Six weeks ago, I signed up for Friday Night at the Fights, OU's annual boxing tournament. I really don't know why I did it, because I am in no way athletic. I struggle with all things motor-coordinated. Being uncoordinated is like being a really bad driver of your own body. You tend to break things, especially yourself. And you are really bad at sports.
I have struggled with sports all my life. I tried them all. And no matter the sport, at the end of each season, I received the trophy that said most improved player. That's trophy lingo for you suck. When I entered college, I swore off all sports and devoted my time to being lazy. By my senior year, my body had atrophied. I lost about 10 pounds. I was ready to graduate, mighty proud of consistent inactivity, until a friend told me about Friday Night at the Fights.
I signed up on a lark. Unlike the other sports, boxing seemed to be pure. No balls, sticks or goals. Just two people beating the crap out of each other with nothing but two pairs of bloated mittens. It was ancient and primal. Most of all, it was insane. I wanted in.
The first practice was at Ping Center, led by Glouster native, Sam Jones. A world-renowned boxer and trainer, Sam whipped me and 28 other boxing amateurs into shape, drilling us on basic boxing punches, defense and footwork. As rigorous as Sam's workouts were, they were only held twice a week. I knew that if I wanted to be in fighting condition, I would have to train on my own. But habit had a hold of me. I couldn't just undo four years of lazy with one stupid decision.
However, I had to start somewhere. I went to my VCR and popped in Rocky. This was exactly what I needed. I studied his training regimen and embarked on one of my own. I went to the refrigerator and punched some meat. My roommates got pissed because it doesn't work with Oscar Meyer lunchmeat. I know that now. I also scaled the Athens courthouse steps two at a time. Because there are only about 10 steps, that left me with a lot of energy to jump and down in triumph, humming Rocky's theme song. People were staring. They didn't understand. I got a good workout anyway.
I also took up shadow boxing, which is boxing against my own shadow. This was a big confidence boost because I discovered that my shadow sucked. My fighting style started to emerge. My techniques included: passive aggression, punching, playing dead and then rising on the third day to kick ass, and the dance of confusion. It was time to pick my nickname. Harnessing the scariness of both killers and robots, I became Kill-Bot. Two weeks before the fight, the class began to spar.
If you've never boxed, this is what it feels like for the first time: First, you become aware that you are facing off with a person whose sole intention is to put their fist through your face. Panic ensues as your opponent actually attempts to do so, followed quickly by pain. During the especially fierce blows, your brain actually rattles inside your skull. After three 90-second rounds, I emerged with a bloody lip and a throbbing head. The dance of confusion did nothing.
Kill-Bot malfunctioned. I left practice wondering what I was trying to prove. That I was bad at sports? I already knew that. Did I want to be beaten to a pulp in front of thousands of people, for my blood to be used as sport like some modern gladiator? But then I remembered one crucial fact: I am in college. If there is one time to do something stupid, that time is now.
I regrouped. I played a couple of games of Mike Tyson's Punch Out. I put LL Cool J's Momma Said Knock You Out on repeat. Slowly, I regained my motivation. As fight night approached, I weighed in at a mean 5'9
147 pounds.
