Sort of Like Cinderella

Alan and I were the only two in the gym last night for almost an hour until Danny came in.  "Before I change my mind," Alan said to me, "get ready."  "Get ready for what?" I asked.  "I'll spar with you," he said.

Earlier, Alan said that he usually feels like he's 25 years old.  "I revert to being 21 years old when I'm in here," I said.  However, the next morning, the carriage turns back into a pumpkin.  I wake up, and I'm instantly reminded of my real age.  That was very true this morning, after the effects of sparring with the coach had set in.  I was putting extra pepper on the punches I gave Alan, and he noticed.  "You've hit me harder than you usually do anyone else," he commented.  "I always go easy on the women because most of them have never been in any kind of fight.  But I figure the guys can take it," I said.  "That's how you should hit all of the time," he said.

"Hillari the giant killer," Alan joked before we stepped into the ring, referring to when I sparred with Leon on my birthday last week.  Alan has a way of turning his body to avoid punches, and it's hard for me to land any when he does that.  It's especially hard to get in a right or a bolo (overhand right) punch on him.  Too many of them landed on his left shoulder.  I was better at aiming at his chest and stomach, and I got some hooks in when he bent over.  Alan suddenly gave me a left uppercut that went up my nose and rocked my head back.  Later, I told him, "If you had put more force on that punch, I would have been laid out on the canvas."  Stunned for a moment, I backed up to catch my breath before charging in again.

Another one of his punches caught me in the mouth.  My mouth was open, and the punch grazed one of my front teeth.  "Remember, Hillari, adult teeth don't grow back if they get knocked out," I thought.  Mouthpieces don't always protect from that, truth be told.  Stamina really began to run out in the third round.  I was taking too long to answer Alan's punches.  "Come on, you're tough," Alan said.  Another hit rocked my neck in the wrong direction.  I think Kevin was the last one to catch me like that in recent memory.  I was hanging over the ropes at the end of that round.

"It's all in your head.  You have to pace yourself, and once you get on the inside, go slow and throw the punches," Alan told me.  There is a mental block, and I need to work on that as much as I need to work on losing weight.  What I do on the bags doesn't always translate to sparring or to actual fights.  The hooks I want to throw don't get executed properly; the uppercuts seldom happen, and when they do, they're not strong enough.  Practice, practice, practice. . .there may be another chance for a fight.  Seward Park's boxing show was rescheduled to take place in January.

I keep rubbing my nose today.  It stung when Alan popped me there.  My back, my neck, my knees and my sides aren't doing so well either today.  Pastor Roger saw me rubbing my nose, and asked, "Are you sick?"  He's on guard, because he doesn't want to take any germs home to his newborn son.  "No, I really took a hit last night," I told him.   Today might be a good day to soak in a hot bath with rubbing alcohol added.