I walked up the stairs, carefully stepping over the hanging lip of the fourth step, broken after thousands of laps had run up and down them when it was too wet to run in the field across the street. I could hear the loud thumping of feet against the floor and gloves against the bags as one class was finishing and the next was beginning. The dog grooming shop below us hated the last hour of their day, when the thunder of elephant-like stomping rattled their ceiling and walls.
I stopped at the top of the stairs to check the bulletin board for upcoming fights before taking the last step into the open door. A wall of humidity, whose smell could only be described as hot ass, hit me in the face as it always did when I walked in during class. It didn’t bother me the way it would most people. It was a smell I had become accustomed to—maybe even fond of. After a minute or two, it would fade into the background and I would forget all about it until the next day.
I looked over to the corner of the room where the square red, white, and blue ring stood, taking up about a quarter of our floor space. Jesse, the head coach, was inside the ring, leaning against the ropes. He waved his free hand energetically, his usual giant grin cutting across his face as he spoke in nearly unintelligible Spanglish to Brandon, the beginners coach, who stood outside the ring laughing.
Before they could acknowledge my entrance, the bell rang signaling the end of the round. Both coaches snapped to attention as the whole room came to a halt. Silence overtook the room for a moment, save the collective thud of jump rope handles hitting the floor and exhausted athletes gasping for air, their lungs strained to the max.
Jesse shouted to his advanced class, who were warming up, “Put away your jump ropes and put your gloves on!” Brandon told his students, who were just finishing, to “spray their gloves, get a drink, and meet back on the floor.”
The boxers all began to do as they were told, buzzing back and forth across the open floor like worker bees in their hives. Jesse looked over and saw me putting my bag down and pulling out my hand wraps.
“Brenda!” he exclaimed with a smile, rolling his r so much the B was barely audible. He came over and shook my hand and gripped my shoulder affectionately, the way he always did. His grip tightened, the smile fading from his face. “You’re late. That’s 100 extra pushups.”
“I know,” I said. Owner of the gym or not, Jesse was my coach and his rules applied to me just as much as everyone else. “Sorry. Do you want them before, or after class?”
“Do them now,” he said. “Then get your gloves and get to work.” He smiled again and smacked my shoulder, as if to say the extra pushups were for my own good, then turned back to his class.
I quickly wrapped my hands with my old, slightly smelly, once-yellow hand wraps, and dropped to my belly on the floor to do my pushups. The gym floor was covered in blue-gray industrial-looking carpet squares, duct-taped at the seams in places but still hanging on despite years of abuse. I finished my pushups, pulled on my gloves, and trotted over to the heavy bag rack to join my class.
The eight heavy bags, lined in two rows of four, swayed from chains suspended on an old iron frame wedged in the back corner of the room. Each bag was a little different, with its own characteristics and purpose. The firmer bags were best for power shots. The smaller ones that swung more freely we used for footwork. The short, round bags were made for uppercuts. And the long blue bag in the back—the only non-black bag, a relic from the gym’s Muay Thai days—was perfect for body shots.
I took my place at my favorite bag in the back corner, my back to the windows, facing toward the center of the room. It was a firmer bag that didn’t move much, and I liked being able to stick my head outside for some fresh air between rounds. I also liked being a little out of sight so Jesse couldn’t see if I slacked off and drop me for more pushups.
The bell rang, and the room immediately erupted in a flurry of punches. Our muscles didn’t wait for our brains to tell them what to do; they were conditioned to spring into action like horses out of the chute at the sound of the bell.
The clang of the metal chains supporting the bags was louder than the sound of gloves pounding against them. But louder still was the voice inside my head—one that sounded an awful lot like Jesse—telling me, “Speed up! Speed up! You’re slow!” I focused harder, forcing my fists to fly faster, listening for the sharp sting of my gloves snapping against the vinyl bag.
Thirty-three was old for a boxer. I could feel the age in my muscles reverberating with every punch. But I had made up my mind: one more fight before I hit the age limit. Just one more. Just to prove I could.
I hadn’t fought since I was twenty-three—the year before I had my daughter. Ten years of wear is a lot on a body, but I knew I could do it. I hadn’t stopped training during those ten years; I just hadn’t trained at the level fighting required. And I’d spent that time coaching, which had taught me a lot.
After deciding to fight again five months earlier, I’d been busting my ass every day. I was ready.
After a few rounds on the bags, we moved to the center of the floor. Zack, one of the boxers who also worked as a personal trainer, had set up a series of HIIT stations for us: ab rollers, plyo jumps, a floor ladder, two heavy bag stations, speed bags, and battling ropes. We would spend the next ten rounds rotating through each station.
Forty-five minutes later, the final bell rang. We were all dripping with sweat from the work we’d put in. Jesse told us to put our gloves up, get a drink, then come back for the cool down. While we did our mandatory 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and finally stretched, Jesse came over and said quietly, “I got you a match.” His smile was restrained as he tried to gauge my reaction. “In one month. The girl is 1-1. It’s a good match.”
I let the reality of his words sink in. If I said yes, there was no going back.
“How old is she?” I asked.
“Twenty-two. But that’s okay. You’re in good shape. You did good. You’re ready,” he replied, knowing that even though I wanted it, I was nervous.
I wasn’t as nervous as when I’d had my first fight at 19; this was a different kind of nervous. I wasn’t afraid of being hit, I was afraid of looking ridiculous—the old lady in the ring. But then I thought of Lisbet. Seven years my senior, and even though we had become good friends, she still intimidated the shit out of me. She fought until she was 35 and won the Golden Gloves every year. No one thought she was ridiculous. But was I as good as Lisbet? Or would I get my ass kicked by a 22-year-old?
“Let me think for a minute.” I replied. He nodded and walked over to one of the other boxers, probably to tell them he had matches for them too.
When I finished my workout, I walked to my office on the other side of the gym. I passed through the tiny attached “lounge,” around the old loveseat my cousin gave me, where my daughter and the other boxers’ children would watch old Disney VHS tapes on an ancient square-box TV that sat on top of a rickety faux-wood stand. I unlocked my office door and took a seat behind my desk, too large for the small room, and pulled the lockbox out of the drawer, deposited the cash a couple of guys had handed me on their way out, and marked the payments on their accounts.
I could see Jesse talking to another boxer, Alonzo, next to the gear rack right outside my little interior window. Alonzo was smiling, so excited for his first fight. I had been helping coach him for the last year, and I knew he was ready. I was so proud of him, of all of them. I grabbed my gloves, wraps, and water bottle and headed out of the office, locking the door behind me.
As I walked toward the door to leave, I turned back towards Jesse, my decision made, and said “I’m ready. Make the match.” Jesse clapped his hands with excitement. “See you tomorrow,” I shouted as I was walking out the door, turning to go down the stairs.
“Happy Birthday!” He called in response, the same farewell he gave me every day.