Slate's Bizbox
dispatches: Notes from different corners of the world.

Dispatches From the Golden Gloves

dispatches
entries
123

Boxing Queen

Posted Wednesday, March 6, 2002, at 12:54 PM ET

Nan Mooney is an amateur boxer fighting in her first Golden Gloves tournament. She's also the author of My Racing Heart: The Passionate World of Thoroughbreds and the Track.

I did it. Last night I fought in the Golden Gloves. And I learned something rather unexpected. Hard though it is to admit, I think I may actually be growing up. In the six minutes I spent in the ring, I discovered that win or lose really doesn't matter. It's all about the process.

That said, last night I could have done with a little less processing. Every woman who'd entered the Gloves was instructed to report to the Bronx Police Athletic League at 6:15 sharp. Francine and I showed up just before 6, having actually experienced no train delays whatsoever (perhaps God's little way of helping us out).

We then proceeded to wait for the next four and a half hours.

First, we waited outside, on possibly the coldest day of the year, until someone unlocked the back door. They led us downstairs to a giant, unheated classroom with a full wall of mirrors, providing ample opportunity to check out what seriously nervous really looks like.

Around 6:30 we lined up and began waiting to get weighed in. Everyone stripped down to her skivvies. (The experienced boxers of course had worn sporty underthings. The rest of us picked up lesson No.1.) Only after we'd shed almost everything did we notice the clumps of coaches and officials lingering outside the glass panels on either side of the door. I was near the back of the line, leaving plenty of time to convince myself I'd magically gained 5 pounds overnight. Word drifted back that the scale was reading light, a good thing since each number was announced loud and clear to the entire room. Fortunately, I tipped the scales at a mere 135. Totally safe. Bring on the Gatorade.

Post weigh-in, we formed a new line. Now we got to wait to see the doctor. Finally free to eat, fighters wolfed down lasagna, Slimfast shakes, and all variety of powerbars. An official came in and announced that we all had to take a drug test. We had half an hour to produce a beaker full of pee, or we were out of the tournament. Fortunately, I never seem to have trouble in this department.

Later, while we were still waiting for the doctor, another official appeared to let us know that, yes, some of us would be fighting tonight. I figured this meant me, since 139 was the most populated weight class. They'd tell us who fought after the scales closed at 7:45. The fights started at 8.

Have I mentioned that at this point I was so nervous my legs were actually shaking? I blitzed right through the usual fears—what if I get tired? what if I look stupid?—and started right in on the deeply neurotic stuff. What if I discover I'm a coward? Is it possible I don't possess a killer instinct after all? Why do I come up against the same things in the ring that I face everywhere else—the urge to play it safe, to not overstep my bounds?

Such downward spiraling was interrupted by perhaps the highlight of the night, the drug test. If you've never experienced performance anxiety, just try this. Enter a public restroom. Remove all clothing containing pockets and bring absolutely nothing with you, except a large plastic cup. Select a stall next to the front door. Leave the stall door open. Recruit a complete stranger to stand there and watch you. Now pee. Clobbering someone was going to be a breeze.

I got back to the classroom to learn that I would in fact be fighting. I changed, then trooped off to the boxing office where we waited again, this time for our draw. I wound up paired against a smallish but tough looking Brooklyn girl. At this point, I finally found Colin in the hallway and we went back to the classroom. They posted the order of bouts. I was fighting 13th. They were currently on bout No. 4.

More Gatorade. More nerves. More waiting.

Finally, someone came downstairs and summoned us up into a loud, sweltering gymnasium. I was issued regulation 10-ounce gloves, a Daily News tank top, and a blue terrycloth robe. As I watched the next two fights, a relative calm settled in. I was ready for this. I felt strong. I could even breathe. The bout before mine ended. I trotted along the linoleum floor, up the steps, and into the ring. Colin kept smiling. "Go kick some ass," he told me. The bell rang.

A lot can happen in six minutes.

I saw things about myself. I don't commit. I land a punch and am out of there so fast that I don't get any force behind it. I make sure I'm defensively covered before I chance any offensive move. I prefer the counterpunch to the attack.

I also focus instead of panic. I have the presence of mind to strategize even with the world passing lickety-split. I threw two rights that nearly knocked her over. I took some hits, but nothing that rattled me in the least. I liked this not caring whether I turned bloody or bruised. It was almost as freeing as the ability to punch.

Believe it or not, I had time to think about all of this. I didn't get tired. I could even breathe. (I'm starting a campaign to have my acupuncturist canonized.)

Then it was over. The final bell rang. We hugged. I had no idea whether I'd lost or won and, frankly, I didn't care. I'd done it. I know now that I can get in there and fight. I won't run away. I have a trace of what was once a warrior's pride. I think that must be a good thing.

But of course boxing is boxing. Outcome matters. And the outcome was, I lost. But only by one point. Afterward, complete strangers came up to me and told me I'd been robbed. Colin even complained to the officials. But unfortunately, this isn't the Olympics. The outcome stands.

Apparently I was the victim of a bum decision.

So now I guess I really am a boxer.

dispatches
entries
123

Boxing Queen

Posted Wednesday, March 6, 2002, at 12:54 PM ET
Print This ArticlePRINTDiscuss this in The FrayDISCUSSEmail to a FriendE-MAIL
Share on FacebookPost to MySpace!Share with MixxDigg ThisShare with RedditShare with del.icio.usShare with FurlShare with Ma.gnolia.comShare with SphereShare with Stumble Upon
Nan Mooney is an amateur boxer fighting in her first Golden Gloves tournament. She's also the author of My Racing Heart: The Passionate World of Thoroughbreds and the Track.
Join the Fray: our reader discussion forum
What did you think of this article?
POST A MESSAGE | READ MESSAGES
Washington Post
The Washington Post
OPINIONS
Imagine if...
Hiatt | What if McCain had waged his campaign based on respect?
Editorial: Meddlesome PalinKing: The Danger of Palin Power