Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Back To Square One

I had considered not going to the gym last night.  My body was still sore, and I had been dragging all day.  Plus, it is not a good feeling to walk back into the gym, knowing that one has lost a match, and knowing that everybody else knows it as well.  I had decided before I got there that I would not spar that night.

Johnny was grumbling about the match he lost last Wednesday.  "I was so mad!  All that I had practiced in here went out of the window during my match!".  He and Jamil sparred that evening.  Alan and I both noticed that Johnny was not moving his head constantly.  He had been moving it a lot during the last match he had. 

Manny came in, saying that he now has Mondays free to workout.  I like Manny.  He wished me a belated birthday when he arrived.  Manny reminds me of my paternal grandfather.  My granddad James was about Manny's build when he was a young man, and my granddad also boxed.  Manny has facial features like my grandfather, especially the high cheekbones.  He was telling everybody about the trip he had taken to Europe.  I had seen the pictures on Facebook.  One charming picture showed his little girl wearing a beret, and posing outside of a shop in Paris, France.  His vacation sounded like a lot of fun.

Manny was working the bigger of the two heavy bags in the gym.  Boom!  The chain and big nail holding it up broke, and the bag crashed to the ground.  Alan attempted to re-hang it, but the bolt had broken, too.  He was going to let Barry know, so that Park District personnel can repair it.

There may be a third match with Meg.  I would like to do it, but I also know that I can't stomach a third loss to her.  Neither can I take the aches and pains.  Usually, I'm able to shake off being banged up after a couple of days.  When I was involved in a car crash back in 2005, not only did I walk away from the totaled car, but I only took one day off from the job I had.  The effects of the latest banging up has continued to hang on. 

Several people noticed that I was limping and dragging about at church this past Sunday.  I moved slowly to get up to the front of the church when it was my turn to read Scripture (I'm the lector for this month).  I thought I felt Pastor Roger's eyes on me as I painfully made it up the few steps to the lecturn.  Yesterday, pain shot up my side while I was talking with him in his office.  "I'm still sore," I groaned.  Pastor shook his head.  "Remember, you got into the ring," he commented.  Margaret, the choir director, had said basically the same thing in an email she sent me earlier this week.  "Sorry to hear that you got banged up, but it's your own fault," she said.  Alex figured that I now owe Meg a couple of beatdowns.  But he, Margaret and Pastor all agreed that Alan should have stopped the fight.

"I knew you were mad because I stopped the fight.  But I had to consider that you were taking a lot of punches, and I had to consider your age," Alan explained Monday night.  I remain disappointed, but I realize that my hurt pride is the real issue. He and I both agreed that I need to work on technique before I meet Meg again (if that happens), or anyone else in the ring. 

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