Gym Diary: Week 10

Gym Diary: Week 10

I am probably the farthest thing from a fighter in the minds of most who know me.

To describe my athletic talents as modest would be generous. The sum total of my sporting life has been three years playing doubles on the varsity tennis team and a decade of below-average contributions on the soccer pitch.

While my limitations on the tennis court were mostly mental I am undeniably lacking in foot speed, particularly over long distances. I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as graceful or light on my feet either.

My relatively slight stature and barely above-average height seemingly precluded many other sports as realistic options. I graduated high school at just over 6’ tall and slightly under 130 lbs. Obviously I didn’t exactly roll around looking to get into scrapes.

Since then I’ve spent almost a decade steadily inhaling fried food, salted meats and avoiding all forms of exercise. I’ve seen my weight balloon up to over 160 lbs. in under six months and shrink back down to its former levels equally quickly thanks to our lovable but disgusting fraternity chef. Cooking I don’t mind, but the prospect of doing the dishes is usually enough to keep me out of the kitchen.

Put simply, I’ve never been that big to begin with and have trouble keeping weight on. Not exactly the makings of an all-state linebacker.

I’ve watched the buttons on my perfectly-tailored pants pop thanks to too many Bloomin’ Onions purchased to dull the pain of living in Ohio and seen those same waists bunch up as I tighten the belt across my skeletal frame, skipping meals to meet my daily quota of blog posts. I love food but can’t really stomach most bland American fare on a daily basis. A lifetime of delicious home-cooked South Indian meals has spoiled me for life.

I’ve long contended that baseball, the one sport we never played as children, was probably the one most suited to my few talents: decent hand-speed, good hand-eye coordination, timing and an accurate throwing arm. But that argument is purely academic. I look like a fool in a batting cage at this point.

So my expectations when I took up boxing were few. I knew it was unwise to write about something without ever attempting it and that my ignorance of the finer points of technique would preclude me from ever reaching the virtuoso level of coverage. It seemed like a good way to get in shape and the District is not lacking for gyms or trainers. But deep down I questioned whether I had what the Sweet Science demands.

Still, my growing addiction to the sport made me want to understand a fraction of what it takes to become one of these warriors whose tales I weave. Eventually I took the leap and headed to the gym. If you’ve been reading this site at all you’ve followed along with the results, which have already exceeded my low expectations.

But we’re still working out in private, in Northwest DC, a long ways from Lime Lite or Headbangers or any of those places where hungry young fighters kill their bodies daily for a chance to improve themselves. To compare myself to a real fighter, even an amateur, would be laughable.

And yet, somehow, we keep improving. Despite a decade of my tennis coach admonishing me to stay on the balls of my feet and bend my knees, only now is it finally happening. What my 27-year-old self lacks in agility or flexibility compared to the teenage version is more than overcome by my greater dose of humility. I used to think I knew, so I didn’t listen. It took me this long to figure out I don’t.

Rodriguez keeps pushing me harder and I try to respond in kind, but my inability to eat regularly does limit my progress at times. I dragged noticeably on Wednesday on just cereal and today I’ve had nothing but water, raising a dangerous prospect of exhaustion before tonight’s training session. But unlike every other time in my life, when I look at the scale today and see the number well below the lightweight limit, I smile.

Because with each session the pads ring out louder and my combos get quicker. The footwork is more precise and the awkwardness of foreign punches morphs into familiarity before they ultimately ingrain themselves into the muscle memory. Throwing a right hook is now as natural as a forehand. If anything my form is even better.

Rodriguez is not the type of guy to bullshit you. He tells me frankly that I’m not in good enough shape to fight and the first time I get in the ring with one of those younger kids they will go straight at the body and likely stop me in my tracks. I know he’s right. My outside work (running, sit-ups, pushups) is still going in fits and starts and I know things can’t progress until they are a part of the daily routine.

He hit me in the face on Wednesday, hard. I’m not sure he meant to but he didn’t exactly apologize for it, smiling when I stopped for a moment and without thinking blurted out, “There it is.” Then I went back to work, harder. Because that’s how a Mexican would respond, and I like to think Indian fighters should model themselves after the Mexican greats.

By the end of the round I was throwing the combinations with such fury that I actually pushed Rodriguez backward with a shot to the body. He stopped at the bell and exhaled, muttering “Man we gotta get you in somethin’.” He asked me when I could get a physical and promised I would have a technical advantage over most other novices, though I quickly pointed out how little technique would matter against someone wanting to come forward and brawl.

So we spent the next few rounds working on using my shoulders and upper body to roll off punches and then push off your opponent to create space inside. It’s vital to keep up your guard while you extend your elbow or you leave yourself wide open to getting clocked behind the ear. I’m a fan of the shoulder roll, but leave your chin out slightly or move a second too slowly and you may find yourself on the business end of your opponent’s glove.

Rodriguez has been teaching me what he calls a quick jab, where you barely step forward or feint instead of really stepping into it and extending like a normal jab. Working to perfect the footwork ended up giving me new insight into how to throw my regular jab, which Rodriguez praised as the best it’s been so far. I’m finally understanding the concept of putting all of my weight into my punches without losing balance, but it means staying on my toes basically the whole time.

We close with one of the speed drills we’ve been working on the heavy bag in absence of a speed bag. I throw four punches with either hand and follow with two heavy hooks to the body. I’m using regular 16 oz. training gloves on the bag so occasionally I catch one awkwardly and it forces my weaker left wrist back painfully.

This happens more than once and Rodriguez asks me to ease up. I try to temporarily, but again realize that dealing with the pain is part of the sport. We keep going.