Roll with the Punches

Coral Living, February 7th, 2007

“Thwack!”
Gloves hitting leather was the first sound I heard when I pulled in to the Fight Club parking lot for my initial boxing class. “This is it!” I told myself and braced for the sight of a crouching fighter, all neck muscles and menace.
Instead, the boxer was pretty, petite Elizabeth Stadtlander, who, I later learned, is 30, has been taking boxing lessons for several years, and can jump over a bench from a standstill.
“Boxing balances me,” she told me. “It conditions me for life, not only my physical self, but it also teaches me about the blows that life gives you and how to handle them.” The sport, she added, taught her internal discipline, determination and the certainty that she can push past her own limits.
With my new boxing gloves in hand I was ready for all that – and more. Nothing has quite the mystique of boxing: The hard training, the mental focus, the bobbing and weaving, not to mention the ducking and dancing. I didn’t intend to actually hit anyone – and hoped no one would try to hit me. But I’d always wondered what working the punching bag was like and thought that if Sylvester Stallone could revive a 60-year-old boxer in Rocky Balboa, then my climbing into the ring wasn’t all that far-fetched.
Besides, I always wanted to jump rope with a boxer’s rotational blur rather than with the half-step of girls’ jump rope, which I must say I was quite good at in grade school.
I chose the downtown Fight Club (Motto: “Train Hard, Fight Harder”) because it is clean but professional and, while it offers serious training, welcomes a variety of clients including doctors, lawyers, dancers, physical therapists and folks just trying to stay fit.
Owner Sandro Flores said I’d need to make a thrice-weekly commitment. So there I was, having struggled into an old sports bra that hugged me like an anaconda. Overweight, out of shape, I wore a pair of ancient green mid-calf pajama bottoms that I hoped would pass for workout gear. Sandro insisted that I start with Albert’s cardio-kickboxing class, which does have a large boxing component, rather than with Jeremiah’s straight-up boxing class.
It began well. Pull foot back to butt, switch, stretch, jog in place. Yet I was soon out of breath. And then, oh horror, Albert waved us out the door to run around the block. I hate running. Didn’t matter, I couldn’t even make it to the stop sign.
Next Albert led us through a series of impossible movements and routines, which included throwing punches while constantly jiggling on one’s toes – kind of like doing The Pony, a dance I remember from junior high. There were other movements that I last encountered in my teens, such as jumping jacks. By the time we got to the punching bags, I was dizzy and nauseated. For once, I thought, I should’ve heeded the warning “check with your doctor before starting vigorous exercise.”
I was just taking up mat space by the time we moved onto the abdominal floor exercises. I watched in amazement as Albert demonstrated a group of revved-up sit-ups, and I finally found out, to my dismay, what “crunches” are. On the up side, the music was so loud that no-one heard my groans and exclamations of “you’ve got to be kidding!” Oh, and did I mention Fight Club isn’t air-conditioned? Real boxers, Sandro explained, don’t train in air conditioning.
The truth was as obvious as my green pajama-bottomed rear bobbing in the mirror: My friends are liars. I do not carry 30 extra pounds well. And my walking routine plus a bit of yoga and ballet had not conditioned me much. And, yes, even just-one-after-dinner-when-we’re-sitting-out-on-the-deck cigarette does make a difference.
Sandro helped me set goals for the month: lose five pounds; run all the way around the block; finish the class without having to stop; and spar with an instructor. I was happy to let Sandro be my guide. He’d been involved in the sport since boyhood. Now 39, he left a successful career as an investment banker to open Fight Club, first near Coconut Grove and now in downtown Miami, after recognizing that his work was not making him happy.  “The only moment I felt alive was Saturday afternoons when someone was trying to take my head off,” he said.

One of the true pleasures of boxing, he said, is its immediacy. “It’s all in the present – you can’t mull the past or the future with someone trying to flatten you.”
While I wasn’t planning on giving or taking a flattening, I was intrigued by the demands of the sport. “In boxing there has to be a huge synchronicity between your inner and outer self,” Sandro says. The goal, he said, is not really about combat for its own sake, but “knowing deep inside who you are and your limitations; developing a formula between your own barriers and horizons.”
So after investing in a better-natured sports bra, I returned for more lessons. By the second week I was only stopping once or twice a class – once because the humidity was overpowering. I still didn’t get all the boxing-and-dancing routines. I asked Sandro if someone could show me, explaining that I’m not good at picking up dance steps. “I’ve never even learned the Electric Slide,” I admitted.
But he shrugged me off, telling me that I’d eventually pick up the routines. A few days later, when I asked him about what kind of shoes to wear, he was similarly uninterested. “Learn to know your own body’s limits,” he said. I was kinda miffed, but didn’t let it bother me because class was getting easier, and I was getting to know more about Albert and my classmates.
Albert’s actual name is Eromosele (“Bad Boy”) Albert and he’s the current IBA Continental Jr. Middleweight Champion. During my month at the club, he successfully defended his title, and he seemed to put extra pressure on us as his fight date neared.
Three weeks into the classes I lost only two pounds, but no longer had to stop. On one grumpy day after another week of no weight loss,  I surprised myself by completing the run. I was learning our dance, punch, jab routines and thought, “Hmm, maybe I’m not so bad at picking these things up after all.” I purchased a new pair of shoes, not the priciest or most cushioned, but light-weight sneakers that fit well and feel good.
I was starting to see that there was method behind Sandro’s distance – he was pushing me to take responsibility for all aspects of this experience. And he was right. I felt more competent and now was ready to try Jeremiah’s boxing class – which includes jumping rope.
Jeremiah’s class is overwhelmingly male, while Albert’s is more mixed, and all around me men sped along with their jump ropes, some doing variations such as raising one foot at a time, which looks like they are strolling or jumping rope backwards. It was right back to the huffing and puffing for me, and I stopped every few moments. I still jumped like a girl. “How do I do this?” I asked Jeremiah. “It’s kind of ‘learn on your own’,” he replied. But of course!
But something happened when we got to the punching bags. Jeremiah showed me the proper boxer’s stance, and I began appreciating the difference between a jab and an uppercut. Plus the bobbing and dancing from Albert’s class began to make sense. I wasn’t just getting fit; I was training to someday match my skills and speed with those of another human being who might be trying to punch my head off.
After one month of boxing, I have met three of four goals. I’ve lost only three pounds, but I now routinely run around the block – though the rest of the class still passes by me like a flock of ostriches. Still, I make it through class without stopping.
Now what? Should I go back to my old routine? Or set new goals? My decision is instantaneous. New goals: lose at least five pounds, keep up with the other runners, learn that jump-rope routine and maybe trade in those green pajama bottoms.