Colonel Returns

Charlene, who hadn't been at the boxing gym for several sessions, returned on Wednesday night.  I like Charlene's speaking voice.  She has a very light, ladylike way of speaking that I think would serve her well if she was to do voice over work.  Charlene asked me to go over some technique with her since it had been awhile since she'd been there.  While I was helping her out, Colonel walked in.  I was extremely glad to see him, and I gave him a big hug.

"I missed out on getting some big money," he told me.  Colonel was going to take a temporary consulting job in Afghanistan.  He had been in the military during the Vietnam War, and sometimes, he's asked by the military to come in on projects and lend his expertise.  But health issues interfered, and Colonel couldn't pass the physical.  I could tell that he had lost some weight, but for a 65 year old guy, Colonel looked good.  He also helped Charlene with her stance, punches, and wrapping her hands while he was there. 

Matt saw Colonel with Charlene and assumed correctly that he was a coach.  "He doesn't coach for the Park District, but Colonel has coached elsewhere," I explained to Matt.  Matt introduced Pedro, who had missed the first day of the Fall session.  Pedro said he hadn't boxed in a long while, and needed refresher lessons.  "Hillari knows what she's doing, and you can also get help from most anyone else in her," he told Pedro. 

The first sparring match of the evening involved Sarah and I.  We were going at a slower pace.  Alan liked that, and told us to keep it up.  My objective was to give Sarah more work, not so much to practice myself.  I'm not sure how well I'll do this Friday.  I felt sluggish and sore when I woke up Wednesday, and I didn't go in to work.  I rested most of the day (well, if you call playing on the computer resting), and tried not to move around much.  I felt somewhat okay to go down to the gym, but I was still dragging.  Sarah and I did two rounds and a half (we started the first round in the middle).

Rich and Jake were at it again in another sparring session.  I was wincing at some of the hits they doled out to each other.  There were full-on hard shots being thrown to their heads and faces.  I was so busy trying to get the picture above that it didn't occur to me that maybe I should get back from the ropes -- they were that close to me.  Another second, and I might have been hit by accident.

Rich sounded like he was interested in getting matches, period.  Alan and I were trying to figure out the weight requirements that deemed a fighter a light heavyweight.  We finally figured it out, but it seems like the numbers change depending on where you're looking for the information.  I think the amateurs' weight classes are a little different than those of the professional boxers, and those are different from the international amateur weight classes. 

In this photo, Alan gives advice to Adam -- the guy I couldn't identify in the photos on Monday.  He sparred with Jake, and I recorded the rounds with Adam's cell phone.  Adam would like to fight on Friday.  That's the first time I've heard of a new person coming in a few days before a boxing show asking to participate in it.  Alan told him what to bring, what to wear, and when to show up. 

Bo, the guy in the picture above, was watching Adam and Jake spar in-between working out on the double-end bag. 

I heard Bean (on the right in this picture) giving Bo some strength training advice later on.  Bean is a trainer.  He's in decent shape for a guy who is 55 years old. 

Throughout the rest of the evening, I helped Charlene.  Outside of sparring, I didn't do much of a workout.  Lately, I've been really, really feeling like the middle-aged woman that I am.  My mother's recent death was a bit of a wake up call.  Ma's stroke was caused by high blood pressure.  I didn't know she had it, and I don't think she did, either.  Twenty years ago, Ma told me that her blood pressure had tested high a few times when she'd gone to the doctor.  She gave the impression that the doctors had said something to her about the results, but Ma dismissed their concerns.  She never trusted doctors completely, insisting that her home remedies were better.  Dad, who also had high blood pressure, cursed about what doctors would tell him, too.  Maybe they both would have lived a little longer if they had listened to advice.  I've been looking at my diet recently and making changes so that it is more low-carb and low-salt than it has been.

Alan asked about the height of Meg, the firefighter from Hamlin Park whom Sarah has a match with on Friday.  "She's a little taller than I, but Meg is shorter than Sarah," I told him.  I told Sarah that I lost all three matches I had against Meg.  But it's not like Meg can't be beat.  I saw her lose a match at Brooks Park late last year.  Meg likes to come in throwing bunches of hard punches, then darting back out.  I can't move as fast as Meg, and by the time my brain registered that I needed to cover up, duck, or slip punches, it was too late to avoid them.  But Sarah's height and arm length will be her biggest advantages over Meg. 

Most of the new people returned on Wednesday, but I did notice that some were already missing.  Mary asked me to look out for a guy named Roman.  Roman had allegedly expressed disappointment about the gym.  It sounded like Roman was expecting a lot of one-on-one instruction, but it's a Chicago Park District gym.  The coaches do their best to get around to everybody, but they can't focus exclusively on one while forgetting the others in the room.  I think I remember the guy; he arrived with a woman on Monday maybe about ten or fifteen minutes after the gym opened. 

Alan had all the newcomers in the ring for group instruction like he always does at the beginning of each session.  Roman asked me if he and the woman should go into the ring.  I thought it was obvious that's what they should do since they saw and heard Alan giving instructions. Instead I said, "Yes, all the new people should if they've had no prior experience with boxing."  Later, I saw them hanging outside the gym door, watching everyone else, then I looked up again, and they had gone.  There have been many who've come through that gym, unsure of what to do.  But most of them would eventually ask others for help.  I don't think that happened in this case.

The Decision

 

See the little girl in the photo above?  That was me when I was in sixth grade.  I was eleven when this picture was taken.  Yeah, okay. . .it's a bad picture. Dig the modified Afro puffs (my mother pressed my hair out back then; she didn't allow my younger sister and I to have perms).  I was not and have never been, a beauty pageant contestant.  I know that.  That school year was the only one I had during my entire grade school career where I wasn't involved in constant fist fights with other kids.  Maybe it was because I had a tough but fair teacher, Mr. Marwick (God rest his soul).  Maybe it was because I had a different attitude that school term or was hanging around kids who weren't picking on me all the time (which was the main reason why I fought in the first place).  I'm not sure, but it was nice to have a breather from being punched and kicked every day.  Of course, it was back to the business during the brief time I was in 7th grade (I got promoted to the next grade in December of that year), and the rest of my time in 8th grade. 

After a week of getting used to being 50 years old, I had to ask myself a question:  What I am fighting about these days and who am I fighting?  There are still bullies in my way.  Prospective employers who look at my graying hair, ignore the accomplishments on my resume and decide I'm too old to be hired; smart-asses on the Internet who don't like my opinions, and verbally beat me down, often anonymously; and men who want to date me, but have a problem with me not being dumb enough for them to manipulate, are some of them.  I still have to fight some people -- not always using my fists -- and continue to do so probably until the casket is closed on me.

But in terms of boxing, why do I keep going to the gym, why do I keep sparring, and why am I eager to participate in bouts?

Well, as far as exercise goes, it's not a matter of whether or not I feel like doing it anymore.  It's come down to I have to exercise.  There were a lot of things I got away with regarding my health before I turned 40 and was diagnosed with high blood pressure, arthritis and diabetes practically back-to-back.  I have family members who suffer with those conditions.  Some are dead now because they didn't take their health concerns seriously.  A friend of mine has diabetes, and they are on disability now because of it.  Menopause has slipped into the mix for me, too, and that has its own set of problems.  If exercise, as well as eating better will help put a few seconds extra on my clock, as well as make me feel better, I need to do it.  I like boxing because it's not girly-girl aerobic-type exercise, which I never got into, not even way back in sixth grade.

I believe boxing is a valuable skill for a woman, especially in a world where women and girls continue to be thought of as weak and gullible, and in some places in the world, disposable.  I stopped growing when I was thirteen years old.  At five foot one, I'm not exactly looked upon by most as a threat.  Now I don't like going around being a b&%$#, but there are times when I've had to do that.  There may be times in the future where I will have to come hard, because somebody will think "she'll be an easy mark to take".  It might be on a dark corner at night, or on a busy street in broad daylight.  No, I can't move as fast as I used to do.  But just because I'm old, that doesn't mean my hands (and feet) have lost the capacity to hurt an perp.  I may not win, but I want the other person to at least feel the pain of messing with me.

I like the thrill of being in the ring.  That's not to say that it is not nerve-racking, even if I'm just sparring as opposed to having an actual fight.  I'm still learning how to harness the nervousness into energy to use.  I also like the feeling of having accomplished something, even if I took a bad loss.  My only regret is not taking up the sport earlier.  Maybe I could have been like Laila Ali.

Part of it also had to do with quieting the naysayers.  I've chronicled in this blog many times over the years how people have tried to convince me that I should not box.  When the admonishing started back in 2001, it was coming from only a few individuals.  The only person whose comments I took seriously was that of my doctor's, and even then, I just made the necessary adjustments to keep going.  Everybody else, I laughed their opinions off.  But my group of protestors grew over the years.  "Oh, you're telling me that I shouldn't do something, that I can't do something, women shouldn't do this and that, that maybe I'm getting too old, etc.? Watch me," I thought as I dug my heels in further.  The other day, I saw an old match featuring Archie Moore.  He was well up into his 50s before he retired from competing.  I have aches and pains, but I'm not decrepit. 

Besides. . .I still want to fight. I was a good roller skater from the time I was fourteen up until I was in my late thirties.  Then the closest roller rink to me shut down, and that, along with the arthritis that showed up a few years later, sort of closed the door on me doing that regularly.  I love to ride my bike, but arthritis was also a factor as to why I didn't ride much this past summer.  I was a fair ice skater.  The last time I was on the ice was back in 2004; I scheduled an skating outing for the church's singles group.  Only I and Pastor Roger were in attendance, and he didn't skate, but he watched me zipping around the rink.  I haven't practiced martial arts much since 2001, and I was involved with that for only eight months of that year.  I've loved a lot of sports activities, but my admiration and respect for boxing has continued to grow strong over the years. 

This is why I can't let it go.  That day will come.  It is going to come.  One day, I will have to join the other old folks that sit along the walls in the boxing gyms and who bark out orders to young fighters.  But not now.  Continue to wring your hands and admonish me if you must, but that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Stripping In The Gym

Sorry. . .it's usually not like me to forget to post here.  I did attend the gym this past Wednesday.  My mind's been on school.  Had a hard time signing up for paralegal classes, but it appears that things are on the way to straightening themselves out.  In fact, I had a Legal Writing class today that was quite interesting.  I was doing a bit of studying when I realized, hey!  I didn't tell the loyal readers about the latest adventures in the gym.

I was not in the gym this past Monday because I had another class.  It was basically a one-day seminar, so Mondays are free again for me to hit the bags.  Wednesday was somewhat of a light night.  One new person came in, a guy named Nick who's a friend of Alan's son, Matthew.  Ralphie and Jamil came in a little while later.

I don't jump rope often at the gym, even though I need to do so.  Surprised myself by going four rounds with the jump rope, and not being overly winded.  Unfortunately, my speed rope, the one I use when working at in the church gym, broke in such a way that it can't be fixed.  I might buy another one to use there, or just run around the gym for several rounds like I've been doing.  The running (roadwork) seems to be helping a lot with stamina.  But yet I turned down going a third round of sparring with Ralphie on Wednesday.  I could have done another round.  I think I was just being lazy. 

Jamil took a lot of body shots from Ralphie while they were sparring.  Alan was amazed.  "I'm surprised that Jamil is still standing after that," he said.  Josh, a guy who hadn't been in the gym for awhile, stopped to observe them.  I might have laid down on the canvas after that series of punches.  "That guy," he said, referring to Ralphie, "really handles himself well in the ring."  Ralphie has always been in control whenever he's in the ring, if you ask me.  Also, Jamil has become better each time he's in the gym. 

Earlier in the evening, Alan changed out of his dress shirt to put on his workout shirt.  Nothing usual there -- I've seen most of the guys with their shirts off from time to time.  I was at my locker rambling through my stuff when I hear Alan say, "Hillari, turn your head."  I looked at him, not catching on at first.  Then I noticed him unbuckling his pants.  "Oh," I giggled before turning my back to start doing my stretches.  "I know you want to look," he teased, and I just kept laughing.  I told him about the time when Steve was the coach, and he pulled down his pants to change into his shorts.  Steve forgot that I was in the room, and my niece Jalissa , who was a teenager then, was there that day also.  Jalissa didn't see Steve with his pants down, but I did.  She and I were looking over the ring, and both of us had our back to him.  One of the guys hollered out, "Whoa!" to Steve, who then realized what he was doing.  I turned around in time to get a glimpse of his briefs. The man grinned and turned a few shades of red before hastily pulling his britches back up.

Another time, Steve asked JJ to get on the scale.  I believe this was around the time of the Golden Gloves, so Steve wanted to make sure that JJ's weight was where it needed to be.  "I think your pants are adding weight to the scale.  Take them off and see what it reads then," Steve told him.  I was standing behind JJ near the ring.  JJ turned and noticed me and said, "But Hillari's in here."  "Eh, she's seen it before," was Steve's answer.  I chuckled and said, "That's true."  At least JJ wasn't wearing an ugly pair of boxers like the ones my late dad used to wear.

I changed my clothes in the gym once, but no one was in there except me.  I was the first one to get there, and I didn't want to leave the room unattended, so I quickly got into my workout clothes.  Good thing none of the guys walked in on me.  I wouldn't have wanted to be responsible for traumatizing them with the sight of my middle-aged body.