I used to box.
That may not be a fair description of what I did. I learned boxing techniques from a kung-fu/boxing school in Syracuse, NY. And while I gained a greater appreciation for the sport (it’s far more complicated than two individuals smacking each other around), I was not the greatest that ever lived. I wasn’t even the most promising that ever lived. I was more like the guy that kind of showed up and hit stuff. That ever lived.
The school was on the 2nd floor of a sad, slightly dilapidated 3-story building just off of Erie Boulevard. Not a whole lot going on in terms of décor aside from the occasional picture of our Sifu (that’s the kung-fu term for instructor) with Mr. T and a few guys from ‘Nam. If you removed the ring and the heavy bags, you could easily replace them with trashy hair salon equipment, a white trash dance studio or model car-enthusiast shop.
The reason I was taking these lessons was because of my good friend Frank. He found an ad for the school on campus and asked me and our fellow roommates if we’d like to join him for lessons. I was the only one who agreed (and enthusiastically at that).
Although Frank and I both got the form pretty well, Frank had a terrible habit of making me laugh during class, while seeming to distance himself from my lack of commitment. Which made the Sifu love him and hate me. I know this because during one class, the Sifu came up to both of us and said,
“Frank, you’re doing great. You keep this up and you could be in line for the Junior Golden Gloves.
(Turns to me) Keep hitting the bag.”
So after about 2 or 3 months of learning how to hit, block and breathe, and building up our stamina through excessive cardio, Sifu tells us that today we will spar. With each other. And with Sammy.
Sammy was a 40 year-old boxer, who looked 40 in his face but not in his physique. He was tall and lean, and didn’t come across as especially tough. But there was a look in his eye that seemed to say, “Yeah, I did time in prison. Don’t ask me about it and we’ll be friends.”
After we geared up (we were covered from head to crotch in padding), Frank went into the ring with Sammy first. Sammy was actually really great about sparring. He didn’t taunt his experience in front of either of us, nor did he school us in the ways of taking a beating. He simply danced around a bit, looking for Frank to hit him, and popping Frank a bit after getting hit. From what I was watching, I thought I would stand up pretty well against this probable ex-con.
So after 3 minutes in the ring, Frank comes out—exhausted—and now it’s my turn to go toe-to-toe with Sammy. I enter, and wait for the bell to signal the “round”.
The bell goes off and Sammy and I both begin our dance. I, for whatever reason, do not want to hit Sammy. He senses this right away, and just says, “It’s ok, just hit me.” So I throw a right hook at him. And completely miss.
“Come on, hit me.” I try another right, but Sammy easily dodges this one too. “Hit me!” he says, but I just can’t seem to connect.
Sammy then decides to throw me an easy one. He stops moving, drops his guard, and points to the center of his forehead.
“Hit me. Right here.”
And I do. I give him a nice shot to the cranium. So I start to smile. Proud of what I’ve accomplished. But no sooner do the corners of my mouth start to upturn, and then I get a shot to the side of the head by a quick left jab from Sammy.
I felt my brain stay in the position it started before the hit as the rest of my body (skull included) was sent 3 feet to my left. It took a good second or two to let my body realign itself, and by that point the round was over. I looked up at Sammy, who seemed happy that I remained standing, although I knew that he just gave me a small percentage of his striking capability.
Frank and I boxed one more round together, but it was nothing compared to our 3 minutes with Sammy. And while we were both proud of what we accomplished there that day, we both realized something.
Boxing involves hitting, and hitting hurts. We didn’t spar much after that.