Rewind to ten years ago, to 2003. There stood a fifteen-year-old white girl and a forty-something gym manager in a decaying garage re-purposed for boxing. The scene was familiar, swiped from the silver screen stereotypes rampant in Rocky: giant weights, heavy hanging bags duct taped together, bare concrete floors with cheap carpeting, and walls with yellowing paint.
Maybe there was a secret freezer in the back with pig carcasses hanging from chains. Maybe that would be my test, to see if I was any good; was I willing to bruise and bloody my hands up to get in? Absolutely. Without question, without hesitation, without rationality or a healthy sense of self-preservation, I would.
"No. I want to fight."
The manager paused, furrowed his brows, and, at a loss for any response other than a change of subject, said:
"Uh, you wanna to see the bathroom we got for females? Cuz, ya know, we got one."
So it was with my first day boxing.
If you fall in love with a martial art, you never forget your first day in your first fight gym. The day leaves an indelible mark, and your mind catalogs all of the smallest details. Even if you didn't know it then, it would become a day you want to remember forever. A precious photograph your brain took that you can show to people when they ask you about fighting, and like a proud parent you take it out and show them, you tell them more than they ever desired to know. You tell them about how you met the strangely muscular old man who had to be seventy but could deadlift 700 pounds, and how his name is Clinton, and his grey beard is in a single braid, and he's a retired doctor. You tell them about how the room got so hot during classes that the windows fogged up, almost all the way to the top of the floor-to-ceiling windows. You tell them about how much you learned in just one hour, like how to throw a fast jab you pretend to whip someone with a towel, and that the key to speed is to return your hand to its original position as fast as you threw it, and that to get that speed negative reps and tricep work are key. You stop yourself there, right there, right before your favorite part of the story, because you're sure people will think you must be kidding.
There, right there, where the coach gave you words so inspiring you would never forget them. Words you grew up wishing to believe more than anything as you pretended to be your favorite action hero, but never heard spoken aloud. Words you never yourself believed could be true.
There, right there, where the coach said you were one of the best female natural talents he'd ever seen. Because you hit like a freight train. You had fire. You had heart. He would teach you as much as he could, and take you as far as he could push you. How you walked in as just a girl, but to your absolute surprise and wonder, walked out a teammate. You don't tell them because it's how a moniker was borne, and it was a moment that changed everything about the choices you would make, and who you would become. Because it would be the moment you clung to when all hope seemed lost, when defeat stung like acid, when people failed to believe in you, when school and work and life would get in the way. When injuries make comebacks necessary and when heartbreak brings you to places you never dreamed could be so hopeless. It would become less of a moment in time and more of a destination in your mind; a place of peace, serenity, and unshakable hope. If this moment was possible, then all others are possible.
You keep that moment a secret, locked away in that mental photograph. You keep it just for you. It was the moment you dared to believe in your crazy fight dream, in the things people told you were impractical, impossible, or just plain stupid. It was the moment you took your love of fighting, fostered through years of action movies and boxing matches, and gave it a place, a name, a goal. It was the moment you saw what the future could be. It was the very first moment you believed in that future. It was the very first moment you saw yourself as a fighter. It was the moment you became a Freight Train.
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| First sparring match, 16 years old, East County Athletic Center (now closed) |
In the comments: what is/are your fight name(s) and what does it mean to you?
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