Scene Two--The Gym

As he was leaving the locker room, John literally bumped into one of the boxing coaches, Ken McDonald, a three-year patrol officer with the city's police department. When not on the beat, he volunteered to coach some of the boxers at the youth center, where he had competed in the same program seven years earlier. While he had quit competitive boxing when he graduated from high school, Ken continued to incorporate elements of his boxing training into his conditioning program. After he joined the police force, he decided to volunteer to stay with the sport that had meant so much to him just a short time ago. For a brief period of time he considered training again to represent the department in the Police Olympics boxing matches, but decided his interest now lay in training other boxers.

"Hey, John," Ken called as the boy nearly bumped into him, "take it easy. What's the rush? You know you can't go in the gym until one of the coaches opens it up. Tell you what, I have to see the center director about some problem or another before he leaves. Here's the key, open the gym turn on the lights and start your warm-up, this should only take a couple of minutes. But under no circumstances are you to use any of the equipment"

"O.K.," John said he took the short wood block to which the key was fastened by a ring from the officer.

He ran up the stairs, wanting to get through his warm-ups so he could start training as soon as the coach was finished talking to the director. He unlocked the door and swung it open. He let it go and it seemed to hesitate for a moment as if unable to decide whether to stay open or close behind him. The gym was dark and he groped along the wall for the line of switches that would turn on the overhead lights. Finding them, he flipped each one in quick succession.

With the many hours he spent training, the layout of the gym was now as familiar to him as anyplace he knew. Five punching bags of various sizes and colors suspended by rope from ceiling formed a somewhat crooked straight line, like so many first-day army recruits trying to line up in formation. Grey duct tape girded the center of some of the bags, providing support for the bag gone soft under the constant barrage of youngsters learning to throw combinations. To be released from duty a bag would have to be hemorrhaging its contents before the frugal youth center director would finally allow its replacement. Beyond the heavy bags, three speed bags, each one slightly smaller than the next, hung from the platforms attached to the wall. The opposite wall was covered with peg boards that held jump ropes, bag gloves, sparring gloves, headgear, groin protectors--a veritable armory of implements needed for training. The third wall was covered with mirrors that are indispensable for shadow boxing.

John opened his gear bag and took out a rolled-up pair of red cotton hand wraps. Holding one end he flung the roll out and watched it pay out as it fell to the floor. "Got to remember to make sure the side of the wrap marked THIS SIDE DOWN is actually down," he thought as he quickly wrapped the left hand and then the right hand. If the down side was up, the velcro strip attached the end of would not be able to secure the strip.

"I'd look like an idiot if I had to re wrap my hand," he murmured. He recalled that he made that mistake on his second day of training two years before. As he had unraveled the wrap one of the older boxers remarked in a voice loud enough for half the gym to hear, "kid, you couldn't pour water out of a glass if the instructions were written on the bottom."

At that point one of the coaches pulled John aside. "Look, if that happens again, give the end a half twist and fasten it. And don't worry about the kidding you get from the others. It's just part of being the new kid. Within a short period of time, you will say the same thing to someone else," he predicted. About a year later, the prediction came true and John passed along the secret of the half-twist and made the same prediction to the somewhat embarrassed youngster.

He turned on the timer which would ring to announce the start of the three-minute-workout and ring again to signal the one-minute-rest, the cycle of the boxer's workout. The bell would ring, cycle after cycle, 15 times an hour until it was turned off after the last fighter was done for the night. Depending on what the boxer was doing, the three minutes might seem to last forever and the while the one minute rest was over in an instant.

As the first bell of the evening rang, John wondered if his life would ever not be ruled by bells, either at school or in the ring. He started slowly throwing punches into the space around him. At first the pattern seemed almost random, essentially a stretch with a little force behind it. As the dial on the timer counted down the seconds, John picked up the pace, and the punches became more crisp and rhythmical. By the end of the second round, he was moving around on the balls of his feet, throwing punches at his reflection in the mirror as if he was sparring an opponent of equal but exact opposite skill and quickness.

John's gear bag contained his mouthpiece, and 12-ounce bag gloves that looked like undernourished boxing gloves than the cowhide gloves that came with most home heavy bags. The larger gloves provided great protection and had plenty of room for his wrap-swathed hands. He preferred having his own bag gloves, and had saved to buy them. The gym's gloves were OK, but anybody could use them and they never seemed to dry out. After a while of constant use, they became downright raunchy, much to the chagrin of some of the boys who had the use them and the delight of others who got to talk about the grossness of the gloves.

Although the ring dominated the center of the room, measuring twelve feet on each side. It was little more than a plywood platform raised three inches off the ground strictly used for training. Green vinyl sheeting over ½ inch carpet padding covered the plywood. Like most everything else in the gym, the vinyl cover and padding showed their age. Four steel posts defined the corners of the ring. But, the ropes that defined the confines of the ring were taut with plenty of spring. The coaches fine-tuned the tension of the ropes by adjusting the turnbuckles on each of the four corners. Between the turnbuckles, corduroy sleeves sheathed the ropes, red on the bottom, white on the middle, and blue on the top. A red pad covered the ropes in one corner, a blue pad covered the opposite corner. These pads designated the "red" corner and the "blue" corner while the white pads on the remaining two corners designated the "neutral" corner. These features gave the ring a touch of authenticity. Even though its non-regulation size and simple construction made it ineligible for sanctioned competition, year after year, the countless young boxers who climbed between the middle and top ropes to enter the ring felt as if they were entering the ring at the Olympics.

About the time he was finished with the third round of shadow boxing, Charlie entered the gym.

"Brace me for my sit-ups, would you?" the boxer asked his friend.

"Yeah, sure."

As Charlie counted off the reps, " . . . 45, 46, 47, 48 . . . ," the growing dull pain in John's abdomen informed him that the set was almost over. These sit-ups had given John a tight mid-section. The "six pack abs" just beginning to be defined would provide some protection from blows delivered to that area by an opponent. "...98, 99, ONE HUNDRED," Charlie enthusiastically announced.

Pausing for a short breather, John noticed his friend grinning. "What's so funny?" he queried.

"Carl was looking in while you were doing your reps. He looked a bit worried. I think he realizes that you're getting better and that you just might take him next time you two spar."

"That would be cool," John remarked, but continued, "sparring is practice. The coaches don't even determine a winner or a loser, even when we have supervised sparring once a month that's open to the public. Although, I do admit that I would like to beat him just to get him off my back."

"Exactly. If you beat him, he won't be so sure of himself. That's his biggest fear. Being shown up as not being the best fighter in here."

"Whatever. I can't worry about his feelings. Although, if I beat him, I might be tempted to rub it in, but I wouldn't."

"But, he's not sure that you won't. I got a bad feeling about this," Charlie said doing a poor imitation of Indiana Jones. "Expect trouble tonight, John-boy, because I think he's gunning for you."

"That's all I need, a grudge match with a turkey. Well, if its going to happen, the coach will have to let it happen. Like the sign on the wall says, we can't spar without supervision."

"I don't think that will make a difference to Carl. I'm not sure that in nine years of school he ever learned how to read. Just watch your six, partner, watch your six."