Boxing
Getting punched in the nose hurts. A lot. Your eyes start to water, all the blood rushes to your head, and you’re disoriented in a haze of pain and anger.
My mom, the most aggressive pacifist I know, frequently condemns boxing as an uncivilized, animal-like sport. She says if all I want is to clear my head, I should try something more peaceful, like yoga. But the boxing gym, with its bright fluorescent lighting and pulsating beat of classic rock punctuated by the thappitta thappitta thappitta of pounded speed bags, is where I find my rhythm. It’s alive. And it’s taught me so much more than just how to fight.
The first time I hit a heavy bag, 80% of my understanding of boxing had come from Wii Sports, where a single well-placed nunchuck jab could send a bag flying across the room. And so, the second I walked up to the unassuming bag, vastly underestimating its rigidity, I unleashed the strongest right hook I could muster, aaaaand ended up spraining my wrist. Losing my first bout to a sack of rubber was, I can safely say, a new low. And boxing is full of moments like this, where one wrong move invites a sharp hook that bruises not just your ribs, but your ego. After a while, though, you get used to it; you develop a stronger core, physically and mentally.
It was clear from Day One that I, the lanky, grass-fed vegetarian, would not be fighting in a tournament anytime soon. But oddly enough, this quickly became liberating. In the absence of a “goal”, I was free to learn. I experimented with everything from pressure fighting to out-boxing to even swarming. Boxing became a reminder to enjoy learning for the sake of learning. In Physics, I tried learning astrophysics that wasn’t tested anywhere, but fulfilled my curiosity about space; In Latin, beyond memorizing basic facts about Republican-era comedies for IJCL, I began translating them, and fascinated by how much they revealed about Roman social norms, pursued an Independent Study on the topic.
The immediacy of each decision I make when I box engages my mind in a way few other things can. The constant, repeated feedback loop provided by a sparring session literally and figuratively keeps me on my toes, and trains my mind to think analytically in split-second intervals. The same way I rapidly gauge how my opponent’s weight is shifting, I map out counterarguments in the two minutes I have to prepare a rebuttal in mock appeals. Time crunches on tests or toss-up questions in quiz bowl pale in comparison to the millisecond before you’re struck with a left cross.
In boxing, patience is everything; one well-placed uppercut is worth 20 small jabs. And this idea, to avoid the low-hanging fruit in favor of a better opportunity, has guided how I approach emceeing. When writing material, it’s easy to fall into the trap of coming up with filler punchlines that will generate weak chuckles at best, but to come up with that one joke guests will remember long after the night is over, that takes patience.
Getting punched in the nose still hurts. But I’m convinced there’s more to boxing than just punches and counterpunches. To be able to spar with someone for 3 straight rounds, but then leave the ring as friends, says something profound about us as a species; we’re able to compartmentalize our fundamental instincts and our rational thoughts, without sacrificing either. And it’s our capacity to harbor this duality that makes boxing not just an “animal-like” sport, but rather something we can learn from.