JUSTIN'S MATCH
The sun reached zenith, high noon, before the day's matches even started. The first fight was an hour late, but the one thing predictable about local boxing club smokers is that they never start on time. For the boxers, the day started much earlier with weigh-in, last minute match making for no-shows, and preparation. Then came the inevitable wait. Its the wait that gets to you. All the boxers milled about in the training room of the local health club sponsoring the event. They segregated by boxing club, five groups in all, each identified by the club logos the fighters wear on their jerseys. No interaction between clusters. After all, the other guys are the ones you have to fight in a little while. It's not that you're unfriendly. After all, you have sparred with many of these guys. That's just the way it is. Its the wait that gets to you.
The coastal fog that seems to cling to the California hillsides rapidly burned off. It got warm, then it got hot. The spectators would buy a lot of cold bottled water to slake their thirsts. A great day for the community festival, but it can be a bit hard on the boxers. For the first time in its decade and a half history, the festival included a demonstration put on by the community boxing club. A chance for the hometown athletes to show their skill and a chance for the hometown crowd to show their appreciation.
As usual, the bouts go on by weight class. There are some advantages to being lighter or younger. The wait, which can act as an acid on your confidence, is shorter. You are lucky, you don't wait alone. You have the support of your fellow boxers, some of whom came down to lend support, others of whom won't fight because their opponent didn't show. You watch fighters leave the room to get gloved up, ten or twelve ounce mitts depending on the weight division of the fighters. In the ring, time goes fast, in the wings, it goes slow-second-by-slow-second.
Today, many in the crowd waits to cheer for their favorite fighter. In my case, its Justin. I have known this soon-to-be-16-year-old for a number of years. He is a good competitve fighter who is always at the gym when I stop by. If he's not working, he's training, if he's not training, he's coaching. This kid is an all around talent. I know. During a sparring session a few months ago, he caught me with a right to the solar plexus that reminded me how fond I am of breathing. Its something you take for granted until your the punch evacuates your lungs and your left sucking air.
He's tall, which camouflages his status as a light heavyweight. Fighting out of the red corner, wearing black and white trunks and the grey jersey, he enters the ring without fanfare. A craftsman come to ply his trade on the opponent, get the job done, and leave. No hype, the results will speak for itself. He loosens up by throwing lefts and rights. The long reach becomes evident. It serves him well against today's more compact opponent. Task Force Justin has set sail. Like the battleship California with her long range 16-inch guns, he can lay outside of harm's way while lobbing massive shells to soften up the enemy. And woe to the attacker that tries to sneak in under the guns. They quickly find out the inside game's as effective as the long range one. I don't know if he "throws punches with bad intentions," an overused phrase that has described many a fighter's technique. Motivation doesn't count, effect does. Today, the targeting is right on. But, its a tough fight against a worthy opponent--a strong, quick, hometown fighter. The hull will take some well placed hits, but he'll give better than he got.