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The ref didn't care, he didn't call either trip, didn't call anything on her, even when she tried to sweep me again. I figured she wants to fight this way, go for it, so I let her lean in to sweep me and as I swung back, I grabbed her shirt. Pulling her into me fast as I tipped, she stabilized me the second my fist hit her right on the nose. My momentum plus her momentum plus the speed of my damned fist going God knows how fast, that's one big ouch.
Three rounds went by with me pulling her in, popping her hard, and letting her go. Three rounds of my corner man telling me I was losing when I knew damned well I was winning. Three rounds of her pushing, pulling, tripping and cheating her way through the fight. They went by so quickly the ref almost had to pull me off her, almost had to cut us apart because she was swimming and about to fall. I wanted a K.O. so bad I would have paid the thousand to down her.
It all came down to the judges' call. They rated us on a particular system. She knew the judges, I didn't. She got her hand raised, I didn't. She was coated in a thin sheen of her own blood, I had only a bruise, the size of a quarter, on my arm. I was cheated. Not just of the thousand, but of the victory, the recognition, the screams of the crowd. I felt like the worth had been sucked out of my three minutes, my three fighting rounds. I was ashamed, not because I'd lost, but because I hadn't and someone I couldn't control was telling me I had.
As we left the ring, the place erupted in booing, yelling, cursing. They weren't applauding, they didn't cheer for the other woman. The judges went for her, but apparently the crowd preferred Sam "The Cannibal" Gellar. They booed the winner offstage.
Soon afterward, Greg was disqualified due to excessive blood loss. It was the only reason he ever lost. His nose turned on like a faucet and the fight had to end. We left together, taking the ride back to Roanoke and Hollins.
For weeks, all across West Virginia, people had thought I won the women's Toughman competition and I was congratulated several times for winning despite the judges' ruling.
I continued to fight with the professors and Greg in the Hollins gym. We fought at least once a week. We tried to bring in new members, some women, some graduate level men, all of them creative writers who ran from our ferocity, shied from the feeling of limb against head. We kept our group together for another year, until I left for the birth of my son, giving up my dangerous habits for the new role of "mom."
I remember those days with happiness. We walked away from those fights proud of ourselves and each other just for making it through a fight. Amped up on adrenalin and padded with ice packs, we walked out of the Hollins University gym as if we owned the whole damned city of Roanoke, because for a moment we did. At least to each other. We became kings, gladiators, we recessed back to tribal prehistory and displayed aggression, pure and simple, to our own private audience. It felt so damned good, too. And if one of us broke his nose, or blackened an eye, we'd brag all week, showing off, letting the campus see the temporary tattoos of honor we gained in the ring.
Boxing to me became a certain way of life, a way of living with the bullshit and excuses and two-faced existence that comes from studying the liberal arts. For all the beauty in the arts, there's a lot of crap too, and boxing cut through it. You can't finesse a stream of snotty blood, you can't hide a shiner, and if you do, it's because you're ashamed. Boxing showed through in my life as a point of honesty when I was living the generally less-than-sincere life of a college student. Throughout assignments I found vapid and vacant, I had my vivid bruises, my vivacious battles, my vigorous losses and victories. I had a clear, unquestionable element in my life that guided me through the haziness of learning who I was, and I clung to it with every last punch. I hate to say it, but in those last couple years of higher education, I may have learned more by being pummeled by professors than I did studying any of their texts.
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Calendar
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Talent @ Headliners Uptown Charlotte -
Spring Art & Craft Festival @ Native American Studies Center
- Sat., May 17, 9 a.m.-4 p.m.
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Mental Health Fair with Brunch & Coffee @ Matthews United Methodist Church
- Sat., May 17, 9 a.m.-12 p.m.
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Reptile & Amphibian Day @ The Schiele Museum of Natural History and Planetarium
- Sat., May 17, 10 a.m.-4 p.m.
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Secret Gardens of Fourth Ward @ Historic Fourth Ward
- Sat., May 17, 12-4 p.m. and Sun., May 18, 12-4 p.m.
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Fed takes aim at overdraft fees, credit card rates 2
Nickel and dimed
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Body Talk
The skinny on weight and the media
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Summer Happenings
