Boxing Autobiography: Sugar Ray’s Smile

Sugar Ray Leonard cast a spell on me as I watched the 1976 Montreal Olympics. That’s right, through that black and white TV sitting on a cheap, tubular, brass-looking, stand. He moved me, a nine year old from the suburbs with a powerful imagination. Beads of sweat charted ticklish routes as I rooted for him with every watt of energy I possessed.

Electrically boosted to the tips of my toes, I was there, in the ring, with my fascinator. There was the shocking, merciless hand speed and the knack for pouncing on vulnerable foes, yet, also, the impish, broad smiles and simple, good-natured eloquence. I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to box. I wanted to be just like Sugar. The dye was cast. One day, many years later, I would climb through the ropes and box.

There, in my dank, dirt basement with low ceilings, I trained. Blue Seal, burlap, grain sacks stuffed with my father’s winter coats and my mother’s handmade afghans severed wonderfully as heavy bags. There was little room to move and dance like Ray, but I made do.

I fought Russians, Bulgarians, Cubans, you name them, under the dim light cast by 100 watt bulbs. I fought brilliantly and courageously, staging many a third round, come from behind victory. True to reality, I even acted out having my head snapped back as a Cuban or Russian snuck in a solid punch–make no mistake, my opponents were worthy. Like Ray, however, I wanted it more. In return for punches received, I offered devilish smiles as the crowd chanted, “USA, USA, USA, USA.” An overt patriotic flavor hung in the air as I grudgingly and grimly mounted comebacks, often choreographed to music from my older brother’s tape player. Aerosmith’s, “Dream On,” or The Electric Light Orchestra’s, “Don’t Bring Me Down,” set a raucous mood for my spine-tingling heroics. Occasionally, the ultimate end to one of these contests occurred.

With Steven Tyler wailing, a smug Cuban is pinned on the ropes, suffering overhand rights and left hooks thrown with deplorable intentions. Against all odds, the miraculous comeback takes shape. Ecstatically, the crowed bellows, begging for a knock out. I fan their furry with each blow. An overhand right lands on the “B” in Blue Seal, also the point of the Cuban’s chin. It is a perfect punch, originating from the toes on my right foot and increasing in power as I rotate my hips and shoulders.

The beautiful, crescendo ending evolves as I turn my mitten clad right hand over just before impact on the sinister Communist’s jaw. Bang! A startling silence fills the damp cellar. Tyler’s raspy voice is suspended. Everything moves in slow motion. The Cuban crumbles before my eyes. Minutes pass, it seems, before he hits the canvas. I don’t look back as I head for the neutral corner. He won’t be getting up, not from that punch. A glorious and rare knockout. Smiling, I wink and say something clever to Sugar, who is commentating at ringside.

Fiction and fact, fantasy and reality were about to meet. Yes, I decided, at 19, to test myself, for, you see, my love and fascination for boxing never faded–not once. In 1976 I was nine years old and Sugar Ray’s smile seared a path into my heart which was going lead me into a boxing ring.

I was an adult, studying English at The University of CT. I had a car. I knew there were boxing gyms in Hartford. I contacted Johnny Duke, a local boxing legend, who ran a gym in The Bellevue Square Housing Project, located in the North End of Hartford. This area was dilapidated, poor, and mostly populated by blacks. I was no racist. What concerned me were the gangs, crime, drive-by shootings, and my complete ignorance of inner-city life. Sugar Ray had put me in a difficult situation. Avoid, repress, rationalize–it was no use. I knew where I needed to go. My fate was sealed in “76. Why hadn’t swimming or equestrian captivated my young heart?

It was July and, after much second guessing, I wound up at Bellevue Square. What I discovered was shocking. Waves of heat radiated from shimmering, broken-glass-covered, asphalt. Rows of brick, bar-windowed, apartments languished on this steamy, black blanket. This was like no place I had ever been. I felt like an astronaut setting foot on some uncharted planet. Dark faces seemed drawn toward me with expressions of cautious curiosity and disbelief. I did not look like a cop or social service agent. Their eyes seemed to ask, “Who the hell is this lost-looking, white boy and what is he doing here?”

I found my way into Johnny Duke’s Gym, a small building with prerequisite heavy bags, mirrored walls, double-ended bags, and a few speed bags. The focal point of the gym was a magnificent elevated ring. A battle worn monument consecrated with spatterings of spit, blood, sweat, and more than a few tears. This ring was the alter where boxers paid tribute to the boxing gods in the form of rough, noggin-knocking, body thumping sparring sessions. The price was high, but unavoidable, if one hoped to be a good boxer.

Duke, an ex-featherweight contender, was friendly. His squashed nose and steely blue eyes left no doubt, this was a man with a big heart. He pointed me to Cisco, the trainer. He was Puerto Rican, but there appeared to be a tinge of Asian blood running through his veins. This gave him a distinctive appearance–a certain quiet, Asian spirituality. Cisco looked at me skeptically. Maybe it was something he saw in my eyes, a doubt, or maybe it was something he did not see, like meanness. Hundreds of guys had come to the gym professing their love and dedication only to disappear.

Cisco was a shrewd man and, as it turned out, maybe he read me right—just another white kid from the suburbs who will probably vanish. The other possibility was maybe he prejudged me. He never expressed any confidence in me. I did everything he asked, full-tilt. This sincere effort paid no dividends. I felt like an outcast. Other fighters ignored me. My reward at the end of a sweaty, 50 minute commute was alienation. Hadn’t I proven I was serious by showing up? I was the only “whiteboy” in the gym, other than “Gentleman” John Scully, a talented young pro (who would later be known by the more familiar “Iceman”). Why wouldn’t someone give me just a little credit? How about an affirmation of my existence? I would have welcomed an insult. I understood Ralph Ellison’s, The Invisible Man, for the first time.

Cisco decided, after several weeks of training, it was time for me to spar. I nodded, trying to conceal my terror from the Puerto Rican Buddha. “Ok, Slim, I think you’re ready to work in the ring. We’ll see what you can do next Toosdey.” I interpreted being called Slim to mean I was nothing. It was like being called headgear or heavy bag. “Toosdey” came. Cisco popped on my headgear and buckled the chin strap. I felt oddly childish, like a little boy being bundled-up to join a snowball fight. I had never worn headgear. My head felt like a heavy, blue pumpkin. I feared my big, blue pumpkin was going to be easy to hit. I received my rinsed mouth piece with same frightened expression of a first grader receiving first Holy Communion. I began to wonder what I was doing there. I might get knocked out, maybe worse. How had I put myself in such a position?

Cisco held out the sparring gloves and I stuck my hands in. He laced them up with the look of a man taking care of business. He could easily have been trimming hedges or tuning-up a car. I was in the throws of a horrible mental battle. My self-confidence and belief in my ability as a boxer were being summarily thrashed by feelings of dread and anxiety. Adding to my distress, the sparring gloves seemed to weigh five pounds each. I had fancied myself quite a dandy as I speedily assaulted the heavy bag with light, six ounce bag gloves. These were heavy, 20 ounces, another matter entirely. I could barely hold them up to protect my pumpkin, that magnificent temple of reason which had placed me in this dire situation.

The boxers in the ring finished. Cisco asked Gentlemen John Scully, to remain in the ring and work a few rounds with “Slim.” I was grateful. John seemed like a nice guy and I was heartened by his moniker. Secretly, I hoped he’d have mercy on a fellow whiteboy.

Cisco smeared a dab of Vaseline over the bridge of my vulnerable Roman nose and cheekbones. He was obviously unaware of my game plan. The Vaseline would not come into play if things went my way. I was going to move and jab. For my first sparring session, I thought it prudent to avoid a slugfest. The buzzer was about to sound, setting my fate in motion. I looked across at John. He was bouncing and loosening his arms with short combination. He had already sparred six or eight rounds. I hoped he was tired but he did not look it. This was it. A voice in my head ridiculed me, “So, you wanna box, well, here you go, tough guy.” Rrrrriinnnggggggggggg!

John lived up to his name and allowed me to dictate the pace. I moved left, then, back to the right, then feinted left and moved right. I was running. Occasionally, I threw a half-hearted jab. I realized the position I was in. This man could hurt me if he wanted to. He was a pro and I had never thrown a punch in anger. Eventually, John tired of my running and easily cut the ring off. He bounced a well-meaning left hook off my head. The blow knocked me off balance. He led me to a corner and threw a double jab and then a modest right hand to the body which landed cleanly. The blow sapped what little energy I had. I clenched him, desperately wanting to avoid another.

I ran until the bell sounded. I was shot, exhausted. I hoped this would be it. Cisco was smiling. I think he enjoyed watching someone’s first sparring session. “Can you go one more, Slim,” he asked, knowing that whatever I said he was going to make me go one more. I might have said, “I don’t know.” I was going one more regardless.

I interpreted his smile as an expression of approval. Maybe, he was thinking, “This whiteboy is pretty tough. He’s got a few balls coming down here and sparring–he’s moving pretty good, too.” Who knows what he was thinking, but I was encouraged. After one round, I realized why boxers love to spar. You are the center of attention. You are the show. I noticed other boxers noticing me, probably for the first time. Cisco suggested I close the gap and throw the right hand behind a double jab. It was great advice but the last thing I wanted to do was hit him with a right hand and turn him into something other than “Gentleman” John. I decided, if I could muster the energy, I would do more of the same.

Round two was proceeding nicely until Cisco began impatiently yelling, “Get closer and throw the right hand.” I knew, if I could hear him, so could John. Throwing the right hand, now, would get me a counter left hook. I passed. Realizing I was a reluctant combatant, he began yelling to John to cut the ring off. I wished he would shut-up. He caught me easily. My legs felt heavy, sopped with hot blood. My lungs were burning. I knew I could not avoid him and, surprisingly, a sense of shame welled-up in me for my cowardly running. I backed into a corner, hands high and waited for him to pummel me. Several hooks crashed into my gloves and another clean body punch. Luckily, an uppercut, which might have done some serious damage, whistled by my nose.

I locked him up, feeling a little better after taking a few shots. Completely exhausted, more from fear than anything else, I moved for the rest of the round, catching an occasional jab or hook. The round ended. Scully and I rapped gloves. It was over. I staggered back to Cisco. “You okay?” he asked smiling. He knew I was okay. He had seen thousands of sparring sessions and this one may have been the least violent. “You did all right. We’ll keep working with you. Your gonna get better–it takes time,” he said in a tender voice. As he unshackled me, I was entertaining ideas of never coming back.

I never did. I finished school, earning a B.A. in English. Throughout my twenties I often reflected on what took place at Duke’s gym. Sometimes, I gave myself credit for having the cajones to venture into the North End and spar, and sometimes I felt like I was avoiding unfinished business. Like an unscratchable itch, however, the thought of climbing through the ropes and boxing dogged me.

I watched amateur boxing on TV, paying close attention to the boxers’ ages. Some were as old as I. Maybe, all was not lost. I was a moth and boxing the flame. I couldn’t resist the sport. Even though I feared the sparring and was the furthest thing from a mean person, I wanted to climb back into a boxing ring. I longed to move, slip punches, and throw combinations. Sugar reached me through that black and white TV. I would have to surrender to this impulse or be driven mad. Do you want to be thrilled? Do what you fear most. Maybe this was it.

I read about The Connecticut and Western Mass. Golden Gloves tournament in 1996. I learned there was a gym in Manchester, closer to me than Hartford, which had sent several boxers to the tournament. One of the boxers was my age, 30. I was ignited. I was back on the path with the light from Sugar Ray’s smile leading the way. It was unavoidable. I made a few calls and there I was at the Manchester PAL boxing gym. Lo and behold, there was Cisco. He remembered me. I was flattered for it had been almost ten years. I told him I wanted to compete in The Golden Gloves. It was late July and the tournament began in January. I had five months to get in shape.

I lifted weights in the morning, trained at the gym in the afternoon, and ran three miles at night. I also worked a full-time job before, after, and in-between the training. I sparred again. I was nervous, after all, I had a grand total of two rounds of sparring under my belt. Just as before, I found myself standing in the ring decked out in sparring attire, wondering what I was doing there. I sparred tentatively. “I know you got a jab and I know you can move,” Cisco said, “now let’s see you put some punches together.” I became more brave and tried to land combinations.

One day a strong, novice boxer, a lawyer by trade, with skills comparable to mine provided me with a much needed reality check. Cisco decided we would be good sparring partners. We sparred. I threw a double jab and overhand right. The right hand fell short and I left myself open as I bent at the waist. I found out his best punch was a right uppercut. I never saw it. I felt a stunning shock to my jaw and a flash of light. I blinked and was on my butt. I bounced up and walked to my corner. The trainer asked me if I wanted to continue. I did. I finished the round and opted to pass on round three.

Cisco added to my distress by joking with the other boxers about a much anticipated rematch between the lawyer and me. On the ride home I entertained ideas of quitting–of stepping off the path. I rationalized this stance, figuring I had a lot going for me. I was pursuing a teaching career. Did I really need to take heavy punches to my head? For what? To prove what to whom? My mean inner-voice jumped at this opportunity. Dripping with two parts disappointment and one part contempt, the voice proclaimed, “To prove that you have the courage, the balls, to compete in the ring like you have always wanted to do since you were a foolish child, that’s what for.” The voice was tired of coddling me, “Either you want to do it, or you don’t. Make up your goddam mind and get on with your life.”

A few days later we had our rematch. Cisco made sure everyone in the gym knew this was a rematch, no, a grudge match, and that I was looking for revenge. I wasn’t looking for revenge. I was looking to go three rounds without getting hit with the attorney’s uppercut. We boxed three close rounds. I asked the trainer who won. He said it was close. I felt proud. I was beginning to understand how sweet the fruits of boxing could be. I sensed the other boxers respected me for showing up to spar again after being knocked down. Some even had words of praise for me as I climbed out of the ring. There is a delightful sense of relief after sparring. Having proved our toughness, the attorney and I sat, stretching and talking with an air of good humor and mutual respect. For the first time in my life, I was beginning to understand boxing. I was back on the path.

Just as I was beginning to develop a rhythm, Cisco informed me he was leaving to work at another gym. I was disappointed. I liked Cisco for reasons that were not altogether clear. He was an excellent trainer and motivator, for one, and I had faith in him. Although I had never talked to him about it, I had heard he was once a featherweight contender. I had anticipated entering the ring in January with him in my corner. He had years of experience and I knew he was one of the best trainers around. I thought about bagging the whole idea, again. Cisco suggested training in Willimantic, my home town. I looked into it and renewed an acquaintance with Harry Figueroa, the manager of the gym. I was about to embark on a hell of a journey.

Harry, or “Ahri” as I like to call him, just like his Spanish friends, was a man like no other. I had known him casually for 10 years. As a young man, he had a reputation as a tough street boxer. Rumor had it he walked the streets of Willimantic with a pair of boxing gloves hanging from his neck. He fought anyone, anytime, anywhere and more often than not he walked away the winner.

I first met Harry shortly after I abandoned training in Hartford. We both worked at the local Shoprite. One day we talked and discovered our mutual interest in boxing. Harry suggested we work out together, the implication being I was the student and he the teacher. He taught me unorthodox techniques. Strange, unheard of theories on boxing sprung from his personal study of human anatomy and from his tutelage as a corner man in Puerto Rico. Harry had been hit by a galloping horse at age 10.

This event, according to him, had thrown his body’s alignment off. He studied the human skeletal system and read books on chiropractic techniques. Amazingly he righted himself and was in striking physical condition. From his intimate knowledge of human anatomy he developed his unique theories on boxing.

“You it a man in da shoulder, ere, and pretty soon he will have problem in the lower back, see what I’m sayin,” Harry said intensely as we trained in the basement of his housing complex apartment. Harry ended most sentences with, “See what I’m sayin.” “You turn your fis like dis an “it da the man wit dees two knuckles and you knock im out, see what I’m sayin.” If you were having problems with your right shoulder, then, according to Harry, it was related to weak abdominals and a tight lower back. A pain in your left deltoid could be related to a corn on your right big toe.

Harry could refer you to life size human skeletal and musculature diagrams hanging on his basement wall if you were skeptical. “See, right ere,” he said pointing to the chart zealously. “If you strengthen dees muscle and stretch dees over ere, then your shoulder will loosen up, see what I’m sayin.” Sometimes I didn’t. I was a respectful, unquestioning student. We got along just fine. Eventually we drifted apart, occasionally chatting when we would run into each other around town. I liked Harry and I think he liked me.

Now, 10 years later we were back together. Harry had the gym he dreamed of and I was training to realize my dream. Time passed and January inevitably arrived. I was in fantastic shape. I trimmed down to 165 pounds from a solid 185. I had been faithfully doing roadwork. Subzero temperatures, ice, snow, or rain, it did not matter; I did my roadwork. Sometimes the foul weather served to inspire me. I wondered if my competitors were working so diligently. Harry worked hard trying to turn me into a fighter. I silently filtered out the techniques that did not make sense to me and practiced the ones that did. He was fond of saying, “Crees, move your ed or somebody gonna move it for you.”

The week before the Golden Gloves tournament I was a wreck. At one point I cried. What was I getting myself into? Here we go again. I was imposing this boxing torture on myself, again. There was some part of my psyche determined to make me face my demons–determined to keep my on the path.

During moments of weakness, I suspected the other competitors would be much more skillful and experienced. I wondered if this big, regional tournament was a wise choice for my first match. I sensed Harry was nervous, too. He confessed he had never run a corner by himself in a tournament of this magnitude. He tried to enlist experienced help but was unsure if he could find anyone. I had committed to his boxing tournament and was determined to follow through. I would not quit like I had done in Hartford. My girlfriend was supportive. She suggested that it would be better to travel to Holyoke, Mass. and take a beating, than to back out now. Oddly, this comforted me.

The fateful day arrived. The other trainer did not show up. Harry and I would go it alone. I checked my weight, 164 pounds. It was on. Harry talked about his pastel-dappled childhood in Puerto Rico as we traveled the hour and a half to Holyoke, Mass… Stories of lessons learned working in sugarcane fields, boxing, his wild uncles, and an amusing tale of being treed by rotten-apple-drunken cows.

We arrived early and I began serving a hellacious term of waiting. There was some controversy. Harry had arranged for someone from USABoxing, Inc to deliver my license to Holyoke. One could not box without it. I secretly prayed this person would not arrive. I imagined looking disappointed when the “bad news” came. Harry and I would grab a seat upstairs, munch popcorn, and watched the show. It would be a way out with self-respect. No such luck. The man arrived and acted as though he were doing me a huge favor. I had my license. I would compete tonight.

I weighed in and took a physical. The other competitors looked young. They were. I was one of the oldest boxers there. I scrutinized the fighters in my weight class. Some didn’t look so tough and some did. I sat in the lime-green, tiled locker room in the bowels of the Holyoke Boys and Girls Club for four agonizing hours. Johnny Duke wrote the nights’ matches on a portable blackboard. I would be boxing someone named Sanchez from Holyoke. I discovered later that the worst draw you can get is a local, Holyoke boxer. The hometown crowd roots wildly for them and the organizers try to match them with an easy opponent for their first match. The easy opponent was I, the scared looking whiteboy with no fights.

As I waited, I surreptitiously took note that two boxers headed up to the arena and two came back down. Of the two coming back, one was invariably flushed, having feasted on victory, and one was dazed and dejected, the victim of a startling collision between reality and a dream. Earlier, I had chatted with a 139 pound boxer while waiting for our physicals. This was his first match, too, and he admitted his nervousness. This conversation was a relief to me. I watched him stagger into the locker room in his cornerman’s arms. Blood trickled from his nose and his face looked pale. He slumped to a bench and his distraught trainer massaged ice into the back of his neck. This was the most touching pieta ever. Jesus Christ could not have looked more innocent than the 139 pounder.

His trainer, a stout, middle-aged black gentleman, perhaps an ex-boxer, attended to his lamb with Virgin Mary-like tenderness. Was this a sign from God? I considered immediately running out of the arena. I tried in vain to think of a way out. There were no plausible excuses, except admitting my cowardice. “Willimantic, 165 pounds, Romano,” yelled the petulant man in charge of organizing the flow of combatants. He handed Harry a pair of gloves. My heart skipped a beat. I felt weak. This was really going to happen. That nasty voice arose, “So, you wanna box? Well, here you go.”

Harry wrapped my hands and laced my gloves. They were 10 ounces. My punch would land with force and so would my opponent’s. Harry pulled my long sleeved sweatshirt over my head. The sleeves stuck around the gloves. Harry pulled harder, knocking me off balance and drawing peoples’ attention. Were we a well prepared boxing team or a vaudeville act? I was a fool being led to slaughter and this proved it. Harry procured a pair of scissors and cut the sleeves amidst some laughter.

Headgear, competition gloves, mouthpiece, and satin boxing trunks, I was up next. I was scared s***less. “Romano, 165 pounds, Willimantic, your up,” said the fluster faced organizer. Harry led the way up several flights of stairs to the edge of the packed arena. There was still a fight going on in the ring. I could sense people looking at me. They were enjoying themselves, smiling and eating hot dogs. I was going to be their entertainment. The fight in the ring ended with a knockout. My time had come. The end of the path was in sight.

Just before we were about to make our way to the ring there was a surprise. Harry, unbeknownst to me, had enlisted the aid of Cisco, who was managing several fighters in the tournament. As luck would have it, he had this slot open and agreed to work my corner. Drowning in a sea of anxiety, this was a bit of relief. As I jogged through the crowd I felt eerily detached, as if I were dreaming all of this. I repeated over and over, “Let’s go, Chris!” and, “Come on, Chris, come on, Chris!”

When my opponent entered the ring, the crowed roared. I wasn’t sure why at the time. He looked tough. He was taller than I, maybe 6’1, and had long tattooed arms. He looked angry. Harry walked me to the center of the ring, massaging my arms and neck. We tapped gloves. He scowled at me and I walked back to the corner to await the bell. “Keep your hands up, double-jab, and throw the right hand over the top,” Cisco said out of the corner of his mouth. This was the same advice he had given me ten years ago.

The buzzer sounded and my opponent charged across the ring as if I had just spat in his mother’s face. I ducked under an overhand right which was intended to end this match early. Instinctively, I locked him up. His face was inches from mine. Contorted in an expression I will never forget he hissed, “Let go! let go!” I did not and he was not strong enough to break my hold. I think this troubled him. The crowd was cheering wildly for this promised to be an exciting fight. The referee separated us and sent each back to his corner. He warned me not to hold and warned my opponent for something, too. “Box,” commanded the referee.

During training I considered myself a pretty boxer with a strong jab, however my opponent was taller and had longer arms than I. I decided to come to him. We exchange jabs. The crowd roared every time he threw a punch. He landed and overhand right late in the round and I finished with a few chopping right hands. I walked back to the corner feeling like a barbarian.

Cisco bounded into the ring and had the stool ready while I was still three paces away. Mouthpiece out and cold water over the top of my head. He extended my legs out from the stool which seem to provide a surprising relief. “This guy is shot,” Cisco sneered. I wondered if he was not using reverse psychology. “This guy is shot,” he repeated more emphatically. “Don’t you quit,” he said looking me dead in my face. “Don’t you quit, cause this guy is shot, you hear me.” His words encouraged me. For the first time, I though I could win.Harry massaged my calves and arms. I was ready for round two.

I pursued my opponent around the ring, jabbing and trying to land overhand rights to the head and body. It was violent. He grunted and fired punches at me. I tried to block or slip them and fired punches back at him. We both were straining, huffing, puffing, and struggling. It was raw, ugly, combat. Midway through the round I sensed he was tired. He put his hands at his side a few times and, instead of punching back, he began covering up. Although I was feeling exhausted, his apparent weakness incited me and I tried to press my advantage. Maybe all the roadwork was paying-off.

I landed my best punch of the match, a straight left hand which he walked into. His head snapped back and the crowed erupted. I tried to follow up with short, chopping punches but he grabbed me around the waist and would not let go. The referee warned him for holding and broke us. I continued my aggression knowing he was tired. He landed an uppercut and I landed a jab. I followed up with a barrage of punches and he held again. The referee took a point away from him.

Exhausted, he drifted to a corner, holding his left low and his right high. It was a trap. He was trying to catch his breath while keeping me at bay with his threatening right hand. I was wary, but I also wanted to press him. I feinted a few time with my jab, then threw a double jab and an overhand right. He slipped my right hand and landed the punch he wanted, his overhand right. I had never been hit so hard in my life. My head snapped back and the crowd exploded. I thought for sure I would receive a standing eight count. I continued to move forward and finished the round exchanging punches at close range.

The bell sounded and I walked back to the corner a bit dazed. I was exhausted. Cisco shot some cold water over my head. Again he shouted, “This guy is shot.” I felt shot. “Don’t you quit,” he sneered pointing a finger in my face. He obviously felt I was going to quit. I was exhausted but was not thinking of quitting. Just before the bell rang to begin the final round Cisco said, “That’s it. He quit. You won.” It didn’t register at first. It is hard describe how I felt at that moment. Like the lucky, sole, survivor of a plane crash. All the anxiety and stress was over now. I had acquitted myself well. I couldn’t have been any more proud at that moment. I couldn’t have been any higher. I repeated, “Hell, yeah,” over and over again in a stupid, unconscious way. I hugged Harry and thanked Cisco. I walked out through the crowd and strangers were shaking my hand. People were looking at me with admiration. I had done battle.

I was a boxer for the first time in my life and I was smiling like Sugar Ray in 76.

A note from the author: I currently teach high school English, a job I really like, and I remain a big boxing fan. I should note that the match I refer to in the story was a quarter-final match. I eventually experienced a humiliating loss in the finals. Maybe that experience would make for an interesting story, too, because I think about it as often as I do my victory. In the end I’m okay with how my boxing drama played-out. It went down the way it was supposed to.

Chris Romano