I once predicted that boxing would be the gentlemanly art of me getting my ass kicked while wearing a pair of red gloves. This turned out to be incorrect. The gloves were black.
I probably had it coming. Just an hour or so before, I had looked into my host brother’s room. Inside my host brother, Sergei, was wrestling with one of his friends and winning. After their bout, I asked to step in and Sergei, who is half a foot taller and forty pounds of muscle heavier than me, easily took me down and was on top. Not realizing that I had been a varsity wrestler in high school, he soon found himself thrown over my shoulder and onto his back, whereby he was pinned. He said I won because he was tired.
Sometime later, the boxing gloves came out and his two friends had bloodied (literally bloodied) themselves against each other in front of two female friends that had stopped by (and what better way to impress the ladies?). After the ladies and the friends left, Sergei and his friend Dima boxed one another, Sergei showing his boxing training as he slowly stalking Dima. Dima would flail wildly at Sergei before Sergei would beat him back into a wall and then unleash a hail of punches.
After Sergei was done and I had changed into a pair of sweat pants, I asked “moshna?” May I? Dima put the black boxing gloves on me and Sergei and I circled each other on the carpet. I had told him I didn’t know what I was doing asked him to go easy. He agreed, suggesting I first work on straight shots.
This I did, although I could never get through his defense, and spent a lot of time dodging his punches. I did notice that I kept closing my eyes whenever I punched, something I endeavored to correct. I connected a few times, after which, Sergei told me: “hit harder.”
I didn’t want to hit harder, as I was afraid he would start hitting me harder.
One jab at a time seemed not to be working, so I started throwing in combinations, remembering all the sportscaster commentary heard while watching boxing matches in Jim’s apartment.
More of my hits started connecting as Sergei would dodge one punch at get hit by another and a small smile appeared on his face. That really worried me. Somewhat like a computerized GRE test, I had the sneaking suspicion that the better I did, the more difficult this would be.
Sergei started coming forward, stalking me like he had Dima, snapping my head back with a few well-timed punches. I realized that the blood on his gloves was from me. I didn’t get mad, but I did get amped, realizing that a shot to the body and two to the head really does work. I finally got a solid one through, making him blink and causing two trails of blood to appear out of his nostrils. His response: “Good.”
Already five or six minutes into the fight, I was getting tired and he seemed to still be going strong. His reach easily outclassed mine and I spent the next two minutes just trying to stay out of the way of his punches and futilely tried jabbing to keep him back.
I didn’t even see the haymaker, but it spun me around and my vision went black. I’m not sure how I stayed upright, but I was calling an end to the match before my vision had even cleared. “I am sorry. I am tired,” Sergei said as way of apology for hitting me that hard. We tapped gloves and I collapsed in a chair, panting.
My lip was bloodied, but other than that, all was well. I have to admit that, aside from the fear of marring my face, it’s a great stress reliever and a great workout. We’ve agreed to do it again.