In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev’ry glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the fighter still remains
– Paul Simon (The Boxer)
Late one evening in the fall of 2007, my friend Alex and I arrived via cab at the dormitory in which another friend named Alex lived, on the Illinois Institute of Technology’s campus, on the South Side of Chicago. Having just been kicked out of Second City, Alex and I were in high spirits and were looking for a fight. Rather than bringing a third party and potentially the police into our violent little shenanigans, I thought it would be a good idea to fight each other.
We stood toe-to-toe in the middle of our friend’s cramped dorm room, and when he said, “go!” Alex did not hesitate to unload a right cross to the side of my face. This blow was the first one to ring my bell truly. If I had to guess, I hit the ground, but I honestly do not remember. What I do remember is that Alex felt like he might have jumped the gun and accidentally sucker punched me. I cannot remember whether he had or not, so he offered me one free shot, after which the fight would resume.
Having never thrown a punch in earnest, I was unaware that there was such thing as correct form, so I took my best shot in the way that felt the most natural, which unfortunately included tucking my thumb into my fist. I can only make an assumption here, but I most likely inflicted more pain on myself than I did on him, because I broke my thumb, and he barely even staggered.
Realizing that something had gone disastrously wrong, but wanting to continue the fight, I changed tactics and opted to take Alex to the ground. We spilled into the hallway and, eventually, the dorm room of some unsuspecting strangers. The fight was broken up, but not before our bloodlust was satiated. Years later, I stood up in my opponent’s wedding. We are still close friends. It would be years before I threw another punch.
In January of 2019, I was feeling the full effects of gym fatigue, and as I said in Chapter Two, my hitherto iron will was starting to buckle. I was in desperate need of a change of scenery, and as a man who has seen all the good Rocky movies at least twice¹, I knew what I wanted to do. In mid-February, I called Pro Boxing Fitness to set up a trial class.
Located kitty-corner from my favorite coffee shop in Elgin (Blue Box Cafe), and above a record store that I frequent (Rediscover Records), Pro Boxing Fitness’s location was nearly ideal. It also did not hurt that the entire place gave off strong Rocky vibes.
Before I agreed to attend the trial class, I probably should have asked a few more questions because all I asked was, “What should I bring?” To which I was told to wear comfortable clothes and to bring an ID. What I should have asked was, “What is the mean age for the 5:30 class?” Because when I got there, a throng of skinny teens and preteens in boxing gloves greeted me, which gave me pause.
The class started with some light warm-up cardio, such as jumping jacks, jogging in an absurdly tight circle whilst shadowboxing, and, regretfully, jumping rope. I say “regretfully” because I have the coordination of a newborn giraffe. There was no point during this first class that I was able to make four consecutive successful jumps, and what made it even more undignified was that the instructor would have the class change jumping styles every 10 seconds.
After I had thoroughly humiliated myself attempting to jump over a rope, the instructor had me slide my hands into disgusting old loaner gloves, and took me into the ring as the children shadowboxed. During this one on one breakout session, he taught me how to stand, and the basic moves of boxing: jab, cross, hooks, uppercuts, slips, ducks, and blocks, heaping praise on my ability to learn all the while.
After the instructor had inflated my ego and was confident that I would be able to follow instructions, we rejoined the tykes, who had been left unsupervised for too long. It was now time to spar.
At this point, all the younglings paired up with their friends, leaving me without a partner, to which I thought, “Cool, I’ll probably get to spar with the instructor.” But that is not what happened. The instructor told one child that he would be sparring with him, and that child’s previous partner, also a child, would be sparring with me.
I, who was 31 years old and 210 lbs, stood toe-to-toe with an infant in boxing gloves, as the instructor shouted out the combinations he expected us to execute. I took it slow, really slow, as I telegraphed each punch, intentionally jabbing short and hooking high. After a few rounds, the itty bitty baby human told me that I could earnestly swing at him, to which I replied, “No, I really can’t.”
After that, we took our gloves off and did crunches and other abdominal exercises. This concluded my first class.
The following day, I received a call from the owner, asking how I enjoyed my first class, and I gave him my honest assessment. It was fun, and it was a good workout, but I was not comfortable throwing punches at toddlers. He then informed me that the 6:30 class was predominately adults and offered to give me an additional trial in the different timeslot. I went back a few days later, and at the conclusion of this second trial, I signed up². I committed myself to attending three classes per week, and I continued to go to the Rakow Center on the days that I did not box.
Every class started the same way, with me embarrassing myself by attempting to jump rope, then sparring at a snail’s pace, and ending with crunches, and this routine accelerated the rate at which I was losing weight. It was great, but after a while, my hand started hurting from all the punching. I had to stuff a sock in my glove to give me some additional padding and ice my swollen hand after each class.
Then there was the crazy Russian.
I do not remember his name, but he was every bit 6′ 4″, and he was a force of nature. He would show up early and work the heavy bags, he would jump rope nearly twice as fast as anyone else, and when he sparred, he did not put up his hands to block, nor did he pull his punches. Each sparring session with this guy felt like a fight to the death. He would not execute the instructor’s combinations. Instead, he would improvise, so my slips, ducks, and blocks were all reacting to his hail of blows, rather than executing the scripted defensive moves. He would try to goad me into boxing matches, but I knew he would dismantle me if I strayed from the scrip, so I never once did. After a few rounds with this man, I realized that he would not hesitate to break my glasses with a cross to the face, so I took my glasses off and sparred with him half-blind. This went on for three months.
Overall, I truly enjoyed my time at Pro Boxing Fitness. However, between the nagging injuries, the children with whom I still had to share a locker room, and the crazy Russian, I knew that it was going to be a temporary membership. As soon as the weather started getting nice enough to workout outside nearly every day, I canceled my membership.
¹ Rocky, Rocky II, Rocky IV, Creed, Creed II
² $110/month (for 3 months) + $75 for gloves and wrap. Boxing Total = $405.
Grand Total Thus Far = $965.
