Now and then a new fellow would arrive, sturdy and dour. But the moment the bell sounded, all conflict dissolved, and we went back to our routines. In one of my few sparring sessions, one of them caught me hard on the jaw-too hard, I thought, and I stiffened my shots to his body. They were like mirrors, not antagonists, marking where you stood on the ladder of ability. No clash of egos, no tensions, as we threw lefts and rights.įorm and footwork were the focus, not the other guys.
When the class swelled to more students than available bags, people would pair up over one bag with a nod, then arrange themselves on opposite sides and time their shots accordingly. Demeanors were sober, movements respectful, and you could hear an occasional soft “S’cuse me.” Deference was the rule. When choosing a bag, finding a space to jump rope, and climbing into the ring, you made way for others. You breathed deeply and stayed silent during the one-minute rest, then attacked the bag with crisp blows, without gloves, trying for that sharp snap that meant you’d lined up leg, hip, shoulder, elbow, and wrist just right, expelling wind with each strike, but making no other sounds. You were there to sweat and hit and bob, not converse. I don’t remember a single conversation with another student. A final five minutes of sit-ups ended the session. If you caught his pads square and quick, it felt oh-so-good. If you screwed up, he sent you back to the circle with a look of impatience. Biggs, in the middle, called one of us forward to work the combo with him until another was called. As the music blasted, all of us would start hopping and rotating slowly clockwise as Mr. “Okay, here’s the drill,” he would say, then show us a combination, jab-jab-cross-hook-uppercut, holding up his pads to show the target for each punch. Biggs in the center, with pads on his hands. All of us would climb into the ring with Mr. Biggs cried out, “Stop!” and we would turn to the nearest bag and punch high-speed for thirty seconds until he yelled, “Go!” and we would continue sprinting. After that, students gathered to run around the ring and between the bags in single file until Mr. First, fifteen to twenty minutes of jump rope, then three or four rounds on the bag of your choice. Tyrell would drop by the gym now and then, elegantly dressed and unobtrusive. His brother Tyrell Biggs won the gold at the 1984 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles and earned a championship match in 1987 with Mike Tyson, who wore him out in the seventh round. He had a short career as a middleweight before turning to training. The owner and manager of the gym was named Xavier Biggs. A buzzer sounded every three minutes, then one minute, marking one round of action and a minute of rest. No pop or rap music here, only hard-driving jazz with a brisk beat. In front were mats for stretching and ropes for jumping. A ring sat in the middle of the gym, surrounded by fifteen punching bags of different mass and shape and size. No air conditioning in summer, lots of heat in the winter, a veritable sweatshop to keep weight down and muscles loose. Cement floor and brick walls and metal rafters. The gym was boxing only, housed in a refitted garage at the end of an alley in an old industrial zone. This wasn’t a frill in a fancy club with a teacher on staff. One hour-long workout five days a week in a group class of six to ten guys. So I signed up for a few months and bought gloves, wraps, shoes, and a mouthpiece.
Boxing was enjoying a resurgence at the time. I’d been doing karate, but the kicks and forms were too much for my aging frame. If you take it easy on the heavy bags, it doesn’t tax the joints and tendons-the last thing boxers want to do before a fight is get hurt.
I hung out there for two years when I was in my early fifties, the boxing workouts being just right for an older guy. Of all the places I’ve worked and played in my life, the politest one, the one where people were the most courteous and quiet, was a boxing gym in Decatur, Georgia.
0 kommentar(er)
