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Dispatches From the Golden Gloves

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Killer Arms on 3,500 Calories a Day

Posted Tuesday, March 5, 2002, at 11:56 AM 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 spent this afternoon like I spend most afternoons, at the gym. Pre-fight day meant some light training—including four rounds practicing the first three punches I'll throw when I get in the ring tomorrow night—and gathering all my gear. I also ran this morning, hoping for a little head and lung clearing. I don't know if it worked.

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Gleason's is housed on the second floor of a warehouse tucked under the Brooklyn Bridge. In the summer, you can spot it by the rows of red boxing gloves hanging out the half-open windows to dry. In the winter, the heat stays cranked up so boxers in plastic suits get a little help trying to sweat off weight. There are three rings, plus a fourth taken up by a pro-wrestling school. (Prime entertainment is watching some lone apprentice wrestler practice belly-flop after belly-flop on the ring's padded floor.) Every other inch is covered in saggy canvas heavy bags, outdated weight machines, and aspiring fighters doing their thing.

My weekly training schedule goes something like this: three morning runs, four days at the gym for two to three hours—a mix of sparring, bag work, pad work, abs and push-ups, skipping rope—plus an additional day of either weights or yoga. That seems to be all my body can take, and sometimes it can't even take this. On the plus side, I have serious arm muscles for the first time in my life.

My gym family revolves around my trainer, Colin, and my training partner, Francine. Colin's a former pro boxer from Guyana. I once asked him what it felt like to get knocked out, just so I'd be prepared, and he told me he doesn't know because it never happened to him. I figure that's a good quality in a trainer. Without Colin, I'd still look like a complete fool. He's incredibly patient, though he does yell a lot when we're in the ring. My favorite is when he starts screaming, "Don't get hit!" As if I'm doing it on purpose …

Francine and I have been together since Day 1. Our partnership is kind of a gym joke—I'm 5 foot 11 and she's 5 foot 1—but by now we're completely codependent. We work together, complain together, strategize, suffer, ruminate. Our family comes complete with all the usual dysfunctional dynamics. Colin plays us against each other, a game we've dubbed "the princess and the chicken." I can do no wrong, she can do no right. The upshot is that both of us wind up doing anything just to keep him pleased. I think the hardest part about losing tomorrow would be facing Colin.

While we're showering, Francine and I discuss what to eat before the fight. Food is one of our main topics of conversation. I'm pretty much always hungry, or at least never full. She and I are constantly tweaking, searching out more energy. How much protein do we need? How many carbs? Which are better, Balance, Cliff, or Luna Bars? (For the record, I go for Cliff, peanut butter-chocolate chip.) I eat somewhere between 3,000 and 3,500 calories a day, more than a teen-age boy. I try not to worry about amounts—though I have to admit sometimes the sheer volume scares me—but almost everything that goes in has serious nutritional value.

Thank God I don't need to drop weight for this fight. A lot of the women are trying to come down anywhere from 2 to 10 pounds. I have to say I don't quite see the logic to this, showing up fight night shaky and dehydrated. Francine is working out in three layers of clothes and living on chicken and grapefruit. I've already vowed NEVER to do this. I walk around at 139, so that's where I'll fight. That said, I do plan on limiting water consumption before tomorrow's weigh-in, just in case.

Being an athlete again has totally revamped my relationship to my body. In boxing, weight is a good thing. The more you have, the more power behind your punches. Being tall and thin like I am can be good, you have a long reach so you can hit your opponent before she can touch you, but the weight is also spread thin so you're not as powerful. I'm going to work on building more muscle. Strong is pretty cool. It gives you confidence. I feel more inclined to take risks.

Of course my quest to become a modern Amazon would work much better if I weren't completely exhausted 90 percent of the time. I think the biggest fear about Tuesday (after the breathing thing) is getting tired. I've discovered some of that typical athlete stuff—you can push yourself and rise to the challenge—but I've also realized that it's entirely possible to push myself right over the ledge. I've trained until my body gets so tired it can't recover. I'm sure this is an age thing. A few weeks ago a journalism student came to the gym for a story about women boxers. One of the first questions she asked Colin was whether Francine and I were too old to fight. His answer was diplomatic, but I think I can paraphrase. Of course we are, but what the hell.

For anyone thinking boxing is cool, let me clear up a few things. I need around eight hours of sleep a night. Less than that and I'm a wreck. My alcohol consumption has been reduced to the occasional weekend beer … so much for raucous parties. I spend most evenings like I spent tonight, hand-washing workout clothes, cooking dinner, and catching up on e-mails. Money goes to gym dues, training, gear, organic food. I also buy lots of socks.

My social life has gone down the toilet, something I plan to remedy somewhat once the Gloves are over. My friends all think I'm crazy. Aren't I supposed to be doing this boxing thing for fun? I halfway think they're right. What am I doing? Isn't human connection more important than knocking the hell out of a canvas bag? Of course payoff comes in the form of mastery, embodying just a sliver of the grace, elegance, and power possible in this sport. A year in my life seems a legitimate sacrifice.

And it's all been leading up to tomorrow night.

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