Prize Fighter

“One more son, you got it in you, let’s go.” My lungs were ablaze, my upper stomach felt like it was swimming in acid. Like a fish out of water, I was gulping for air on dry land.” Ok one more, one more I got this.” I thought repetitive internal narrative would give me the strength to dip down and complete the circuit. But it was the relentless barking of the man who unknowingly saved my life, that would get me to the finish line. “ONE MORE KENNY LETS GO.” Sure enough out of fear of making me restart, I finished my set. Returning to an upright position I was pleasantly greeted with a wholesome grin from the old man. “Good job king, take this, wipe yourself off, and do some bag work.” I snatched the old white towel out of the air and wiped myself down. Almost completely recovered I was startled by another patent Mr. Timmions roaring command. “Let’s go, Ken, make hay while the sun shines, get your ass to the bag.” I couldn’t help but smile, his grin and attitude were contagious.

Life hadn’t always been like this. quite the opposite. I was a lonely kid with an attraction to being punished by peers. A majority of my school days were spent trying to avoid those particularly troublesome areas. The nicknames, the taunting, the physical torment. I’ve been slammed into more lockers and punched in the chest more than I'd like to admit. Unfortunately, the torment didn’t stop when I got home. The adults in my life regarded me as a failure, an outcast, a social pariah. “What are we gonna do? He's never gonna change.” “You’re not gonna go anywhere in life young man.” “Go run or something, you're getting too fat.” Later on, in life, I was used as a proverbial stepping stone. A nice rebound for positive reinforcement. Daily conversation from people I considered friends and family would consist of.” What are you doing with your life?” “How much money have you saved up?” “You gotta get moving, times-wasting.” These talks weren’t for a status check-up, but rather a measuring point providing much-needed reassurance that, no matter how bad they were doing, it wasn’t as bad as me. I could never really rightly say why I was a magnet for negative reinforcement my whole life. I could only surmise it was my abundance of fear and phobias. I was always scared, truth be told. Scared to talk, scared of school, other people. I was frightened of everything growing up, from the somewhat reasonable to the completely irrational. Terror and panic controlled my life. And as the saying goes those who oppress are doing so because of their inadequacies. If that was the case, my overactive anxiety attracted antagonizers like moths to light.

As the years crept on, that lonely kid became a lonely man. Without a job or any particular purpose in life, I spent most of my days pondering the past. The what-ifs, the whys, and how I could have done better. The ruminating thoughts were all I had currently, living inside my head was a recipe for a trek downward into a depressing spiral of emptiness. Out of desperation, I started to go to counseling. My frequent visits didn’t seem to yield much, but a few words my therapist said stuck in my head. “Remember every yin has its yang, being that you're plagued with these bad memories, are there any good ones you could think of to replace them, perhaps something more pleasant.” Acting on her advice I began to recall a time when I was enamored with the fighting disciplines. More so boxing. I can remember when I would watch boxing with my grandfather. I was filled with joy matching his energy as he hooted and cheered. little did I know he had money on most of them. Regardless the fond memory prompted me to do something drastic. I scoured the internet for an affordable boxing gym. The only one I could find had an ad that said pay what you can. Kind of reluctant, I entered my info.

I pulled up to the address, utterly confused because what I saw in front of me was a small cottage-style house with an enormous property spreading miles back. Before I could pull out a middle-aged man came storming out waving his hand frantically.” HEY, ARE YOU KENNY?” closer to the car now, the middle-aged man introduced himself as Mr. Timmons, or as everybody called him, Coach. “ I'm glad I caught you, most people think it’s the wrong address but the gyms in the back come on out and I’ll lead you to it.” It took us quite a while to get to the said gym, long enough for me to question what the hell I was doing. Before the inevitable fear crept in he said. “Here we are”. To my amazement, what I saw was not a gym at all, but an old barn. A wide-open archway leading straight through to the back like a tunnel. The interior had long hanging bags of all varieties swinging from the rafters. In the very center was a crudely made ring with nothing but traditional rope and four stakes boarding the muddy canvas. Tools were strewn about. Those I would learn later on would be my exercise equipment. “I guess you get what you pay for.” I thought.

As time went on I frequented the gym more and more. The exercise was primal. The training was intense. I developed a love for the discipline as it chipped away at my past regrets, helped me relinquish trauma, and finally showed me a light at the end of a very long dark tunnel. It was all in part of the involvement of the man I now call Coach. While his sessions were demanding, his wisdom and life lessons were astounding.

One day during warm-up he asked me “why boxing?” It took me a little time to answer. Aside from the story with my grandpa, I didn't know. “I thought it would be a good change of pace… I don't know, maybe I feel better knowing I can kick someone's ass.” “ No, what you take from here is confidence. The intent to hurt anybody only hurts yourself, the goals we set here and the accomplishments we achieve can translate out there.” I was a little embarrassed, even more so when he said “what are you doing I didn't say stop.”

I am a regular now. I had grown from beginner to novice. What I did here for two hours every other day couldn’t even rival the best antidepressant. One day, while I was doing some bag work, the coach shouted out some combos. I was having an off day. I couldn’t get it right, so I apologized at each interval. He stopped me. “Why do you keep apologizing?” I quickly responded.” “Because I’m doing it wrong” he looked at me sternly. “You're doing nothing wrong, you're learning. You're only apologizing to yourself because you always think you're doing something wrong. You're an empath; it's a curse sometimes, believe me I know. There's no need to beat yourself up, that is counterintuitive, especially in this sport.”

Finally, the day had come, my first day of sparring. Before the start of the match, the coach asked me “Are you scared?” To my utter surprise, a strong feeling arose despite the usual fear. “No,” I said, ``I'm excited.” After months and years of working hard training, and sparring I succumbed to the realization that I had found the yin to my yang.

Me and the coach sat up above the gym on the beams of the barn, drinking a high-protein smoothie, at the end of one of our routine workouts. “I know why I chose boxing.'' I blurted out the words. I thought the coach would be confused but he simply responded with. “Oh yeah why's that?” “ Because I’m afraid” no response yet so I continued. “But what most people are afraid of is... not knowing what they're afraid of, the fear of the unknown. So many times in life we get hit, slammed from every which, blow after blow, relentless strikes. The only difference here is even though I'm afraid I have control. I know what I'm afraid of every time I step into the ring, each hit I take is no mystery. I just got hit and I better do something about it. Fear isn’t as scary if we know we are in command.

From then on I encompassed that philosophy throughout the rest of my life. Exuding confidence, the coach told me to carry on from my time at the gym. I met my wife. Had a wonderful job I loved. All the while controlling my fears like a prizefighter in the squared circle. While the coach had since passed on, I continued to box recreationally. Now a retired old man myself I decided to devote my time to a dream I had

I lay my hand over the rotted wood noting the small flecks of paint that had the cliche red barn color splotching the whole exterior. Inside was mostly the same. I wanted it that way. Coach reveled in simplicity, recognizing that all you need is yourself, and maybe an old barn left to you from your grandad. The only thing I changed was a wood panel sign that simply read COACH'S GYM.