I am a short, thin, Jewish boy with barely a wisp of beard hair gracing my lip. Sports were never my thing. Exercise? I didn't need it, I felt fine with my ribs poking out every time I leaned any which way. In high school, we had to take P.E.. I didn’t have enough to graduate, and as I approached my senior year, I was pretty much screwed. My friend Max, another short, thin, but not Jewish boy came up with a solution. We could start boxing. What even.. what was this kid talking about? We had tiny noodle arms. Arms only fit for playing video games and touching girls. Not to mention we both hadn’t run since our days of half-assed ultimate frisbee. We were not boxer material. Not even close.
“Dude, we go three times a week, get ripped and learn how to fight. And we get P.E. credit.” Max told me excitedly. I wasn’t the most enthused. But not wanting to look a wimp in front of my friends, I went along with it. There was four of us. John, Max, Vittorio and I. Max had discovered this small, local, and most importantly cheap gym out in Oakland. I walked in that first day, the smell of sweat, canvas and old wood had an almost soothing effect on my nerves. We started off the day with 15 minutes of jumping rope. Do not ever under any circumstances let anyone tell you that jumping rope is easy. It is not. After that we’d usually wrap up. This was something I still have not gotten down. It honestly reminded me of arts and crafts. I couldn’t even wrap gifts, now they were asking me to wrap strips of cloth around my knuckles and wrists to prevent them from breaking. Then we hit the bag. Our trainer, a recently turned 21 year old, and still hungover, stood watch, periodically calling out “Bring your damn hands back to your face.” I hit that bag, feeling the muscle in my delicate arm reverberate. It felt good.
Eventually, we were allowed to spar. This was not something I was particularly thrilled to do. I don’t like pain. It’s just not for me. But again, I wasn’t going to wimp out now. I put in my mouthguard, strapped on my gloves and hit the bag a couple times to calm my nerves. It didn’t work. I wasn’t even in the ring yet and I could already feel my heart pumping. I was jumping up and down. My stomach felt like it had fell out of my body. My potshots to the bag were coming out lightning quick. Adrenaline is a hell of drug, kids. As Vittorio and John stepped out of the ring, they handed me the headgear. I put it on. I almost didn’t notice how warm and moist the inside of it was. Almost. I stepped into the ring and jumped up and down a couple times, trying to get warmed up. I looked at my opponent, Max, my best friend since freshman year. He had been with me through thick and thin. How could I hit him? The answer? Easily. Honestly, I was pretty damn excited to punch him in the face.
The buzzer rang, we touched gloves. I backed up, putting my hands up to my face, keeping my body moving, inching forward, then back. My head kept up a constant bobbing rhythm. Something I had seen in a YouTube video, I’m not sure if I was necessarily doing it right. I threw a jab. Judging my distance. I was off, very off. I advanced, jabbing while stepping. I hit his gloves. He threw a one-two. I ducked, and came back with a mixture of a right hook and a straight power punch. I hit him right in the side of the head. His head swung. I saw the look of surprise on his face. Did I feel guilty for hitting him that hard? A little bit. Did it feel good to hit him? Yeah (sorry, bro). Flushed with confidence, I waited for him to recover. I aimed a jab at him, and my body lunged with it. I blinked, my head whipped back, my nose went numb. I stumbled backwards. My eyes opened. Max was standing there, grinning, arm outstretched. Damn. That was a good move. I danced around him, always staying in front of him. I jabbed, he ducked, he swung back, I moved. We continued in this pattern, getting in hits one by one, never gaining advantage. I feinted with my left, then he ducked, and popped back up, only to get hit right back by my right hook. Poor guy. It happened to him twice. He came back with a vengeance, landing a straight right punch directly in my face. Just absolutely devastating. Ow.
The buzzer rang, we touched gloves. It had only been three minutes. I was exhausted. Sweat pouring down my skinny body. It was pretty gross. I felt good --tired, but good. I was excited. I wanted to get back in that ring. It sounds like a cliche, but when you’re in that square, facing down your opponent, everything else fades away. There nothing but you, and the guy standing in the opposite corner. Everything that could possibly affect your day, gone. Its meditative, therapeutic even. Boxing helped me become stronger, both physically and mentally. I’ve never done anything more invigorating in my life. The scariest things in life, often turn out to be the best. To this day, hitting my best friend was by far the most fun I’ve ever had.
