By Jill Morley

GROUPON – 20 classes for $20

Might as well try it again.

Yoga Class #1

“Is anyone here new to yoga?” my lovely gluten-free Lulu Lemon instructor asks.  I can smell a hint of Tofurkey on her breath so I know she’s legit.

A few hands raise.

“Brand spanking new?”

My hand creeps up. As usual, I am terrified to speak in front of a group of people I don’t know, especially one in which I feel like an outsider. In boxing gyms, I feel right at home. It’s a safehouse for ragtags. I know it’s strange to feel more comfortable in a place that is predominantly male, where we pound the crap out of bags and each other, but it’s familiar and has become Home.

I sputter, “I’ve tried it a few times and um,…I keep trying to like it.”

Some people in the class laugh, a few won’t even look at me and I am pretty sure I see an eye roll on a corner mat.

The instructor, Lola, brings over two “bricks” and a blanket. At first, I think that just from looking at me, she can tell I am special. That I can do all sorts of amazing things that the others most likely, cannot. After all, I am a boxer. I learn that the brick and blanket are to help extremely tight people get into poses. Shove a brick under a thigh that cannot reach the ground on its own, or a blanket under your butt if you cannot sit up straight. I later decide to call them the “brick and blanket of shame” and know that they will be with me for a long time.

I have flirted with yoga at different times throughout my life but while I long to love it, it’s only resulted in one night stands. I usually found it boring, painful and bourgeois with a hint of spiritual arrogance. I remember a yoga teacher saying that he would never eat an apple that was sitting on a weight machine because it would have absorbed all the aggressive energy of the kind of people who lift weights. You know, “those people.”

Then there are the practitioners who take such pride in doing their extreme standing splits while I am in pain just trying to straighten one leg. This would also enrage me. I know from doing other sports that you have to start at a very humble place and be patient. You cannot expect results right away. You are not going to be Muhammad Ali after a week or two of boxing… or most likely ever, but you can become a force to be reckoned with if you work at it diligently over time. In Taekwondo, I remember being a white belt watching a black belt test and thoroughly doubting I could ever learn all those kicks, defensive moves, and especially that many katas. Four years later, I passed my own black belt test and resolved to always remember to not get overwhelmed by where I want to be when I am first starting something new. Ego is a bitch.

Yoga is supposed to be about “the journey.” It’s not a competition, but my competitive spirit has always gotten in the way of enjoying it. How can that skinny bitch jump her legs straight through her arms like an Olympic gymnast when I would most likely break my toes or become mangled in my own arms? As I get older, I am learning the value of letting myself be where I am and not judging it. Let her do her practice and let me do mine. “Stay on your own mat,” a wise yoga practitioner once told me.  There is no trophy. No medal. No purse. It’s just “practice.”

I’m probably trying too hard to do the poses right because I know how important technique is and my mind has a tendency to think random thoughts. What do these people do in their real lives? Are they in a cult? Why are there cushions on one side of the room with faux fur pillows? Do they have orgies here where they wear animal masks?

It doesn’t help that the girl in front of me has on see through tights and is wearing no underwear. I am too jealous of her body to get any kind of thrill out of it. Damn me for being straight, but even so, my eyes keep wanting to look over as she downward dogs.

In boxing, when you get a combination wrong on the mitts or start to hurt from a strength exercise, it’s not completely out of place to utter, “Fuck! Mother Fucker!” I can’t say it’s not frowned upon, but if it happens, it’s not a big deal. However, in the candlelit room reeking of lavendar oil, a few whispery MFers escaped my lips when trying to straighten out a tight hamstring. I caught a dirty look from the woman on the left.

I mouth to her, “Fuck you.”

In my world, when I get super frustrated MF happens.  Yogi wrong.

“Everyone step forward, or if you want to challenge yourself, jump your legs through your arms,” says Lola as she effortlessly hops through, her wavy hair bouncing like a Tresseme commercial. I chortle, “Yeah, right,” and slowly step through. But the girls in front of me, next to me, and one of the guys up front jumps right through. I take comfort knowing I could beat the crap out of every one of them.  White belt, I think to myself, and continue on.

“Plank position,” Lola gently commands. Oh, it’s like a push up. I can do that.

“Into Chaturanga,” Lola says as she lowers herself to the ground, but doesn’t touch it. Her chin and elbows are near the floor, her back is flat and her toes and triceps are basically holding her up. Having done twenty million pushups and punches over the last few years, I do this with her. She sees how easily I execute, gets up and stands next to me.

“Plank,” she says. I effortlessly push back up, pleased that she can see that I don’t totally suck.

“Chaturanga,” she says, watching. I lower myself back down slowly, almost in defiance. We do this a few times. The last time she says “Plank” I burst up with the loud grunt of a power lifter. Yogi wrong and for that matter, not very feminine. My arms start to shake and I look around to see if other people are planking. Some are in a “child’s pose” (resting) and others have their knees to the ground, modifying the movement. I become embarrassed that to them, I am like the skinny bitch showing off by jumping through her yoga arms and slowly go into child’s pose.

At the end of class, I am sweating and even though I haven’t been pounding on bags, jumping rope or sparring, I feel invigorated. It’s a different kind of invigoration. Perhaps because it’s selectively strenuous and focuses on your breath with your movement. That, and I’m not getting punched in the face.

At the end, there is always some sort of silent meditation and when you leave the room, you feel more centered, focused and charitable. After class, Lola tells me I am super strong and asks what kind of athlete I am, which makes me like her even more. I tell her I am a boxer. She hugs me like she knows my soul.

I help myself to some tea in the waiting area and watch an older dorky guy get shot down by a very pretty 21 year old blonde.

“These chairs are really comfortable right?” he says.

“Your jeans?” She asks.

“No,” he says, “The chairs.”

She nods and goes back to texting.

I realize the older guy is probably my age.  Fuck.

I smile at the other people in the studio as I float outside to the parking garage and start my car.   How long can I enjoy this contentment? The cars are backed up in a line out the garage and I can already feeling my real world New York impatience waking up, cracking her knuckles and asking what the fuck? Why is it taking so long to get out of here? Are these people in the booths mentally challenged? Or retardedly old? I want to corkscrew an uppercut into a solar plexus!

I remind myself, that I am not in a rush and marvel at what a different culture this yoga thing is.  I want to come back, even though yoga people seem to think that rancid broccoli farts are “natural.”

As strange as it is, I want to do it again.

YOGA CLASS #2

Inspired by the girl from my first class, to avoid unsightly panty lines, I decide to go to the second class commando. Unlike the girl from my first class class, my tights are opaque. I am open to new things and experiences, but this felt a little too “Free Wilma.” Very difficult to be “mindful” when your petunia is not cradled by a piece of cloth. Next time, thong. Another bad wandering thought. Yogi wrong.  I also decide to wear one of my favorite T-Shirts that says, “I Eat Lightning and Crap Thunder.”  Not sure if I’m doing it to be rebellious or ironic.

The classes are always primarily women, which for some reason, makes me a little uncomfortable. I know at the boxing gym the guys aren’t looking at what label sweats I’m wearing or if my nails are properly manicured. I prefer hearing conversations about the chick they banged the night before instead of who is doing the best master cleanse.

And some things that go unnoticed in a boxing gym, might not fly here.  For example, I might smell. Bad.

“Everyone sit up straight on the edge of your mat,” Lola purrs. “If you can’t sit up straight, put a blanket under your sitz bones. My what?  I sit up straight sans blanket and see her staring at me. She starts walking over.

What’s the problem? I think to myself. She comes over and places a blanket under my butt.

“I’m fucking sitting up straight!” I want to yell at her. Perhaps my years of being hunched over a computer and shoulders rolled forward in a fighting stance has forced my body out of whack. I have to be open to that possibility. We sit like that for a while and I notice the girl next to me has on a Stella Artois T-Shirt and also cannot sit up straight without a blanket. I immediately know my people when I see them.

Even though it’s my second class, it’s already easier to go into downward dog. A space in my back has opened. My body needs this. I try to straighten my calves.

“Motherfucker!” escapes my lips in a whisper. The girl in the Stella Artois T-Shirt smiles at me and nods. An alliance has been formed.

I only drop the F-bomb once throughout the entire class.

I must be getting better.

Why is it that an MMA fighter who did gay porn in college is allowed to be a finalist in the Ultimate Fighter show, but a woman who did softcore porn 10 years ago gets fired from her job as a UFC ring girl? Chandella Powell and Dakota Cochrane were not campaigning to be Mother Theresa or Jesus on a stick. They are not aspiring schoolteachers, politicians or role models. They did something subversive in their past and now they want to leave it behind and move on with their lives.

Personally, I think they both should be able to keep their jobs. If Dakota Cochrane has healthy blood tests, he should be able to fight. If Chandella Powell looks great and can bear the weight of a card that says “Round 1,” she should be able to be a ring girl. She was hired for her beauty and sex appeal, not for her amazing choice making abilities.

What fighter or ring girl hasn’t done something shady in their past? Let’s face it, most interesting people have had to have done SOMETHING in order to make them who they are today. Why can’t we “forgive” the choice and move on?

I have gay male friends who watch the UFC as if it is softcore porn, so what’s the big deal? But, Chandella got fired and Dakota got a pass. It seems that women who have had any involvement in the sex industry are shamed for life; not by compassionate intelligent people mind you, but by the ignorant people with their heads up their asses. Men get a pat on the back and a laugh, but women have to wear the scarlet S for life.

Diablo Cody is one of the most maligned Oscar winning screenwriters of our day. She is funny, sexy, smart, snarky and super intelligent. Everyone may not like her style or even her writing, but instead of a take-it-or-leave-it indifference, there is this mean spirit directed at her. So, she used to be a stripper. Why is that so overwhelmingly frighting? Maybe she has too many weapons. She knows too much.

Meanwhile, Stephen Soderbergh is making a film around Channing Tatum’s past escapades as a male stripper. Will there be any backlash from that? I think not. Channing will most likely continue to charm us, hoofing away in those “Step Up” movies until Tom Cruise ages out and he replaces him in the “Mission Impossible” franchise.

I am not an activist. I am not going to Dana White’s office and protest on behalf of Chandella Powell. However, I will sit on my ass with steam coming out of my ears and write this blog.

After my last fight, a rematch that was on December 11th, I knew I had to take a long break before getting back into the ring. My goal was to change my style to be more aggressive and to throw more punches so I could get the W this time. I knew the fight wasn’t going to be pretty and it wasn’t, but with the help of my coach and training partners, I was glad I could implement the changes enough to get the win.

Now, my heart isn’t into fighting in the ring. It’s somewhere else.

For one thing, the film is coming to a close and all my fighting energy has to go towards finishing it. Hiring a composer, sound designer, mixer, music supervisor, getting everyone to do it below their normal rate so I don’t go too much into debt is my job now. Also, I have to finalize: lock picture, title, voice-over, be prepared to live the rest of my life with the decisions I make now. No going back and changing. As Michael Jackson once said, “This is it.”

After training hard for five solid months, my body is stiff and sore. Not a spring chicken and having other responsibilities in my life, this whole competing as a boxer thing takes a toll on a girl. I was grateful to have the time, the wonderful people encouraging me, coaching, sparring and training hard with with me. But now, I need a break!

1. The first thing I noticed is I immediately dropped some weight. When you don’t train twice a day, you aren’t as hungry. Even enjoying cocktails and Nutella, I somehow shrank. My back and shoulders got a little smaller simply from atrophy. While I enjoy that lean look, I want to keep my strength and know I can bang if I need to. Much more important.

2. Another thing, I found I had more energy. This can be a good thing or a bad thing. With more energy, I can go out at night, drink, dance, carouse and be social, but sometimes stayed out way beyond my bedtime. This is actually mucho fun after being a house monk for several months.

I can totally see how pro fighters who have made fighting their way of life and then retire, can go off the deep end when their training ends. That crazy energy isn’t being sated with discipline and physical exertion anymore, so they look for something else.

Luckily, I’ve already had my dalliances with drugs, hookers, and alcohol, but I still have the urge to wear fishnets. Fortunately, when those fishnet photos show up on Facebook, no one blinks an eye and I don’t have to explain anything to my husband.

Finally, being with friends I hadn’t spent time with in months was amazing and having the energy to really connect made me feel like a sponge soaking in the people I love.

Working for yourself with more energy is a blessing. I am an emailing, editing, phone calling, going to meetings dynamo when I am not needing a nap in the middle of the day after sparring, jumping rope and hitting bags. Also, I manage an MMA fighter and can set aside more time to get fights for her, negotiate and learn more about the lay of that land.

The lists of things I need to do around the house are getting accomplished at a frightening speed, which gets my husband off my back. Yay.

3. The creativity I put into combinations and movement in training is channeled into my writing, helping to create music for the film, ideas for projects on the back burner, and discussions with other people. I actually have the impetus to want to initiate other projects. Before, I was too tired to even think about it. Just the thought of trying to get another project off the ground made me want to tap out.

4. When I do go to a fight gym to train, I don’t feel the need to go all out. I just work my technique so it doesn’t go away and enjoy watching the other fighters spar or move around the bag. This is completely different when I am training for a fight and have the blinders on. I also enjoy talking to the other boxers, people training, coaches, etc. I am a part of the world again.

5. I am enjoying swimming, running and even tried, (cough) yoga. Yoga pretty much kicked my ass for a few days. At least in sparring after the initial impact of punches, the pain usually goes away. If it’s a hard body shot, it might stay with you for a bit, but yoga will fuck you up for days, especially if you are ambitious. Maybe Pilates would be a better fit…

I wonder if the desire to train full force will return. In the meantime, I am not going to judge it. I’m just going to enjoy wearing girly clothes, make-up, having more time in my day for other things, work my ass off to finish the film and position it the best that I can. After that, I’m sure another desire will possess me……or, I’ll just have to fight again.

Transitory parts of my life have always been extremely difficult, exciting, and frightening.  The fear and excitement of the unknown clash and I’m not sure how to feel from moment to moment.

In my life, I have been many things: a sweet, shy  girl next door, a preppy tomboy,  a naive suburban girl, a jock, a chamber maid, a wallflower, an actress, a stripper, a tennis pro, a cater waiter, a backup rock singer, a perfume sprayer, a dog walker,  a faghag, a funny girl, a playwright,  a depressed hot mess, a boxer, an actress, an East Village party girl, a writer, a filmmaker, a wedding videographer, a corporate video producer, a documentary filmmaker, a journalist, a black belt in Taekwondo, a boxing coach for kids, a wife and a mother of two rescued dogs.   Some of these roles happened effortlessly while others took a real decision and action to set out and achieve.

Is it that I’m having a constant identity crisis? Split personalities?  Or is it that my interests vary?  Do my talents go in many ways or can I not find my niche and just keep pushing in different directions to see where my strengths lie?  ”Jack of all trades, master of none,” is a phrase that has become self referential.  I long to be phenomenal at something, but always fall short of that goal.

Having just finished my second documentary film, I know a new phase of life is around the corner.  I am feeling that mix of malaise and possibility.  We don’t know whether the film will be accepted into the top film festivals, sell to cable, or even have much of a life beyond independent distribution.  On the other hand, it could be a big fat hit with the fight crowd, the self help, crowd, women, and people who have PTSD.  Will it get into Sundance? Sell to HBO?  Oprah? PBS? Could I sell millions of downloads and DVDs?

In the meantime, I don’t know where my next job is coming from, who my next paycheck will be from, and I sigh as I watch the numbers get lower each time I withdraw more cash out of the ATM.

I chose this lifestyle a long, long time ago and this transitory period from time to time is what that choice demands.  I suppose it does get easier to keep following your heart, your intuition even when times get tough.  I have a history of bouncing back with a new look, a new interest and somehow have either eeked out a living or made a handsome amount doing something that is sort of on my own terms.  These are the times the most growth occurs.  Must be present and open to opportunities that might reveal themselves, without feeling desperate or trying too hard.

Very difficult to be in Trans.

These are the thoughts that go through my head in sparring drills and these are the things I love about boxing. It is a martial art, a physical chess game, an athletic puzzle that can never be completely solved.

I don’t love hitting people hard or hurting people in sparring. I still say I’m sorry if I think I landed a clean punch that was a little too hard, even if the person on the other side is the toughest guy/girl in the room. That was not my intent – to hurt, that is. I don’t have the killer instinct and I am not game for a brawl. But, I do want to outsmart you. Outcraft you. Outbox you.

My favorite boxers are crafty, often elusive and artful. When I see the beautiful dance of the warrior, my heart grows ten times it’s size like the Grinch at the end of the story.

Pet Peeve -

I tell someone that I box.

That person says, “I still don’t understand women boxing. Sorry, it’s not in my grasp. Why would you just want to ‘go at it’ with another girl?”

Calmly, I must explain that I don’t “go at it.”

I have an older aunt, who I never told that I boxed. She once said, “I don’t get boxing. Why would you just want to stand there and punch each other?”

It’s frustrating when people don’t understand that the allure of boxing for me and many of us, is the craft, the game of it. Yes, I have seen the fights where untrained fighters just brawl at each other with no sense – male and females. Actually, I have seen trained fighters do that. Unfortunately, that was their training. Is that what the general public thinks boxing is? Yikes. I just turned red from embarrassment.

People are often surprised that aside from a bump on my nose that I have had since I was a child; with all the sparring that I do, my face is not effed up.

Reasons:

1. Defense- For me, it is my favorite part of the game, making people miss. No, you cannot win a fight strictly with good defense, but it sure feels good to not eat a clean punch.

2. Headgear- I wear headgear when I spar. I know it’s cool for the really tough-guy fighters to not wear headgear, but I’m already old and losing my memory, I don’t need help with this. Preserve your most powerful tool as a boxer, your brain.

3. Not So Hard – The best way to learn good boxing is to practice what you have learned with your coach on the mitts and the bags. When it is time to spar and you get punished severely for making a mistake, you probably won’t try that move again so there’s no point in going hard when you are learning something new.

Once I started moving around with pros and world champions, I realized that they were not as keen on trying to knock me out as some of the amateurs and the less experienced boxers. They didn’t need to. Instead, they wanted to teach me when a hand was too low or I was leaning one way too much so they would tag me and look at me, like “Put your damn hand up, girl.” I would nod, thankful that it wasn’t a knockout punch.

After my first year of just brawling with no real technique, I went to Gleason’s Gym and started over from the beginning. Jab. Turn your punches over. Keep your feet shoulder length apart. Hector Roca was a taskmaster who focused on these little details I never paid attention to. I was too concerned with surviving tough rounds with experienced fighters who were getting ready for fights.

Throw her in the pond and see if she can swim.

I was told that they were sent into the ring to knock me out to see if I would quit. I didn’t quit. For a year. But, I didn’t get much better.

Then, I met Hector, “Take your hand back to your face after the jab. No! No! That’s not it. Yes, that’s it!” He would yell at me in his thick Panamanian accent and reposition my hands. Often I couldn’t tell the difference when I did it right or wrong, but I kept going hoping for the best. Each day, I’d work on the same things. Tedious? Yes. But, often a trait of a fighter is some kind of compulsion, so this serves us in training.

Since training at Gleason’s, I have been very fortunate to work with extremely generous boxers like Maureen Shea, Suszannah Warner and Jodi-Ann Weller. Their aim was to help me improve, not make me look bad. I have taken this gift and paid it forward to the new boxers I work with. The best coaches tell you to “have fun” in the ring. It’s just not fun to get beat up and not know how to get out of a situation. It’s not fun to not have technique and feel like an ass.

It’s a lot of fun to use the fancy footwork you just learned in a sparring session, make your opponent miss and land a good counter-punch. That’s what I’m talking about and that only comes from practice and good coaching.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever make non-believers understand why boxing is called “the sweet science” or why someone like me, who is laid back and a generally peaceful, amiable person would love it.

I’m a lover and a fighter. In my world, that is not an oxymoron.

Lost my fight on Friday night, and it really pisses me off. Still. Not as much as right after. On Saturday, like clockwork, 45 minutes would pass by and in a Turret’s like explosion, I’d yell, “Fuck!” Now that only happens every three hours. I guess, I’m taking it better as each day goes by. This is where I wish all the Buddhist rhetoric I listen to and repeat would just sink itself into my bones already.

At the end of the fight, I didn’t feel like I lost. I didn’t even feel her touch me in the last round and I know I was hitting her hard with my right hand and hook so I’m not sure what happened. It could be that I was getting hit and not noticing it since her punches were so light and you go into a totally other headspace during a fight. I know I didn’t dance around the ring like Muhammad Ali and punch like Mike Tyson, but my fists felt more satisfied than usual….meaning, didn’t I hit more often? Didn’t I hit harder? After watching the tape, I saw that I certainly did not perform as well as I did in my last fight, but that opponent gave me more time to do my thing. Box and move pro style. This girl walked towards me throwing a bunch of soft punches non-stop. She had good form and kudos to her for getting in there with me and doing her thing, but this isn’t the kind of boxing I signed up for. Where’s the art? The science? I don’t mean to show bad sportsmanship because yes, she was good, but I have had my ass kicked in the ring by a Pan Am Games Gold Medalist/National Champion and knew I was way out of my league. This was not that.

Unfortunately, on fight day, my coach called me at 3pm and let me know he had to work that night so I’d need to find someone there to work my corner. My heart fluttered for a second, but that was all right with me. I mean, at the end of the day, you are in there alone anyway. My husband, Gary was able to accompany me and give me good support. On the car ride to Costa Mesa, my hands started getting cold and sweaty. We got there at about 4pm and blood would rush into my head from time to time making me very hot. I tried to enjoy observing what my body was doing – heart palpitations, frequent urination, clamminess, chills and sweatiness were some of the fabulous bodily functions I experienced all up until fight time. What is fun about this again?

When my husband and I were warming up with mitts, we found a licensed coach who agreed to wrap my hands and be in my corner during the fight. One of the things I love about boxing – The people who love doing it, coaching it, being a part of it enough to lend their time and skills to other people they barely know. We are part of the same hardcore secret society.

He gave me some great advice which really seemed to work – reaching over her jab with my right hand and following up with a hook or an uppercut. I was happy to see that all the work I did getting off the ropes with my coach, Marcelo, came out in the ring. I was put on the ropes three times and quickly turned her around and put her on the ropes and started throwing and landing. Other things I worked on didn’t come out – I slipped under punches, but didnt’ come right back with enough. I didn’t push forward and fought much taller than I feel I should have. At the same time, I still felt like I had the edge because I was stronger and hitting her harder and I thought, more often. But, sometimes the reality can be skewed when you are in fight state.

After my last round, the coach had to go take care of his fighter who was up next. My husband was taking off my headgear and I asked him if he thought I got the W. He smiled and shook his head decidedly yes. Then, I went to the center of the ring to hold hands.

The ref raised her hand and said the winner was in the red corner and I remember looking at her corner and seeing it was red and wondering how that could be. I shrugged my shoulders, shook her hand and got out of the ring. Hmmph. Okay. So, this is boxing. You win some, you lose some, you learn all along the way.

I guess it took me by surprise at how disappointed and upset at myself I was. This is a hobby for me, but it encompasses everything I do. The training keeps me level headed, calm; it gives me energy, confidence, focus, a stress outlet and a social outlet. I’ve become a part of this great community of people who enjoy martial arts, being physical, keeping in shape and fighting to be strong mentally and physically. So, why do I care so much if a decision doesn’t go my way? Maybe it’s just my nature to beat myself down. Luckily, it’s also in my nature to get back up.

The same weekend, a fighter I manage, Kaiyana Rain, had a big MMA fight in Temecula. She had been working very hard, upped her training and is in phenomenal shape. We knew her opponent was tough. She was also undefeated.

Backstage, I ran into the guy that worked my corner for my fight. He took me aside to tell me he was stunned to find out I didn’t win! He said he left the corner to go work with his fighter before they announced the decision because he didn’t see how they couldn’t give it to me. His friends told him on the way home and he couldn’t believe it. That was nice to hear.

Then, it was cage time. Ripped and intimidating, Kaiyana danced around the cage when they announced her. Her opponent hopped up and down in her part of the octagon and the audience eagerly awaited the first and only “girl fight” of the night.

When the bell rang, Kai and her opponent sized each other up. Kai landed some great leg kicks, there were some quick exchanges. Throughout the fight, Kaiyana took the girl down three times and controlled her against the cage. More exchanges and Kaiyana closing the gap, smothering her. In the last round, the opponent attempted a lame guillotine choke, but Kai got out of it and started throwing punches at her. The last bell rang.

The audience was informed it was a close split decision….in favor of Kaiyana’s opponent. What???? How do these people score these matches? Her coaches and myself were very pleased with the way she worked, the progress she made and the dominance she showed. The ref was calling it the fight of the night….as was her last fight. How could that not be anything but great? Tons of progress and another exciting fight. In a pro MMA fight with her same moves, she would have won.

This weekend was a real exercise of realization for me. Yes, I hate to lose. HATE IT. Am I afraid I might lose again or “get robbed?” I sure as hell won’t like it, but if I can get better in the process, I can live with it. I want to figure out the scoring system; where do the judges sit? What constitutes a clean punch? Is it bad that I drop my hands and act like a cocky ass sometimes? Can they take points off for that? How can I be more composed and thoughtful when I have a girl running at me throwing punches? These are all legitimate concerns that I have as I move forward in my fight “career.” My “career” is in quotes as it is in reality, a hobby. But in my heart it is real.

So, I know it’s a gift to be able to train and fight for my upcoming match on October 21st. I have the time to really train. My trainer, Marcelo, is great and seems to be really into it, and my training partners, Kaiyana and DeMauriea, give me good work in the ring on a regular basis. I also love my treks to Wildcard to spar with Georgia and ogle the pros.

The best part of this fight is I actually know the drill. I know the kind of training and cardio I have to do in order to feel good about stepping into the ring. I trust my coach will be there for me (This is only the second time I will have the coach who trained me in my corner during a fight – Yeah, it makes a difference) and I know that I have to work hard at correcting my weaknesses for these next two weeks. Every day there is progress, like there should be. My favorite thing I learned about training for a fight is not to be so hard on myself if I don’t feel like I performed well enough in sparring; or if I gassed out early, or slipped into an old bad habit. That’s not to say I don’t curse myself out and get upset by accident at times, especially when the training starts. But, I understand that that kind of “beating up” is futile. It’s so much more productive to be gentler with myself and to move on to the next moment with the corrections in mind. It’s a lesson I seem to need to relearn every time I am training to fight. I have to know that each day my conditioning will improve. If I’m sucking wind after a few rounds today, it will only get better by the end of the week if I put the work in.

I guess those are the things I love about boxing most. The lessons that carry over into my daily life if I practice them every day.

Having just finished a fine cut of my film, “Girl In The Ring,” I do feel like a weight has been lifted and I seem to have more energy to do things outside of editing. We still have to do sound design, color correcting, scoring, etc, but the story has been mostly ironed out and we are ready to give birth to our five and a half year old newborn. It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to do something celebratory, like train to fight!

Jill Morley

Joyce Carol Oates wrote a great book on boxing called, “On Boxing.” I say it was great, but I do have one big beef with Ms. Oates. While she wrote some really insightful, emotionally raw passages I connected with, she wrote this about women boxers:

“Of the female boxer: she cannot be taken seriously – she is a parody, she is a cartoon, she is monstrous.”After spending 5 years inside the sport, I had a vehement visceral reaction to this statement. Granted, the book was written in 1987, before the talent pool of women had deepened, but even so, this is a harsh judgement coming from a woman about another woman who has a fighter in her heart. I’d hasten to say that one needs to fight the way another needs to write. Maybe in the beginning it’s not so good. Maybe it’s just godawful. Personally, if I just stopped doing things because I was terrible at them the first couple of times, I don’t think I would do anything! Of course, it’s those few shining moments we strive for and hopefully get more of each time we get in the ring or write a short story.

On top of not having opportunities to gain experience, these women – the early boxers, had a tough time getting male trainers to take them seriously. I’ve seen male coaches put female boxers on the bag to practice their 1 – 2s, while they are spending their quality time with a male boxer teaching him more intricate moves, strategy, and defense.

I have been fortunate recently to have an excellent coach, Marcelo Crudele at Train Me Right Boxing, who will take the time to show me moves his father, a former pro boxer, taught him. He’ll stay on me for a month, or however long it takes, until my right hand is up, my footwork is better, or my conditioning is where it needs to be. I don’t feel like a “parody” or a “cartoon.” I especially don’t feel “monstrous.”

Other coaches I’ve had recently have spent a lot of time with me on strategy, martial arts philosophies, and mental training. I’ve been fortunate to have the opportunity to be taken seriously as a person wanting to be a better boxer instead of a cute little novelty act. When I first put on boxing gloves, one of my first boxing coaches smiled and told me I looked like a little teddy bear.

My favorite female pro boxers move like gazelles. I am in awe at the way they can be elusive, technical and destructive at the same time. Anytime I see this, I well up with pride and admiration. For us, the drive has always been there, but now the training is getting better. Girls are starting younger and opportunities are opening to get more experience in the amateurs. Today, athleticism is encouraged and considered sexy. I’ve talked to many dads who encourage their young daughters to box. They know the kind of confidence and character it builds. A busted nose is temporary; the will to get back in after you got your nose busted and do better is a life lesson.

My own father outright told me, “Women shouldn’t box.” He, of course, cannot give a good reason for this. “If you’ve got energy, play tennis!”

I was first team all-state on my high school tennis team and played for a division 1 college. Teaching tennis wound up supplementing my writing income for years, so there are no regrets, but I will always wonder what kind of a boxer I would have become if I started as a kid. I guess a lot of us do, since most of us started later in life. I’ll tell you how old I was when I started in a later post. It’s basically ridiculous, but I have learned that when you have something inside you that needs to be expressed, you had better do it or it will come out sideways.

Let’s just say, if I ever decide to do a pro match, I will ask Depends to be a sponsor. I will put their logo on the back of my shorts and have the diapers built in.

Even then, I won’t feel like a parody or a cartoon. I might feel monstrous, but in this case, I think that’s a good thing. Cannot think of anything more punk rock than that.