Going the distance

On learning a new sport

On Monday night I got punched in the face.

The blow caught me right above eyes. For a second the lights in the gym seemed a little brighter. If anyone was watching, I wasn’t aware of them. I wasn’t aware of anyone other than my sparring partner, my coach, who, like me, was wearing protective headgear, a mouth piece, and gloves.

“O,” I thought. “This is happening.”

I stood up a little taller before settling into my stance again. I felt no anger, no fear, no pain. I felt the kind of rush that comes from running from the cops, or blasting a bump of coke, or raising the stakes at the blackjack table.

I felt ALIVE.

Exactly one year ago today I went to House of Boxing for a training session.

The gym is a little over a mile from where I live in Southeast San Diego and I’ve often thought of taking classes there. I’d see Carlos Barragan, who runs the gym, at community events in Paradise Hills, and talk to him about what the gym offers. He always told me the door would be open when I was ready.

But I never went. I wasn’t ready.

Last year, my friend Enrique, aka Chikle, a longtime friend and partner from the Golondrina collective, invited me to a training session. He and a group of friends from the Emo Brown Foundation were going to work out twice a week with Carlos’s son David. Was I interested?

I was, but I had reservations. I was gearing up to promote Make It Stop and was deep into drafting a new novel. I had just gotten back from an eventful trip to Seattle where I nearly got stuck in a blizzard and had several freelance pieces I was working on. I wasn’t just busy; I was extremely busy.

I was also tired and out of shape. I hadn’t been to the gym since before COVID and the only exercise I did on a regular basis was weekend walks on the beach with Nuvia. I knew I needed to exercise more, but I kept telling myself I would start when my life was less busy.

Enrique’s invitation made me realize something: I’m always busy. There is always going to be a deadline, whether it’s a draft of a book, a column for Razorcake, or this newsletter, I always have something I’m working on.

In other words, I could go to the gym with Enrique or I could keep making excuses.  

Instead of telling Enrique I was too busy, I said yes.

That first night at the gym sucked. I was winded before we finished warm-ups. The drills we did were basic, designed for beginners, but it felt like the hardest thing I’d ever done.

I loved it.

I hurt in places I’ve never hurt before: my wrists, my shoulders, my hips, my feet, but I loved the physicality of punching. This goes without saying, but boxing requires you to be present in ways that an exercise machine does not. I’m constantly thinking about the sequence of punches, the positioning of my feet, the movement of my body, my breathing. Never in my life have I thought so much about breathing.

Boxing is extremely cerebral. If you’re not thinking, you’re not boxing. You’re just swinging. For skilled boxers, so much of what I struggle with comes naturally—both physically and mentally. An amateur thinks about they are doing while the pros think about what their opponent is doing.

That’s a whole other level from where I’m at. For me, every session is a struggle. I am stiff and slow. I am not an athlete and my conditioning is poor. Every time I put on the gloves I confront my limitations with regards to speed, power, precision, and form. It’s not pretty.

Since I started boxing I have become stronger and more flexible. I have lost weight and gained definition. I sleep better and have more energy. I feel connected to my body in a way that is entirely new.

I am 55 years old. I got glasses at 40 and hearing aids at 50. Then I had the first of several surgeries on my teeth and gums. I developed bunions on my feet. Fucking bunions! Each of these experiences was a reminder that I am not my body and mine was breaking down at an alarming rate. It was letting me down and bumming me out. Then my mother’s illness worsened and she passed away—the body’s ultimate betrayal. I got COVID twice and was tired all the time. I started to feel like I was in decline, that I’d begun the slide that ends in the grave.

With boxing I feel like I’ve reversed that decline—or at least lessened the steepness of the slope. Last month I was talking with my friend Kiyoshi, who has trained in many of the martial arts, and he said something that really registered with me: boxing brings you into your body. I feel it. The way I stand, the way I walk, is different now. I’ve changed. I’m a different person than I was a year ago. I am so grateful for the use of this body and what it can do because there will come a day when I won’t be able to do these things.

I hope I don’t sound too culty about this because learning a new sport at 55 is a humbling thing, especially when everyone around me is so much younger. My mental processing is not what it used to be. When I’m exhausted and/or winded, which is most nights, I botch the combinations in the sparring drills. I’m physically drained but the failure is mental, which is frustrating. I’ve been doing this a year and I still make so many mistakes, I have learned so much and perfected nothing. Every drill is difficult. There’s a point in each session when I want to quit, but I don’t. Not giving up is the only thing I’m good at. It’s the hardest thing I do all week and when it’s over I can’t wait to do it again.

One night not too long ago, I came home after a particularly grueling session and cried in the shower. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t in pain. I wasn’t discouraged or depressed. I’d given my all at the gym and had nothing left. There was no barrier between me and the world. When I lifted the towel to my face, the tears poured out of me. That simple act unleashed all these emotions that had nowhere to go. It was such a bewildering thing, but also weirdly joyful.

The reason for taking a journey is usually not what keeps me on the path. I didn’t sign up for these sessions to hang out with my friends but the camaraderie has been an unexpectedly meaningful part of the experience. There’s a bond you feel when doing something challenging together, especially when you put yourself in a vulnerable position.

I would argue that the job of boxing is to make you vulnerable. It’s the science of cultivating a heightened awareness of your weaknesses and blind spots as you prepare to combat someone looking to exploit those weaknesses and turn those blind spots into pain. I have no plans to box competitively (or non-competitively for that matter) but the principle remains the same. These aren’t abstract exercises. This isn’t dancing. This is combat.

I love spending time with my friends at the gym and am happiest on those rare occasions when the entire group makes it. We encourage each other. We push each other. We mark our progress. We talk an enormous amount of shit.

That camaraderie goes beyond the circle of people I train with. If you’re putting in work, you’re part of the gym. I didn’t expect House of Boxing to be so welcoming: from the coaches to the professional fighters to the guys who have been boxing for years. I expected the vibe to be borderline hostile—it’s a boxing gym after all—but it’s been way more welcoming than any gym I’ve ever belonged to from 24 Hour Fitness to the YMCA.

It's an old school gym with concrete floors and fight posters on the walls. There’s no air conditioning. No TVs. It smells like sweat and disinfectant. I love the lore of the place. Every boxing gym that’s been around has stories, but House of Boxing is special.

I’m very fortunate to be working with my coach, who was an amateur boxer and has fascinating stories about his experiences in the ring. His father, who runs the gym, trained him. He is often there, wrapping up his day as we start our session. He also has great stories and is fond of telling them, including the origins of House of Boxing, which his father started in his backyard after—no joke—seeing the movie Rocky.

Boxing is in their blood. The family is connected to boxers from all over the world. I didn’t know that when I started going to House of Boxing. For me, it was simply my neighborhood gym. Up the street from the post office and across from my local coffee shop. When I do bag work or shadowbox in the ring, I’m doing the same drills on the same equipment where some of the biggest names in boxing have trained.

I’m never going to be a professional, semi-pro, amateur, or even a semi-decent boxer. I’m content to be the oldest and slowest guy in the gym. But I do have boxing ambitions.

Several years ago I wrote a novel about an Irish-American bare knuckle boxer in the late nineteenth century. Because of its New York setting and Irish themes, my mother was fond of this story. She didn’t read it, but I told her all about it. Of all the books I’ve ever worked on, she asked me about this one the most, and was vocal in her support when I was working on it and in her disappointment when I put it aside, which is a long story that I’ll tell someday. Because I told her I’d eventually come back to the novel, she kept asking about it. In truth, she never stopped asking me about it. I don’t want to get overly sentimental about this, but a few days before she died, my mother made me promise that I would finish the boxing book. You can see where this going, can’t you?

I’m not doing any one-arm push-ups but I am going to finish the book. Or, to put it in boxing terms, I’m going to go toe-to-toe with it in a rematch and this time I’m going the distance. Now that I actually know something about the sweet science, I hope I can bring something to the project that was lacking the last time around.

But first I want to get back in the ring.

I want to do for someone else what my coach did for me and deliver a perfectly timed, beautifully executed, fist to the face.

O what an epiphany that will be.

If you’re new to Message from the Underworld and you enjoyed this newsletter, you might also like my latest novel Make It Stop, or the paperback edition of Corporate Rock Sucks: The Rise & Fall of SST Records, or my book with Bad Religion, or my book with Keith Morris. Message from the Underworld comes out every Wednesday and is always available for free, but paid subscribers also get Orca Alert! on most Sundays. It’s a weekly round-up of links about art, culture, and science you may have missed while trying to avoid the shitty news of the day.