Gym Diary: Week 8

April 5th, 2011 4:05pm by Stiff Jab Tumblr

My mother told me as a youth that if you work hard enough and keep at it, there’s a moment in sports when everything clicks. Forehands sing as they sail down the line, the basket seems to expand, every pitch looks like a meatball across the heart of the plate.

What she was referring to, whether you call it “the zone” or streaking or simply being on fire, is attaining that state of mind when one is completely confident in their abilities and every action feels under control. Perhaps they may miss the odd shot, but it hardly breaks their stride.

They are perfectly attuned to the pitch of their sport; like an expert guitar player they have worked their way inside the beat and find themselves free to improvise within it without ever sounding a discordant note.

More than other sports, boxing requires finding that perfect rhythm. There’s a reason why ring combat is so often described as a dance: failure to adhere to the prescribed steps yields a punch in the head. Balance and timing matter more than brute strength.

While my keyboard has been silent over the past month, at least with regards to my exploits in the gym, the noise of the mitts and the worn leather jump rope as it beats the wooden floor have grown more frequent and rapid with every passing week.

After initially struggling to find my footing and wondering if perhaps I had started too late, our training has settled into a comfortable groove of three times per week. The results have been nothing short of astonishing.

All modesty aside, I consider myself more averse to exercise than almost anyone who is not obese. But I’ve become addicted to the rhythm of the ring timer.

The real work of boxing training is the repetition. Throwing one jab is not difficult, nor is a series of combinations. But do it again, and again, tripling up the jab and ducking afterward, continuously for three minutes, and suddenly your arms burn and thighs plead for mercy.

Even shadowboxing, when done correctly, can be murderous. Finding the will to continue when quitting feels natural is a constant struggle.

What has driven me in recent weeks has been a refusal to stop the unending beat of my training. Once Rodriguez has explained the drill or combination and showed me how to do it, there’s a gradual acceleration as my muscles adapt to the movements.

The process is more rapid after two months and relatively quickly I find myself settling into the groove.

Jab. Jab. One-two. Left hook. Right cross. Left to the body.

Thud. Thud. Tha-DUH. Smack. SMACK. Boom.

By the fifth rep, your arms are starting to ache and the natural urge is to relax the pace. But the beat compels you to keep up.

Your movements become rote. Your body has adapted itself into the best position to perform what you are demanding of it. Your breathing has timed itself between punches. You’re not even sure you’re still controlling your hands.

Rodriguez smiles but doesn’t stop advancing; he slaps me upside with the mitt to remind me to keep my hands up, but doesn’t stop in the pace even when I miss a beat. I’m flagging but I keep pushing, trying to maintain that pace.

Punches get sloppy and I correct quickly, because one wide left is all it takes to get dropped. The pace is brutal, unforgiving. By the sixth round I can barely believe that I managed to get through this alive. If Babyface were scripting my training session, this would be the breakdown.

Like a conductor, Rodriguez silently adjusts the drill and his expectations to enable me to rally. By the tenth or eleventh round my bounce is starting to return. Surviving is not enough. The goal is destruction. The punches start coming harder, faster, hips digging lower so I can turn harder with less wasted movement.

At some point everything comes together perfectly and the connection between the glove and the pad is so simultaneously perfect and terrible that we both pause momentarily, knowing my opponent has just hit the deck.

This is our crescendo. We close soon after. Always leave them wanting more.

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