey jabs I felt about as flexible as a wooden ladder banged together out of 2×4’s. Bad as I looked, I was determined, and it felt good to start working again.

    I also watched Tim, another of our fight-ready boxers, go through round after round of defense with some newbies. Tim is the ultimate in calm boxers; it appears that nothing phases him, he just continues to bring his game on, and looks like he can go for hours. So I geared back up, gave my trainer the nod, and she put me in with him. He threw light jabs just as Dustin had, and I ate each and every one of them, but it was okay. He let me throw as many one-twos as I could bring, and push him up against the ropes and throw a few flurries. I moved. I worked. And he helped me in that quiet, calm way of his. My heart quit jack-hammering and I was with yet another skilled boxer whom I trusted.

    Your trainer and your team make all the difference in boxing. My trainer understands how to build and rebuild confidence, to bring what people are ready to face, to refuse to accept excuses, and to keep calling us to go further and be better. My team is awesome, too; one boxer (a shout out to Paul, here) sought me out at another gym and encouraged me to get back to the team, even if I couldn’t go the distance. Mary, a regular at the boxing gym saw me on one of my first nights back, and immediately ducked out of her workout to come hug me and tell me how much she’d missed me. She also stayed late to watch me spar on my first time back in the ring (Here’s a hollaaa for you girl, with my thanks). It’s not all a tough-guy thing at my gym; there’s some real community to be had and I’m incredibly grateful for it.

    And I’m on my way back. It feels awesome.

  • Saturday Night’s All Right For Fighting


    Fight Night from Lisa Creech Bledsoe on Vimeo.

    Elton says it and I believe it. So a few of the boxers on our team loaded up and headed out to Fayetteville to check out our competition. None of us were fighting so we were free to watch and feel terrified, motivated, or confident, depending on what we saw in our divisions.

    There ended up being about five good fights and six barroom brawls (sloppy fighting, illegal moves, etc, you’ll see one on the video). There was only one women’s fight, and even though it was not my division I was thrilled to see it anyway.

    I came away feeling both terrified and excited, a peculiar mixture I’m experiencing more and more with boxing. Since I broke my rib I’ve been wary about sparring but I’ve also wanted very much to get in the ring with my most trusted sparring partners. I just started working out with my team again and have a lot of catching up to do, but my trainer won’t let me in the ring just yet. I’m hoping to convince her to let me in this coming weekend (which will be week 6 post-injury) to at least work on offense with someone. No danger to my rib. Yet.

    After the fights, I asked a teammate who supports him in this crazy endeavor. Family? Friends? Is there anyone who will listen to him talk about it (even ask him about it!) or watch him fight? Anybody who isn’t a little repulsed or worried or negative? He said there was a pretty clear lack of support, although his family keeps a polite surface on it. Most people just don’t get it. All the injuries (we’ve had four broken ribs in our gym in the past 9 months, one concussion, and lots of bloody noses and lips), all the insanely hard work, the diet, the time consumed.

    I tried to describe it to some non-boxing friends the next day. They asked me, in the most honestly curious and non-ugly way if I wasn’t being a little reckless. They didn’t say this before I got injured, but they wondered if now I hadn’t crossed some line of appropriate behavior. I couldn’t figure out what to tell them. It’s no different, I think, than playing football, and yet people view it differently. Perhaps because the goal of football is to move the ball across a line, whereas in boxing it’s much more nebulous. We’re competing on points, too, but we’re getting them by hitting someone. So I can understand the conflict, I just can’t explain why it’s so compelling.

    Perhaps it the very extremes that draw us. The extreme training, the incredible high of doing well in the ring, the terror of doing poorly and not knowing how to survive it. The fear and thrill of knowing the trainer is going to send us into the ring, and not knowing who she will pick as the opponent: Oh, pleeease not so-and-so; they’ll kill me! How many rounds will I make? What if I freeze up? What if I get injured (again)?

    And of course we constantly hope for glory: Maybe I’ll kick ass, maybe I’ll get some great shots in, maybe I’ll feel fast and tight and strong.

    It makes little sense; I feel exhausted and inspired at the same time.

    And I keep going. Because I know if I’m not training, someone else is training to beat me.

  • Running out of bad words

    Running out of bad words

    2240243119_585494bd57_oWarning: Boxing is a contact sport. Any contact sport can be dangerous and result in serious injury. Anyone using this equipment must assume the risk of any serious injury.

    Every piece of boxing gear I own says this, and you can trust the author: it’s perfectly true. I have had a sprained wrist (training for boxing), injured shoulder (training for boxing), and now a busted rib (boxing). The first two I whined about, but with this one I have run slap out of bad words and need to borrow some, if you have any extras lying about.

    The biggest fattest ass-pain about this is trying to get in bed at night, attempting sleep movements (just don’t), and trying to get out of bed in the morning. If we could dispense with the whole “people should rest at night” thing I’d probably be just fine. Although that may be taking it a bit far.

    The doctor was all nonchalant: “Yeah, I see this ALL the time, football players with rib injuries,” then, belatedly, “How did you get this injury again?”

    He flattered me out of the meds I wanted, though. He said, “Most of the guys who come in here are moaning and can’t breathe, all hunched over.…” He eyed me standing there calmly, and considered his hunchbacks of Notre Dame football boys. “You seem to be doing pretty well,” he concluded, “You’re in pretty good shape.”

    Things I wish I’d said at that point:

    “Boxer chicks are tuff.”
    “I had natural childbirth three times.”
    “You should see me skip rope.”
    “I have a tattoo.”

    What I actually did was stand there and nod my head stupidly when he said he thought I could probably get by on ibuprofen. He did tell me he would write a prescription “if you really think you need it,” but I was enamored with the idea of being tuff and lost my chance. Crap. (See what I mean about the bad words?)

    He also told me that the football players wear a piece of gear that protects their ribs, and he dashed out of the examining room, then came back to tell me the name of the supplier. I started to remind him that I wasn’t a football player, but opted out in the end. I’ll bet the football gear says the same crap the boxing gear says anyway.

    So. I’m out of the game for a couple of months, and the main reason I’m grouchy is that it is just so hard to get in condition. Getting in condition is harder than getting in the ring and you spend more time and energy doing it. Given how horrifying the thought of getting hit in the ribs is right now, I feel a fair amount of trepidation about getting in the ring, but I’m guessing that will fade as I heal. And I have to start with conditioning anyway, so my main focus will be on figuring out how to do that. Again. Damnit.

    Image by melissajonas on Flickr 

  • Does Boxing Hurt?

    Does Boxing Hurt?

    It’s funny how many people ask me this about boxing.

    Short answer: yes. If that’s all you need to hear, that’s cool, but it’s one of those simple questions (like “Is there really a Santa Claus?” and “What does Paris Hilton do?”) that perhaps calls for a more complex answer. Lucky you! I’m here to elaborate.

    Beginning with the obvious, it hurts to get punched in the face. Ditto ribs, gut, and ears. Even with big, puffy 16oz boxing gloves and headgear on, it hurts. One’s nose, particularly, stings quite a bit when you get popped there. Teary eyes and bloody noses are not uncommon.

    But here’s the cool thing: when you learn that you can actually take a punch, that’s pretty awesome. And when you learn you can last an entire round, that’s even more incredible.

    But the simplest fact of the matter is that in boxing, you don’t spend most of your time being punched in the face (ribs, gut, ears). You spend most of your time training and conditioning. And that’s the biggest part of what hurts in boxing.

    To really bring this home for you, let me give you the list of the top five tortures a boxing trainer inflicts upon her willing (yea, even eager) pupils.

    1. Neck snaps. Heh. An accurate name if there ever was one. Lay on your back in the ring with your shoulders and head suspended over the edge. On the trainers count, snap your head quickly to the right three times like so: One, two, three, ONE. One, two, three, TWO. And so on to ten. You should be completing the ten snaps in about fifteen seconds total. Then you do ten to the left. Double time, now, and keep your eyes open. Now that your neck is starting to seize up, do ten to the front, really lifting your head as high and a quickly as you can. When your trainer finishes that set and starts everyone over again from the beginning, you may feel as if you are going to pass out or die. You should be so lucky; this is only the second set, and there’s still one more to go.

    2. Ring slides. These sound and look innocuous, but they’re deadly. A group of five gets in the boxing ring and forms a circle, facing in. Aaaaaall you have to do is glide sideways, as fast as you can, in that circle with your teammates, for as long as the trainer says. She who holds the stopwatch is your master, and you are the slave. Now move it. At first it’s okay, but after about 2.5 minutes the bottoms of your feet start to burn. Periodically the coach will shout, “Switch!” and you change directions, but it doesn’t help. After several three-minute rounds of this, you will sob with relief when the trainer calls time. The next day you will have massive, slidey blisters on the bottoms of your feet. You will moan a lot and annoy all the people around you. You will avoid the gym like the Black Death.

    3. Arm circles. When the trainer tells you to purchase a couple of two- or three-pound weights, do so immediately. Because if you fail to show with your little weights, they will punish you by making you use the five-pound or heavier weights, and you will experience serious agony in short order. Stick your thus-laden hands straight out in front of you and begin to make little tiny circles. Again, the count is One, two, three, ONE, and you’ll do 25 in the front, then without dropping your arms do 25 straight up above your head, then 25 behind your back (you gotta hunch over for those), then 25 with your arms extended out to your sides. Whatever you do, don’t drop your arms or the whole team will suffer for it. For the cherry on top, extend your arms out to the front again and Just. Hold. It gets worse. Because that’s only the first set.

    4. Mountain climbers. Push-up position. Pull your feet, one at a time, up to your chest, as if the floor were a vertical wall and you were Spiderman climbing it. Pretend Dr. Octopus is chasing you and you have to go really fast. Do ten million repetitions, and keep your butt down. This is why it sucks to be a superhero.

    5. Duck walks. Squat all the way — I said ALL the way down, until your behind is hanging an inch or two from the floor. Now walk. Quickly. While carrying a 12-pound medicine ball at the back of your neck, lifting it straight up in the air, then returning it as you duck walk. Do laps. This is the only exercise I simply can not do (although all my in-their-20’s teammates can). I’m guessing it’s the over-40 factor, along with the rice krispies I have in my knees.

    There are more tortures, but I think you get the idea. Strangely, my boxing team meets twice each week for a two-hour session of this sort of thing, and generally speaking those of us who are on the team also commit to three other gym sessions on our own every week as well. Go figure.

    So yes, Virginia. Boxing hurts. But for some reason, we do it anyway.