Day 13 - Boston Boxing

I just got back from a long run, trying to build up some leg strength and endurance, and I got to thinking about my initial foray into boxing.  That I started to box when I did was completely by chance.  However, I had always thought of myself as a fighter.  I was small as a child.  Where I grew up that meant a health dose of fist fights.  But when I hit the gym it became clear to me right away that I was no natural.  I had a stiff jab and a decent right, but I had no balance, my footwork was awkward, and I could not throw combinations or defend well.

Before I knew it I was on "the red team," part of a three-month long contender-style reality series on local television profiling new boxers as the trained to compete in a local unofficial boxing competitions.  Unlike other fighting sports, experience is at a premium in boxing.  A lack of experience cannot be overcome by effort, conditioning, or brute force alone.  There is not substitute for the calm, craft, and creativity that comes with months and years of toil at the boxing gym.  Although I was working as hard as I knew how, I was sorely lacking in boxing experience the first time in the gym.  To make matters worse, I had broken my nose about two months into training, causing me to lose a precious week or so while I got it straightened and let it heal.  While the other guys at the gym went into the season finale of the show - the  "fight night" - having at least a fight or two in the bag, I went in completely green, nervous as hell, with no idea what to expect.  I was in for a real treat.

Fifteen seconds in and two knockdowns for me.  Not bad.  Except I was already out of breath.  I knew boxing was hard, but I was not ready for how exhausting it would be.  It didn't help that my opponent was such an awkward and dirty fighter.  But I was tiring myself, really.  His hands were heavy, but he didn't know how to throw combinations worth a damn and his defense was worse than that.  But my gloves were low, my fists were tight, and my legs weren't really under me.  I was holding my breath on my punches and my chin wasn't low enough.  I was so tired already I didn't even notice when he switched stances.  It was only a matter of time before it all caught up to me.

I still remember Eric, one of the trainers at Boston Boxing, asking me during the break if I wanted to go on.  I said no.  A funny thing happened, though.  Although my body was screaming for me to stop and my brain had tried to communicate that desire, I was unable to formulate the words.  I'd like to think it was my pride.  Who knows?  Maybe I was too damn exhausted.  Either way, when the bell rang, I shoved off the stool and went back to work.

The next day my neck was sore, my head was throbbing, and my torso ached.  But the night of the fight I rejoiced.  He had hurt me but I had hurt him.  I had lost my first fight but who cares.  So did Bernard Hopkins.  I had fought on my twenty-fifth birthday and I had felt alive.  I faced adversity and I did not quit.  It was not my best performance, but that only meant there was no way but up.  I was a fighter now.