A Little Spar Treatment

Yesterday I was startled awake at a little after 6am by my three year old screaming blue murder about I don't know what. This kicked off my two month old, who is usually incredibly chilled out and sleeps well at night. So off went my wife to take the older lad back to his room and settle him down, whilst I paced up and down gently rocking the wee bairn back to sleep and silently cursing the early hour (my work is all late nights, so I don't normally see 6am unless I am on my way home from a particularly late finish). It was at some point whilst singing a lullaby that it dawned on me - I'm going to get hit today.

I honestly cannot remember the last time I got punched. I've had a few drunks try late at night when I am refusing them service, but their lack of accuracy and habit of telegraphing their swing has generally resulted in them falling flat on their faces. Worst I have actually had in recent memory was about seven years ago, when someone pinned me to the wall by my neck, but once I calmly pointed out to him all the CCTV cameras he was currently making a guest appearance on he didn't hang around to follow anything through.

I went through most of the day feeling ill at ease, although to be fair I was never quite sure if that feeling in my gut was butterflies or just the tail end of a stomach bug that had laid me up early in the week. The bug had definitely left me feeling weaker, which worried me a little. I had heard a lot of horror stories from past White Collar Boxers about the first day of sparring, and how it was too much for some even to the point of them quitting, and I did not want to become the first casualty.

Yep. This was me.

I always was a bit of a casualty-in-waiting at school. Low-income background, with a dad bouncing from job to dole to job to dole; a little scruffy looking, wearing hand-me-down clothes that were usually too big so I could "grow into them"; good grades at school and considered a bit of a swot; generally hopeless at anything sporty; played the violin. When it came to kids likely to be picked on, I was the whole package...

My day at work was one of those "grind" days, the ones where you achieve less than you set out to after seemingly much more effort. I spent the whole day unsettled, and I couldn't work out whether this was due to the lack of sleep, the way things were at work, or a sense of impending doom. Whatever it was, it had me in a pretty foul mood, and as I trudged over to Vanda that evening I once again questioned if I was ready for this.

I knew I was not alone when I felt the buzz of trepidation in the air at the gym. The chatter and banter seemed a bit more nervous and on edge than usual, with conversations that were a curious mix of bravado and self-deprecation. People were sizing each other up to see who they might be pit against, and "what weight are you?" was the question on everyone's lips.

Whilst I remember a few beatings from my childhood, I only really vividly recall one punch. When I was about twelve, another kid I vaguely knew was being picked on by a thuggish oaf I had always been careful to avoid. The bully had his back to me in a tightly packed room or 30-odd kids, and it occurred to me that if gave him a shove to distract him from his prey he would not actually know who it was - so I did. My supposition was correct - the other kid got away and the bully had no idea who had shoved him. Unfortunately he lashed out in fury anyway, and landed a right jab straight into the middle of my face, leaving me with a bloody nose and tears streaming down my cheeks. I never forgot that sting in my nose and the eventual numbness...

Before sparring, a bit of shadow boxing and bag work. My performance is lacklustre, my arms feel heavy, and for the first time since I started training my heart simply isn't in it. I watch a few of the others face off with each other, and then suddenly Coach is nodding in my direction. I walk into the ring to face an opponent I don't even recognise through the protective headgear - it certainly isn't anyone I had anticipated. We touch gloves and get underway...

Neither of us seems to want to throw the first punch, and for the first few seconds we circle each other, until we both crack at the same time and try a couple of jabs that bounce off each other. We both gain a bit of confidence from this and start to swing a little more, at first making very limited contact, until he finds his way past my shoddy defenses and lands one right on my nose. I clearly recall that familiar stinging feeling, but this time no tears - I won't become that casualty. Instead I launch myself right back at him, recklessly dropping my guard in the process and inviting a right hook that causes my legs to give way. I immediately try to regain my feet - "Stay down" shouts Coach.

No backing down!

"Stay down" was a familiar instruction as a kid, and one I was usually happy to comply with. It seemed like the safest option, as only a total psycho was likely to keep pummeling you whilst you were on the ground. I don't know exactly when in my life I stopped staying down, but one of the reasons I don't recall the last punch I received is that I refuse to allow myself to be intimidated in that way. In the end, standing my ground has been a far better defence than curling up into a ball.

Despite the jelly legs I ignored Coach and kept trying to stand. "Stay down", he again ordered, and sense eventually prevailed. That was when he explained the count, and the benefit of taking what little time you are afforded to recover from a knock-down blow. It's not weakness, or an admission of defeat. It's composure, strategy, and if anything, getting back up too quickly would be the indication that I was intimidated, panicky.

Upon the restart I quickly realised that speed was not on my side, so I restrained myself. Instead of going on the attack I waited to parry my opponent's shots, then punched on the counter. He was still maintaining the upper hand, but fewer of his punches were landing and more of mine were making their way through, and by the end I felt like I was holding my own... and, more importantly, I had regained my excitement and passion for what we were doing.

And like my opponent said to me afterwards... yes, getting punched can hurt, but it's still waaay better than doing burpees!