What followed was a summer of moderate but not excessive exercise, and excessive but not moderate eating and drinking during which time I hit my heaviest weight to date: 152 pounds. At 5’4”, that number didn’t make me obese, but it sure didn’t make me happy either. So I started running more but found that longer distances killed my feet. I took one afternoon Pilates class at my gym. A lot of wealthy, middle-aged Upper West Siders in Lycra, kvetching about nothing and breathing in short, neurotic bursts. Like Lamaze for the post-menopausal set. Then I started hitting the spin studio a couple days a week. Turns out that riding a stationary bike in a dark room while being yelled at by a muscle-bound queen isn’t as much fun as I’d imagined. It was not my thing. Nothing was my thing. I was motivated but not engaged so getting to the gym was always a hardship.
Suddenly boxing was everywhere. Some mysterious asshole left a copy of the book “The Boxer’s Heart” in my mail folder at work (never did find out who that was), then there was talk of a new Hillary Swank movie in which she played a boxer, followed by talk of a new Russell Crowe movie in which he played a boxer, followed by rumors of two documentaries about boxing. I couldn’t run from it. Every time I watched a fight on TV or got an email from Lee detailing one of the girls’ latest victories, I got hot behind the ears. Then one night, I snapped.
I was out drinking (shock of shocks) with some friends (didn’t we hear this story already) in mid-October, after the culmination of my theatre company’s fall reading series. We were all packed into a tiny lower east side bar, throwing back Red Stripes and playing Pacman when all the sudden, one of our actors ran inside screaming, “You guys! Come quick! Chad’s about to get into a fight!” Never one to miss a good bar brawl, I hopped up and ran out to the sidewalk where the company’s loveable, hot-head of an artistic director was two seconds away from engaging with a small Arab who’d apparently made the mistake of calling our actress a “chink bitch” before hopping out of his car and into Chad’s face.
Chad’s girlfriend was holding him back, the wee Arab had a tall African American friend lingering by the car and a small crowd of shaggy-haired voyeurs had gathered to witness the screaming, cursing and potential bloodshed. I stood in the doorway, getting antsy and screamed “Both of you shut the fuck up!” I pointed to the Arab, “You get back into your car and drive away.” I looked to Chad, “You go home.” Of course, I didn’t scream any of this in an attempt to actually break it all up. I wanted to see them go at it. This is why, after everyone took a moment to gawk at the vaguely drunk brunette standing in the bar’s doorway (that’s me), and went right back to screaming at each other, I took my earrings off and stuffed them into my back pocket. Well fuck, I thought, if there’s going to be a fight, I want in on it. Never materialized, but I was ready to go.
The next day I sent Lee the following missive via electronic post:
It’s time for me to come back. I was going to wait until I had more money and more time but I finally realized that that moment would probably never arrive. Last night I almost got into a bar fight. I want to use my powers for good, not evil! How about a private some time this week?
So I dragged my gear out from under the bed, dusted it off, and headed to Kingsway with my pride tucked firmly between my legs. I knew that boxing in the manner to which I had become accustomed—sporadically, with no real drive towards greatness—would be an easy and enjoyable way to get back into mental and physical shape; that it would keep me from engaging in pointlessly violent bar-room altercations with small, middle-eastern men. But something happened as I ascended the stairs to Kingsway’s second floor storefront home; as soon as that familiar gym smell hit my nostrils (a mix of stale sweat and dirty ring mats), as soon as my ears picked up the rhythmic clatter of a speed-bag going full blast, when I focused my eyes on those cartoonish oil paint renderings of Ali, Marciano, Hollyfield, when D’Awsome Darryl stuck one focus-mitted hand out of the ring to welcome me back sans any kind of judgment, I knew that the manner to which I had become accustomed was, for some strange reason, not going to cut it this time around. This time around, I thought, I’m doing it for real. Little did I know, exactly how real it was going to get.
