Or: “What NOT to do while attending Third Street Gym’s Boxing Bootcamp.”

MEFISTO:

As good ole Dr. Faust informed you last week, on Friday I found myself having to spar Coach Paul, the Golden Gloves champ, Muay Thai kickboxer, and all-around scary guy.

Before I get to the blood (my blood, naturally), I should describe how I got myself into such a pickle. Future boxing bootcampers should take the following lesson — which I learned the hard way — to heart.

(You will soon see video of all that follows, but for now, the narrative version . . . )

(1) First, I had been battling a bug of some sort for the third and fourth weeks of boot camp: mild fever, hacking cough, sore throat, phlegm aplenty. The bug has been making the rounds at my job in Silicon Valley; call it the Nerd Flu. I coped by layering outergarments and wearing a sour expression on my face:

(2) My illness is relevant because it is why, after failing to recover even after missing a day of bootcamp, I chose to opt out of the usual penance for missing a class: A swim in San Francisco Bay at sunrise. I told coaches Paul and Simon that I would pass on a swim this week but make up for it the next week. First warning sign: Paul responded by turning away and muttering, “It’s not like you’d die, man.”

(3) My absence is doubly relevant because I spent that day off lying on my living room couch, feeling worthless in the way that you do when you’re sick. The full day of uselessness was compounded by a conversation with a friend who told me all about her badass friend Sam, a guy who has spent the last few years traveling the world perfecting the arts of boxing, mixed martial arts (aka Utlimate Fighting), and knife fighting (wha?), and then ultimately writing a book about it. As a result, by Friday’s class I was feeling more restless and eager to prove myself than usual, perhaps. I would not become a Sam-like hard guy in a day, but I would put in a good effort.

(4) Paul’s initial dismissal of my choice not to jump wasn’t the end of it. Later, as we ran back from the Bay to the Gym, Paul approached me in his Suburban, loaded with wet and cold swimmers. Slowing the vehicle to pull alongside me, Paul likened me to a part of the female anatomy. I felt obliged to explain to him and my dripping colleagues once more that I was sick, but Paul was not persuaded and repeated his oath, which chafed in a way that triggered various memories — of being a younger brother, of enduring various hazing episodes, of the sort of humiliations common to teenage athletics. Reflexively, and perhaps indulging my penchant for seeking the quick laugh from a captive audience, I responded, loud enough for all the passengers to hear, by recommending, Cheney-like, that Paul perform sexual intercourse on himself. Looking to escalate the humor, I then ran in front of the Suburban and grabbed, to the extent I could with boxing gloves on, my hindquarters.

(5) Only later, after viewing the video captured by on-board cinematographer Coach Natalie, did I learn Paul’s response: to invite Natalie to leave her camera rolling once we returned to the gym, where we would all learn how guys like me, “who think they’re big,” are really nothing more than the aforementioned part of the female body.

(6) Unaware of this development, I arrived at the gym, proud of the hard run I’d put in from the Bay. There I discovered Paul suited up in headgear, 16 oz. gloves, and boxing codpiece — a frightening thing to behold. More frightening still, he spoke to me:

“You’re not done yet, princess. You’re going to spar me.”

(7) Aloud I said, “Ok, sounds good.” Inside, to myself, I said something different.

(8) The entire class gathered round one of the practice rings, and Coach Simon said “start on the bell.” Paul and I climbed in. Dr. Faust stood in my corner and Coach Natalie started the film rolling — though I was aware of nothing but the sound of my breath and the human jackhammer in the white headgear and black gloves.

This would be my second-ever sparring experience, my first inauspicious scrap having come only two days before.

Ding Ding Ding!

TO BE CONTINUED…

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 1st, 2006 at 9:28 am and is filed under san francisco, fights. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.