The Spiral Staircase

My Boxing Career on Youtube, Part 2

Now that somebody posted my 1999 loss to youtube (see previous post), I was finally motivated to transfer the video of my winning bout from VHS.  It's been long enough since I quit boxing that I can watch this without dreaming about getting back in the ring.  It's hard to quit boxing.  Nothing else you ever do will quite compare.

When I fought Gladys Alonso, I was going through a bitter breakup that had police involvement, and I was a live-in math tutor with a family in Park Slope.  Gladys was the wife of a boxing trainer in Coney Island.  She had been boxing only slightly longer than me, and both of us were very excited to face an opponent who was an even match. 

I tried to act mean at the weigh-in and the one time she showed up to Gleason's to train.  This was hard because she seemed so sweet, and being mean is not in my nature.  But if you want to be a fighter you must cultivate your swagger.  The match begins the moment you know who your opponent is.

"You have already defeated all your opponents," said Joseph Jarman when I went to his dojo to meditate a few weeks before the fight.  At the time I hadn't met Ethan and I had no idea Joseph Jarman was a jazz musician.  I found him by Googling "zazen."  He was cool and Yoda-like and very handsome in his aikido robes.

On fight night, when I stood beside the ring waiting for my name to be called, I said a prayer to Shiva.  I told myself, if I can just get to the end of this mantra without being interrupted, I will win the fight.  I also told myself: Don't worry about technique in the beginning, just run straight out to her and start punching wildly.  This was my way to counteract my tendency to choke.

It worked.  I got to the end of the mantra.  I rushed her right after the bell.  Thirty seconds in, I knew I would win the fight.  I was even able to get off some combinations that were a little showy, like a triple left hook!

"Why do white fighters have good left hooks?" I once asked my (black) trainer.

"It's a punch you can throw when you're off balance," he said.   

After this fight, I went on to win the Empire State Games, and then I lost in the first round of the Women's National Golden Gloves in Georgia.  I quit after that, knowing that it would take a ton more work to be a serious competitor on the national level.  And what was the point, really?  According to Joseph Jarman, I had already defeated all my opponents.

The woman I lost to in Georgia was Theresa O'Toole, a professional stuntwoman.  We enjoyed a beer on the motel balcony a few days later -- she looked beautiful in a sparkly pink halter top.  I asked her what kinds of stunts she did.

"All kinds.  Falls, crashes, fires."

"Could you fall from this balcony and be okay?"

She eyed the water in the courtyard below.  "Yeah, I'd just aim for the pool." 

It took a while to convince her not to do it. 

My Boxing Career on Youtube, Part 1

"Sarah Deming is bleeding from the nose."

The line comes 20 seconds into the second round of my losing match at Madison Square Garden, which somebody just put online.  We live in an age where all defeats are permanent and publicized. 

It's both horrifying and amusing to watch this now.  Later on in the second round, Gil Clancy jokes that the ref isn't stopping the fight to check on my nose because "he's not a feminist."  The ref does eventually give me a standing eight count, and then they send me over to the doctor, who lets me continue. 

In my defense I will say that this was only my second fight.  My opponent, Patricia Alcivar, was the returning champion, and she was ranked second in the nation at that time.  I think I did pretty well under the circs. 

After the fight, I growled to Patricia's trainer, "I'll see you at the next dance," but we never did fight again.  We sparred several years later, and she was still better than me, although it was closer.  Patricia was a good fighter and a deep person, and I'm glad I faced her. 

Tons of people came out to see me, including my mother and my brother.  When I took that terrifying step through the ropes, it was very important to hear the roar from my cheering section.  I was a little worried about Mom's reaction to seeing me take so many uppercuts, but she said that she could tell by my body language that I was okay. 

Check out how thin I am!  This match was at 119 pounds, a weight that was extremely difficult for me to make.  When I won the Gloves two years later, it was at 125. 

Part two of this clip here.

De la Hoya-Pacquiao

My buddy Danny and I were in the minority as we cheered De la Hoya last night at 200 Fifth.  I've always liked this bar because they have liberal political signs written on their chalkboard every election, right alongside the daily salmon special.  Even during the Kerry days.  How many sports bars can you say that about? 

You had to pay $25 to get in, which seemed sort of steep, but the place was packed.  Pacquiao or "Pacman" is clearly the man to beat now in the middle weights, and I think he could take Mayweather, though I'm not sure.  He has an enormous badass entourage, and when they roll into the ring it's like some kind of Hong Kong action movie, only Filipino.  He's so of the hip hop generation that his choice of "We Will Rock You" as entrance music seemed almost ironic.

De la Hoya had Bernard Hopkins lurking around in his corner, which I thought was cool.  Bernard is my other favorite fighter, and he of course beat De la Hoya in a previous match.  Shane Mosely, who beat Oscar twice, was also in the ring, although I couldn't figure out why.  I wondered if it was weird psychologically to have so many fighters he had lost to in the ring. 

It's been years since I watched a fight.  This is mostly because I don't have a TV, but also because whenever I watch boxing I want to train again, which is out of the question, as I need to save what little wrist strength remains for opening bottles of champagne.  So I hadn't seen Pacquiao before, but man is he good.  His handspeed and balance are beautiful.  Oscar never got anything serious off.  He was swollen and discouraged when he quit on his stool after eight rounds.

I knew it was sort of lame (as well as hopeless) to root for De la Hoya, but I just couldn't help it.  I've been devoted to him ever since he lost that bad decision to Trinidad, even though he never fought as well after that night.  I liked the De la Hoya that used to box behind the jab.  But he's old now, and I think that even in his prime he would have had trouble with Pacquiao, since left hook fighters always have trouble with southpaws.

OK, so, the real reason I love him is that even though he's rich from his self-marketing, and even though he could just spend his time doing vanity projects like this one...  (Hit mute when you watch this, and just check out how adorable he looks.  If he asked you to go out for a malted milkshake, you would do it, no matter who you are.)

...I mean, come on!  My man could support himself male modeling and he still gets in the ring and fights the scariest cats: Mosely, Hopkins, Vargas, Mayweather, Trinidad, Quartey, and now Pacquiao.  Who else does that nowadays?   

So, my hat is off to Oscar, and I hope he retires to drink lots of milkshakes.  And I can't help being sad because he was the first fighter I really admired and now he's past his prime.  This makes me feel old, but so does everything these days. 

Vanity of vanities, saieth the preacher, vanity of vanities, all is vanity!

What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?

One generation passeth away and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever.

It couldn't have been an easy thing for De la Hoya to quit on the stool.  You do like to see brave men go down fighting.  It's an awful ending to a hero's story when he dies in bed:

(from Roger Lancelyn Green)

Then Robin Hood lay back on the bed and slept, for he was very weak.  But as soon as she was certain he was sleeping, the Prioress loosened the bandage from his arm so that the blood flowed once more.  Then she stole quietly away and left him.

All day long Robin lay there bleeding slowly to death, and when the shadows were lengthening he awoke and looked about him.  He was so weak now that he could scarcely move, but he saw that the bandage had been unfastened purposely, and he guessed that the Prioress had done it.

Robin staggered to his feet and flung open the windows.  It was but a short drop to the ground, and beyond the garden he saw the forest, his forest, beckoning to him.  But he could not so much as raise his leg to climb over the window.

Then he thought of his bugle-horn.  With trembling fingers he drew it from his pouch, raised it to his lips and blew the old call Wa-sa-hoah for the last time. . .

Maid Marian and Little John find him, and

Then, weeping bitterly, Little John placed the bow in Robin's hand and guided his fingers to the notched arrow.  For the last time Robin Hood drew his good yew bow, and as he drew strength seemed to come to him so that he drew the arrow to the very head and loosed it so strongly that it flew well beyond the Nunnery walls and fell in a deep green glade of the forest...Next morning Little John sought out the arrow, and where it fell he dug Robin's grave with his own hands, and laid him to rest under the greenwood tree.

Romulus, remus, rumpus

Archaeologists have unearthed a grotto where they believe the mythical she-wolf suckled the twin founders of Rome.  Thanks to the vigilant Kris O. for this link.

This is the best article I've ever read on women's boxing.  Thanks to Debi for the link.  Go Nisa, go!

Sugar

Tis the season again to jump rope.  This is the only thing I still do from my boxing days.  I start with about five songs, but when I'm in shape I'll do seven or eight.  This is about a half an hour of rope, which is pretty hard.  I jump in the playground due to the plastic tiles that help prevent shin splints.  However, it is hard to get a workout without getting distracted by the cute little girls who stop me and ask if they can use my rope.  They cannot.

My current five-song jump rope line up, along with the mantra I recite mentally:
1) Hey Ya, Outkast.  This has a great beat for jumping.  Mantra: Shake it like a Polaroid picture.
2) 99 Problems, Jay-Z.  Mantra: I've got 99 problems but Ethan ain't one.
3) Air Force Ones, Nelly.  This song, about shopping for new sneakers, pretty much represents the lyrical nadir of modern hip hop.  So why do I get an extra spring in my step when it comes on?  It has a fast beat, is five whole minutes long, and imitates the kind of brainwashy cadences they chant while jogging in the armed forces.  Mantra: I need new shoes.
4) Death Ray Boogie, Pete Johnson.  Boogie woogie piano is excellent jumping music.  Mantra: I am an unstoppable death ray.
5) Jump Around, House of Pain.  This is an awful song, but at this point I am tired and I need encouragement.  Mantra: Jump.

Jumping rope makes me think of my hero.

The latin beat (down)

I went to the Jazz Standard last night to see Ethan play with Bill McHenry on tenor sax, Ben Street on bass, and Jeff Ballard on drums. This was only the second appearance of this group and they sounded amazing. They played standards.

Everyone came back here to hang after the gig and I witnessed a funny interaction. Ben says to Ethan, "How would you feel if Jeff and I brought in a Latin feel?"

Ethan was like, "Please refrain from bringing in a Latin feel. I'm too old to start learning the clave."

Ben said, "But have you ever heard some of those pianists who play with (some Latin drummer). What they play is so out. It doesn't relate to the clave at all."

Ethan remained unconvinced. I suggested that the key might lie in Ethan's wearing a large sombrero while playing.

Then this reminded me of the boxer Roger Mayweather of the famous Mayweather boxing family. He is an African American guy and at the beginning of his career he was fighting at featherweight and knocking out young Mexican prospects left and right. He would fight at this arena in LA that is almost completely Latino, and he'd come in in a black sombrero, billing himself as the "Mexican Assassin" and also "Black Mamba." The crowd would boo thunderously. It was a brilliant marketing ploy, building things up to the ultimate grudge match between Mayweather and the great Mexican champion Julio Cesar Chavez. This match was held in Las Vegas, where Mayweather was a hometown favorite.

You can watch the entire 5-minute fight here. This clip is from 1985, but it retains its emotional power. Chavez was 44-0 at the time and virtually unknown. Mayweather had no idea what he was in for. My sympathies are with The Black Mamba in this fight -- I just love that jazzy American style, and oh boy does he look pretty, jabbing and moving and laying on some gorgeous right hands. Although they are about the same height, the lanky Mayweather has a huge reach advantage and the monolithic Chavez has the much bigger punch.

Chavez is just advancing, advancing, cutting off the ring. You start to feel like Chavez knows something Mayweather doesn't know. In round two, Mayweather starts to open up, but this is a mistake.

There's an important difference between having good time and having good reaction time. Mayweather has the better rhythm, but Chavez has the better time where it really counts: the reaction time to see the opening and act on the opening instantly.

An interesting coda is that Roger Mayweather went on to become an excellent trainer, and one of his most famous fighters was the dreamy Oscar De la Hoya, the great Mexican-American champion and perhaps the first boxer ever to wax his eyebrows. And so at long last the hatchet was buried and there was peace between the Mexican people and their former assassin.

Bed Stuy Boxing

The first time I walked into Bedford-Stuyvesant Boxing Gym, it was like entering another country. This was 1999, before Girlfight and Million Dollar Baby had made women’s boxing trendy. I was the only girl in the gym, and the only white person.

The gym was a funky cave, sweltering in summer, freezing in winter. It had a cracked floor, blood-spattered ring, and murals on the wall of its most famous fighters. I had the luck to meet two of them. I got in the ring with Olympic gold medalist Mark Breland, whose jabs sounded like gunshots, and I joked with eighty-year-old George Washington, a former heavyweight contender with a hundred wins who had sparred Joe Lewis.

Not everyone was so accepting. Some of the fighters would stare or laugh, and I knew they found me ridiculous. Is it because I’m a girl, I wondered, or because I’m white? Or maybe because I’m not very good? Probably it was all the above: a deadly, three-punch combination. Faber, who trained many of the younger fighters, would shake his head when I walked in the door.

“Don’t mind them,” my trainer Mike would say. “Just box.” So I did. I didn’t only want to win the Golden Gloves; I wanted to look good doing it. And as I got better, I began to love it at Bed-Stuy. It was still another country, but it felt like home. When I went through the thin glass door, I left behind all my problems. Nothing mattered inside except strength and rhythm.

One day, a girl showed up at the gym and started training with Faber. She was black, eighteen years old, and weighed 106 pounds. I fought at 119. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, noting with dread how quickly she progressed.

About a month later, Faber sauntered across the gym to talk to Mike. I knew what was coming. Mike tossed me my headgear and grinned. “You’re sparring Monet today.”

I had covered the inside of the headgear with affirmations like “If you ain’t the hammer, you’re the nail.” They didn’t help. Fighting with other women terrified me. When you spar a man, it’s practice; when you spar another woman, it’s a fight.

I knew that more was riding on this sparring than normal. Someone had turned the radio off, and people were whispering and pointing at us. I climbed through the ropes and tried to look tough.

We fought so hard that everyone in the gym gathered around the ring. People even came in from off the street, leaning on their bikes, holding their radios. Everyone, except my trainer, was rooting for Monet. Vehemently. Later on this seemed natural. She was the home team, after all. She was also the underdog: smaller and less experienced than me. But it still hurt. Nothing is worse than being punched in the face and hearing a roar of approval.

Monet would eventually become a much better fighter than me, but on that day I won. I did something that was always difficult for me: I punched with bad intentions. I punched to hurt her. Soon the room got quiet, and that made me happy.

After three rounds, Faber stopped the sparring. Monet’s lip was bleeding a little, but we were both fine. We touched gloves like friends, and the people who had been on their feet, fists upraised, went back to their business. It was confusing. I felt that some line had been drawn for those few moments, as clearly as the line on a map that divides two countries. But once the bell rang, it was gone.

It’s been a year since I’ve been to Bed-Stuy. The last time I went there was to give away my gear. I had won the Golden Gloves and I was quitting. It’s hard to quit boxing, and it’s best to get rid of your paraphernalia so you don’t relapse.

On my way out, Faber asked me when I was coming back. I told him that I wasn’t, since I had just turned thirty, and was therefore too old to get punched in the face by teenagers. I also cited my bulging disc, my tricky knees, and the fact that I never, ever want to get on a scale again.

He made a sour face. “You sound like some kind of Yuppie or something.”

I shrugged. I do, after all, live in Park Slope. “Well, Faber, maybe I am.”

What he said next was a far better affirmation than anything written on my headgear. I call it to mind in moments of weakness: “You ain’t no Yuppie. You’re like one of those people who works for the Post Office, and one day they just go crazy and start shooting. Everyone says how nice they always seemed. You’re like that.” He looked at me and nodded. “You’re a big surprise.”

Dance of the Axe Gang

I just saw Kung Fu Hustle for the first time. I must have watched this scene ten times -- the Axe Gang doing their groovy dance of evil to the Peter Gunn theme. It's like Clockwork Orange, but with dancing! And axes!

WARNING: Clip contains some violent imagery.