The Sweet Science

Boxing has appealed to me for a while now. I don’t have any desire to step into a ring and slug it out—getting the shit beaten out of me doesn’t sound like all that much fun—but as long as I’m going to do some exercise, I’d prefer it dingy and old-school, not sleek and modern. I think of boxing as sort of the anti-yoga, a vestige of a bygone era when the Derby winner, the heavy weight champion, and the center fielder for the New York Yankees were the unquestioned kings of American sport.

So imagine my delight when I found a gym down here that is, well, perfect. It’s run by the building workers union and features plenty of amenities—three pools; a fully-equipped, but decidedly antique weight room; and lots of gym space for private classes—more importantly, it includes a boxing gym that offers classes three times a week.

This boxing gym is everything I’d expected it would be—peeling paint, a full-size ring, heavy bags, speed bags, pictures of famous fighters taped up on the walls. My first two classes have been appropriately exhausting. I didn’t touch a weight or a glove during my first class, instead going through a series of what were basically jumping jacks and arm circles for the better part of an hour. Calling it a class wouldn’t be quite accurate, because that conjures an image of a peppy teacher in front of twenty or so people in spandex doing step aerobics. This “class” consists of me walking into the gym and Pedro—from the looks of some of the pictures on the wall, a trainer for some small-time pros—sticking me in a corner by the ring, handing me a jump rope, and saying “diez minutos.”

Perhaps this doesn’t sound so wonderful, but it’s excellent exercise and nourishes my jazz-tinged, 1950s nostalgia. That said, after finally putting on gloves at the end of the second class, it’s clear that Dempsey I ain’t. My left jab is uncoordinated and weak, and my left hook is downright embarrassing. I have to say though, I’m pretty fond of my right cross. (I just learned this terminology this morning from a little online scouting. A cross is a straight punch thrown from the back-set hand. It should be stronger than a jab since a jab is thrown from the front hand without much aid of the hips, whereas the cross lets you unwind and wallop.)

It’s the most excited I’ve been for a workout in a long time.

I'd like to thank those who've written to me about the blog. Your comments have been warm, astute, biting, and altogether very thoughtful.

Also, I turned in four articles to my editor at the Argentimes last night, so if I can convince her to update the website (we're still on the July 28th issue), then I may actually have something to post that's not self-published.