A Few Thoughts on Showing ’Em Who Ya Are
From a beginning boxer (Year 2)
The locker room is the scene of a lot of soul-searching. After the big loss, it’s where the athlete goes, slumps in shame, nurses injuries, and wonders where it all went wrong. Every fighter, whether a superstar with a legacy and sponsorship deals or a nameless kid just staying off the streets and away from a broken home, has been there. As a sport, boxing is mano a mano by definition, leaving no room for blaming others, so these moments in generally ugly and stinky surroundings can be dark.
I’d had a bad practice. My last sparring opponents had plowed into me, sending punch after punch straight into my face. At first, I laughed out loud, recognition of my shortcomings and a bit of Viking spirit in the face of adversity, but at my level there’s only so much I can take before it’s overwhelming. Disoriented, my performance only got shoddier. That’s when our instructor delivered some blunt criticism, which struck everyone as funny, resulting in me — exhausted, confused and battered me — being the brunt of a big ol’ laugh. The hour was over, so I gathered my things, and clutched my dignity as I staggered toward . . . the locker room.
I have trouble getting out of the locker room, because I’m always running over everything in my head. This night, I went through the usual litany: my instructor is right, I’m new to this, unsuited to this, never expected to be good at this, in fact I was ready for many humiliating scenes when signing up, whereas the other boxers are all bigger, heavier, more experienced, so I’ll be here next time, working hard, and improving, because I want to do this. But, in a white hot moment, that all transformed: “Laugh at me, will you? Well, I’ll show you!” The actual thought, however, if transcribed, would have a lot of expletives deleted.
“I’ll do another hour,” I said as I returned to boxing area. The look on everyone’s faces and the momentary silence was precious. You might even say it was a victory. I’d left ten minutes earlier, beaten and mocked, and returned unbowed and in a fresh shirt. Next time wouldn’t do. It had to be now. I needed to prove to myself, and, in a reverse of the usual feel-good logic, I needed to show them, that I was there, not to kick ass in some puerile and futile show of aggression, but to face the blows, come what may, and thereby rise above the situation. I was there to box.
The second hour went better, even against opponents who were there for their first hour and thus weren’t drawing on their last reserves of stamina. If I think about it, though, the first hour hadn’t been so bad. Early on, I had been popping my opponents in the shnozz just the way I like, with a motionless jab so unexpected it surprises even me, and earning compliments from the same instructor who cut me down later. That was probably why they laid on the gas and started laying into me later on. Earn the respect of your peers. By showing up, or with a nasty left.
None of this means I’m actually good. I still struggle with the basics, with facing an opponent, with even going to the gym. Nor are my instructor and fellow boxers jerks the way the story above may suggest. It was just one of those moments that conspires for maximum embarrassment without the ill will of anyone involved, and me being me, I had to wrestle with it in the locker room and step back out stronger. The locker room is where many a bout ends, but it’s also where the next one begins.
Note: I wrote this for Medium.com. If you are reading this on another platform, it has been pirated. I quit the Medium Partner Program, so I’m not doing this for money. It is nice, however, to know someone’s reading, so please clap or comment to let me know somebody’s out there. Gladius adhuc lucet.
