If You Believe in Yourself…Cont’d

November 6, 2009 at 5:00 pm (Uncategorized)

As mentioned, the fight’s off.  One well-placed body shot, one strange “popping” sensation in my side, four x-ray views of my chest, one fracture diagnosis, no fight.  It was a weird-ass night.

If you’ve never been intimately involved in a full-contact sport, you might think that sparring and fighting are the same thing.  They look and sound remarkably similar: punches land with audible thumps; blood drips or trickles or flows from noses and lips; faces wince, flinch, occasionally snarl (a primordial, unconscious show of teeth covered by mouthguards).  But sparring isn’t fighting.  We understand that we’re not supposed to hurt one another, not in a serious, permanent way that pulls us out of the real game.

Most of us know that.

Rib Breaker (RB) has been coming to the gym for two-or-so months.  She hasn’t fought before, but a full lineup of varsity high school sports renders her exceptionally strong and aware of her body.  She practices her punches without the self-consciousness that plagues so many girls and women trying to eke out a place in boxing’s Boy Kingdom.  She’s someone with a lot of potential, a natural talent that gets noticed and piques curiosity.

“I’m gonna spar RB and A,” co-coach told me.  “Get on your headgear and be ready to round-robin with them.”

I’ve known A for about 6 months.  I blew her off when she first arrived at the gym: she was just another girl in too-short shorts who spent more time watching the boys watch her than watching her form in the mirrors.  A stuck with it, though, more and more often getting lost in her punches and footwork, slapping impatiently at misguided suitors who tried to get her attention between rounds.  We’ve worked together a lot  lately, and I now consider A a teammate.  I wasn’t worried about her.  RB’s taller, heavier, stronger, but A’s got ring-time, a mean overhand right, and patience.

Bell rings. A extends her left glove, our customary gesture, a handless handshake to establish good will.  RB tilts her head, momentarily confused until co-coach calls, “Touch gloves.”

RB bats A’s hand, then advances with an aggression that stuns me.  She unloads on A: jab-right-jab-right-body-right-jab-right.  Co-coach steps in, admonishes RB, “Whoa-whoa-whoa, RB.  This is sparring.  You don’t go all out.  Work  your defense and distance.”

RB nods, covers up for a moment.  A, now guarded and tense, taps RB’s headgear with a few jabs, moving her head back and forth, leading with her left shoulder like we’ve been working on.  RB stands static for an instant, then launches again.  She hits blindly, the punches are ragged around the edges but they’re landing hard.  A’s driven backwards, off-balance when RB lands a straight right that opens A’s nose.

“Time!” shouts co-coach.  He lifts A’s face by the chin, looks briefly at her car-wreck nose, takes off her headgear and gloves and sends her to the women’s restroom, where the water always smells like overdone eggs from sitting too long in the pipes between uses.  He glances at RB, who is examining the lacings on her gloves, turns to me, says, “Take it easy on her, but make her work.”  I wasn’t concerned, feeling certain that I’ll be able to back RB off if I need to.

Bell rings.  I extend my glove, but not all the way, saving some elbow-space in case she goes over my left with a jab after we touch. Instead, she loops with her right, smashing into my left ear with a force that muffles my hearing, like getting rolled by a wave from behind at the beach – disorientation as water pours into your eyes and nose and you push fruitlessly Up at what suddenly became Down.

She follows with a left hook. I block automatically, twisting slightly to the inside to follow her glove and absorb the shock.  She steps back, jumps forward with the right hook that breaks my rib. The Wrong inside me drops me to the floor on my knee, the first time I’ve been knocked down.

I knew for an instant that something had gone bad in my body, but I forgot. Endorphins, adrenaline, hyperventilation oxygen and Pure Fucking Rage erased knowledge, tapped instinct on its shoulder and brought me back to my feet.  We sparred two more rounds, my anger making me awkward, she turning away and showing the back of her head when I landed punches on her.  That’s supposed to be like a dog in a play-fight flashing their belly – I’m compelled to shut down and let her regroup.  After the sixth or seventh time she pulled the toreador crap, I plugged her in the shoulderblade anyway, drawing the ire of Lo and co-coach.  They both tried to talk to me afterward, but I was obviously too unsettled to listen, too queasy and robbed to care.  Lo and I left for home.

I hit the doorstep of our house and knew I couldn’t be around anyone at the moment. I made my apologies, then drove over to the big parking lot outside the stadium at the university.  I found a circle of dark away from the lights, parked my car, and cried for a half-hour.  I cried for being 33 years old and finding boxing too late to be able to stack up to someone whose body bounces back obediently from any sketchy situation.  I cried for being embarrassed in front of the Ring Voyeurs, the guys who used to fight and now hang around the gym like their guts hang over their pants; unimpressive, practically stationary, but solid and real and there.  I cried because as much as I’ve built my muscle and timing and cardio condition over the past year, I apparently hadn’t developed confidence that would and should coast me through a bad sparring session.  Mostly, though, I just cried because I love This Thing so much and someone who knows nothing took that love away from me that night.

When I returned home, Lo took one look at me, then carried me to the bathroom where he undressed me like a child (“Arms up.”  “Give me your foot.”) and put me into the bathtub (the place he knows I always retreat when the world’s falling down).  I finished it out there, caught my mental breath at last, and stood up to towel off and go to bed.

Pain. Serious pain came back as instinct and epinephrine retired for the evening and knowledge again took the floor.  I knew something was wrong in my side, I just didn’t know what.  It took x-rays the following morning to answer that, with the footnote that I’ve got 4-6 weeks before I can even think about really training again.

“There’ll be tons of fights next year,” Lo says, and it’s true (amateur figts are rare during the holiday season when fighters want to eat with their families).  “You let being mad take away everything you’ve learned.  You just stood there and slugged it out with her instead of making her box  you.  Every time you thought about it before you threw, you out-boxed her like nothing.”  That’s true, too.  Unfortunately, it seems that knowing the truth (once again) isn’t making me feel any better.

“It’s one of the classic American meta-narratives,” I say to Lo a few days later. [His eyes start to glaze over, as they often do when I start in on the words that begin with “meta” or “post” or “neo” and end with “ism” or “ological.”] “‘If you believe in yourself, give 110%, and never abandon your dream, you can accomplish anything.’  But it’s not really true.  I work my ass off, want this more than I should and I still got taken by some girl who doesn’t know shit.”

He did the right thing, which was nothing.  He just took my hand and sighed.