Please whatever you do, do not tell my mother. I feel safe blogging as she can barely operate her dvd player never mind use an online search engine to google her daughter.
Okay. I confess. I box.
No this isn’t boxercise, bop to the oldies Jane Fonda aerobics wannabe shiitake but actually mouth piece, wrapped hands, headgear, bell rings- hope-you-don’t-get-your-bell-rung hardcore amateur boxing.
Yes that is me bobbing in the grey sweatshirt.
How did a left wing mellow pacifist scribe end up studying the sweet science? It started in the place known for bad in sync queer dance moves, the YMCA. However I quickly upgraded to Bloor Boxing, a dirty, little gym in the west side that’s membership runs the gamut from IT geeks to Bell commercial actors to world champions. They did finally reno the floors, so nails no longer gash my hands while doing push ups. S’allrigh.
Boxing has taken me places. Places like Orangeville, Brampton and Sarnial. Places where parents cheer at their kids to beat the crap out of other kids. Places filled with EMT workers, cops and prison guards. Places filled with shifty-eyed promoters, back door bets, bad beer and skank locker rooms. Yes I am living the secret life of the Million Dollar Blonde… but hopefully with a happier ending.
How did I go from drop-in classes to canvass poundings?
Obviously without much thought. Rick Souce approached me at the gym. “You’re good. You want to spar?” Sure. Sure I did until he marched me in the ring with some 200lb Russian dude. “Just jab her.” Ow. That hurt. But I survived three rounds and we set up a schedule. Who is Rick Souce, you ask?
In the boxing world being coached by Rick makes me vicariously cool. He fought on the same card as Lennox Lewis. Heck he went toe-to-toe with Hector “Macho” Camacho. “Rick is your coach? No shit. How did that happen?” At fights people swarm around him, reminisce about the good ol’days, want pictures and autographs, pat his back and offer free drinks. People eye me like I am somebody. Like I am a contender. After all Rick is my coach. I have them all fooled until I fight.
I am far from being a stinging bee or floating butterfly. I am more of a hybrid between the two – I’m like a West Nile Mosquito – a deadly prick that can be easily squished by one swift swat of your palm.
Rick trains us for free. Our motley team consists of Junmar, a rabbit-fast puncher with a head of steel, Alex, who claims he acquired his fancy footwork by dodging pots tossed by his Mexican mother, and Mikhail, a Muslim composer whose knees stubbornly never buckle. “Yo yo Lynne, what up?” They are now like my older brothers. Brothers who let me beat them up. Well kind of. It’s hard to find a sparring date in my weight class so the boys let me chase them around the ring, huffing and puffing, hoping to blow their houses down. But I rarely make a dent.
Injuries? Yes I have had three black eyes and got the “poor dear” look from women who assume I’m pulling a ‘Rihanna’. Yes I’ve broken my nose but luckily it fixed my deviated septum that Zahid caused in an ice-sliding collision in primary school – so really it was cheap plastic surgery. And yes, the headguard only protects you from cuts and not the impact of the punch. What does getting punched in the head feel like? Um, it hurts.
Boxing is control. A gloved ballet. It requires strength, agility, cardio, explosive speed and three rounds can exhaust you more than running a marathon in cement shoes. It requires the ability not to blink when someone pops you square in the kisser.
I love it.
However for the last two years I could not for the life of me pinpoint exactly why I willingly put my head in the way of someones fist… until a conversation with ace editor Gareth Scales. When you box, you don’t think. There is no time. Each move your muscles are reacting from memory. If you know me, my brain never shuts off. Suffering from insomnia, what little coveted sleep I have is filled with twisted Escher painting night terrors caused from over active brain waves.
So boxing gives my brain a few minutes off. A vacation from the world. A six minute nap, per say. So for now I box. I am the boxing scribe.
Err, but hopefully that nap never turns into lights out forever 
