The Spiral Staircase

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For the past six years, I've been coaching and tutoring at NYC Cops and Kids, a nonprofit community boxing gym in Brooklyn. The gym has become my second family, and I feel lucky every day to come to work.

Boxing appeals to kids who like to fight, kids with anger issues and trouble with authority, kids who have been abused, and kids who don't do well in organized team activities: In other words, the kids most likely to fall through the cracks. Last year our gym experienced a devastating flood. We also lost our main sponsor.

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Two Referees at the Great Wall of China Gift Shop

Many thanks to my friend and yoga student, Jai, for giving me a place to go to finish my novel GRAVITY.

Here's a scene I cut from the novel. Takes place at the gift shop at the Great Wall of China. Our heroine, Gravity, has lost her fight in the Women's World Boxing Championships, but is still in the running for the Rio Olympics...

***

Gravity never noticed referees too much, unless they were really bad. Like that old guy who had taken a bullshit point away from her for cuffing in the Junior Olympics, or that mousy lady who officiated in the Golden Gloves and looked terrified to get too close to the action.

The two refs she ran into in the Great Wall of China gift shop must have been okay, because she couldn’t remember anything about them. One was fat and one was skinny. The fat guy was white and American and had thin, sandy hair and glasses. The skinny guy was black and Canadian and bald with a mustache. They would have made good spies, because they had the kind of mild faces that blended into the gift shop crowd. Nobody would ever stop them at airport security to search their luggage. They were just sort of there, like telephone wires.

She browsed the display of post cards while listening in on their conversation out of the corner of her ear. The fat referee was telling the skinny referee that they needed to have something called a “catchphrase.” The skinny referee was arguing with him.

“Catchphrases are unnecessary,” said the skinny guy. “You already gave the fighters their instructions in the dressing room. All you need to do in the ring is clarify what constitutes a low blow.”

The fat ref gestured with a Great Wall snow globe. “You need to assert your authority in the ring. A tag line announces your presence.”

“A good referee is someone you don’t notice,” said the skinny ref.

The fat referee said, “Come on, Warren, do you really want to spend your whole life not being noticed? You’re the best goddamn ref in Toronto, and everybody knows it. I’ve seen how hard you work. That stoppage on the Stevenson undercard? Perfect. Everybody else was shitting their pants about that ring death in Edmenton, but not you. You let ‘em fight!”

Gravity stole a look at Warren. She could tell he was pleased by what the fat ref was saying, but he was trying to hide it.

“And the way you handled that head butt on the undercard?” the fat ref continued. “So authoritative.”

“Thanks, Herschel,” said Warren. “I have been studying Carlos Padilla’s work in the Thrilla’ in Manilla. It’s helped with my rhythm.”

“See!” cried Herschel, pounding the snow globe. “Who else does that? You eat, sleep, and breathe officiating. It’s time you were recognized for it.”

Warren picked up a snow globe and shook it. “They did give me that nice plaque last year.”

Herschel shook his head. “I’m not talking dinky little plaques, Warren. I’m talking big time. There’s supposed to be a PBC card soon in the Bahamas. Amy told Donna that the network guys said they need a ref they can trust for the main event, and Lynn said the commission suggested you.”

Warren looked up. “Really? Me? On a televised main event in the Bahamas?”

“But you need a catchphrase,” Herschel said gravely. “All the big time guys have them. Joe Cortez has ‘I’m fair but I’m firm.’ Kenny Bayless has ‘What I say you must obey.’ Old Mills Lane’s got ‘Let’s get it on.’”

“Mills Lane!” Warren picked up a Great Wall coloring book and leafed through it. “He was a prima donna. Steve Smoger doesn’t have a catchphrase.”

Herschel reached a fat pale hand to pat Warren’s skinny dark one. “Let’s be honest, Warren, neither of us are a Smoger.”

As the two men touched, they looked over and met Gravity’s eyes. She looked away, embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping, but the men seemed delighted to see her.

“Gravity Delgado!” cried Warren.

“How you feeling today?” said Herschel. “You all recovered from that bout with China?”

“I’m fi-”

“Mind if we come chat a little?” asked Warren.

“Um…”

But they were already hurrying over to the display of post cards to talk to her.

“Congratulations on winning Continentals,” said Herschel, patting her on the back so hard she choked a little.

“We knew you would make it,” said Warren. “From the first time I reffed one of your fights, I said, ‘She’s a future continental champion. Didn’t I, Herschel?’”

“You did,” agreed Herschel. “And after I reffed for her, I saw just what you meant. Remember I came up to you after the fight and congratulated you and told you that you could be the next Million Dollar Baby?”

“Uh, yeah,” Gravity said. “That was really nice of you, thanks.”

It was a little embarrassing how well both men seemed to know her. The truth was, she had no memory of either of them ever officiating for her, and people were always mentioning Million Dollar Baby to her, so that didn’t ring any bells. She hated that movie. She didn’t understand why the girl boxer in there had to get crippled and die. It was kind of sexist when you thought about it. Rocky didn’t get crippled or die. Neither did Creed. 

Warren leaned in and lowered his voice. “As the third man in the ring, we must of course maintain a certain hermetic remove, so if I haven’t been more forthcoming with accolades, it’s not for lack of esteem.”

“Um, thanks.” She had no idea what that meant.

“You’re the bee’s knees,” said Herschel.

“Thanks!” She didn’t know what that meant either, but bees could sting you, so it must be good.

“Do you think referees should have catchphrases?” asked Warren.

Both men looked at her eagerly. They seemed to care a whole lot what she thought, which made her feel embarrassed again, because the truth was she had no opinion at all.

“I think,” she said carefully, selecting a few post cards of the Qinhuangdao skyline for Auntie Rosa, “that as long as you’re fair, it doesn’t really matter too much what you say.”

“Hah, see!” cried Warren.

Herschel shook his head. “When you go pro, Gravity, you’ll understand. Boxing is a business. It’s not enough just to be technically skilled. You have to make the television audience remember you. You have to be a brand.”

“I’m not sure I’ll change my mind when I go pro,” Gravity said, frowning. What the fat referee had said made her feel sad for some reason. She thought about Andre Vázquez back home, always handing out stuff that said PLASMAFuel, about how Boca tagged everything on Facebook #bocacrewforever, about how they both treated Monster like he was a racehorse or something. Gravity didn’t want to be a brand. She just wanted to box. “But I guess if you think it would help your business or whatever to say a catchphrase, you should. I mean, nobody really listens to referees anyway.”

Warren coughed. Herschel shuddered. Gravity became aware of a sudden chill in the air of the gift shop. She tried to backtrack.

“I mean, I didn’t mean nobody listens. Just that, you know, the boxers are so focused on their fight that it just sort of…rolls over them, you know?”

That only made it worse. Gravity picked up one of the rubber birds from the display case next to the post cards labelled “Shrilling Chickens.” When she squeezed it, it let out a horrific wail.

Warren stood up very straight and said, “Boxers are not the only ones who are focused.”

“There’s three people in that ring, you know,” said Herschel. “And one of them never gets any credit.” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to furiously polish his glasses.

Gravity felt bad. She was still trying to think of what to say to apologize when Warren took his friend’s arm with great dignity.

“Come on, Herschel,” he said. “Let’s go pay for our snow globes.”

 

 

 

 

Champs

Look who rolled though town this week! Claressa Shields was appearing on the Harry Connick Jr show as a surprise to an eleven-year-old who idolized her. But they had a surprise for Claressa, too: her new WBC title belt. It is surprisingly heavy, just like her two Olympic gold medals. 

(Photo by Jaye Johnson at Sid Gold's Request Room)

Claressa is nearly as fearsome on the mic as she is in the ring. She said, "Karaoke helps kill my stage fright."

In advance of the GGG-Canelo showdown this Saturday, I have a profile on Coach Abel Sanchez over at HBO's website. This was a peach of an assignment, as Abel is one of the top coaches in the world and a kind, eloquent spokesman for the sport. The entire interview transcript is up at Stiff Jab. 

 

 

Terminal 2

I'm killing six hours in Charles de Gaule while I wait for Annie to fetch me. Paris, where everyone looks beautiful and even being sleep-deprived in an airport feels luxurious.

I met Annie five years ago in the Paris metro. I was unsure which option to select on the ticket machine, so I went to the window and said to the man working there, in my weirdo French, "It's been a long time since I've done this."

The man laughed and said, "Me, too. It's been a long time since I've done this."

He and his female colleague both came out of the little booth. It seemed like they knew my mom and I would be good for a laugh. The man spoke English, so Mom pounced and was soon asking him if he was Jewish. (He was, from Algeria. Mom asked every vaguely Semitic Parisian if they were Jewish. It was embarrassing but led to some good conversations.) 

Meanwhile, the woman told me her name was Annie and that she was from the West Indies. I said, "I coach boxing in a West Indian neighborhood in New York."

She said, "I coach kickboxing! I was the featherweight champion of Paris."

I told her I had been the featherweight champion of New York for a second. I went and trained with her fighters, and we've been friends ever since. This seemed like a good time to throw myself on her hospitality.

Air France delivered on the flight over with ample wine and a delightful selection of classic Disney movies. I hadn't seen Beauty and the Beast in ages and was kind of blown away by how beautifully it's constructed. 

I remember watching Jean Cocteau's La Belle et La Bete in high school French class. When I came home from school, Mom said, to my horror, "Great movie. Beast represents the penis, and Beauty is the vagina." 

This was too much information for a fourteen-year-old, but it certainly shaped my future critical output. 

Lyrics by Howard Ashman, who died of AIDS just before the film's release. 

 

Tale as old as time

True as it can be

Barely even friends

then somebody bends

Unexpectedly

 

Just a little change

Small to say the least

Both a little scared

Neither one prepared

Beauty and the beast

 

Ever just the same

Ever a surprise

Ever as before

Ever just as sure

As the sun will rise

 

Tale as old as time

Tune as old as song

Bittersweet and strange

Finding you can change

Learning you were wrong

 

Certain as the sun

Rising in the east

Tale as old as time

Song as old as rhyme

Beauty and the beast

 

 

Bittersweet

Fun week of parties to celebrate this new anthology. Deadspin and Soho House were great hosts. 

I'm honored to be included among these fabulous essays, including Charles Ferrell's Why I Fixed Fights, Carlo Rotella's poetic profile of BHop, and a meditation on stylishness by Gabe Oppenheim, which cites this masterpiece:

Everybody is always saying boxing is dying, but it never really dies. Maybe something that is always opulently in the process of dissolution is the ultimate subject for a writer. Most things die before you can say goodbye. 

Here's a poem I ripped out of the Threepenny Review:

 

 THIRST

 

The miraculous warmth that arose so implausibly from rock had, within it, thirst.

*

Thirst made by a glimpse that is, each time, brief.

*

As if, each time, that is all you are allowed.

*

The way back to it never exactly the same.

*

Once you have been there, always the promise of it.

*

Promise made to beguile and haunt, you think, residue of an injunction that is ancient.

*

Not only ancient, but indifferent?

*

Half the time when you pursue it you fear that this time, out of distraction or exhaustion or repetition, this time it cannot be reached.

*

I hope you're guessing Orgasm, or Love, or Hunger for the Absolute, or even The Sublime—

*

History littered with testimonies that God gives his followers a shot of God; then withdraws.

*

The pattern, the process each time the same.

*

There,—

*

...then, not there (withdrawn).

*

Each time you think that you can predict how to get there the next time, soon you cannot.

*

The singer's voice, the fabled night the microphone captured her at the height of her powers—

*

You have been the locus of ecstasy.

*

You have been a mile above the storm, looking down at it; and, at the same time, full of almost-insight, obliterated at its center.

*

Creature coterminous with thirst.

 

—Frank Bidart 

 

 

My Husband, the Misogynist: Ethan Iverson, Robert Glasper, Boxing, and Me

It’s been a rough few days in the Iverson-Deming household, what with this whole the-Internet-thinks-my-husband-hates-women thing. If you’re not up on the fray, while Ethan and I were on the dumb jazz cruise and I was laid up with a torn calf muscle – and if you take only one thing from this post, let it be this: DON’T JUMP ROPE ON A BOAT – in between waiting on me hand and foot, bugging me about finishing my novel, and composing a suite of dance music, Ethan interviewed three musicians for his blog, including Robert Glasper.

Glasper told my husband:

I’ve seen what that does to the audience, playing that groove. I love making the audience feel that way. Getting back to women: women love that. They don’t love a whole lot of soloing. When you hit that one groove and stay there, it’s like musical clitoris. You’re there, you stay on that groove, and the women’s eyes close and they start to sway, going into a trance.

The Internet exploded with outrage, calling this “vile sexism.” At first, people weren’t so much blaming Ethan, because he hadn’t said it himself, although some suggested he should have cut it from the interview. But what blogger in her right mind would cut a money quote like that? It’s not hate speech. The only reason to censor something like that is if you have a vested interest in keeping Glasper out of hot water or if you’re writing for kids.

Boxer Emile Griffith (Getty Images)

I had a nice conversation on the jazz boat with Robert Glasper and Terrence Blanchard, who were lounging poolside apres-gig, about the tragic life of the gay boxing champion Emile Griffith. I can tell a misogynist the same way I can tell a professional escort: their eyes glaze over during conversation because they have no use for me. Glasper wasn’t like that. I see his comments as a window into the erotic impulse in a male performer.

Obviously it’s sexist to contend that women are uncritical listeners who just want to groove out and don’t appreciate esoteric art. Woman=matter. Man=mind. An age-old equation every female intellectual needs to stare down at some point. I tried to explain that to Ethan right after the shit hit the fan, but he was already in defense mode and couldn’t take it in.

I watched with mild alarm as he posted successive updates, entrenching his position. I agreed with him that people were overreacting, and that this kind of thing led to Trump's rise. But I also recognize that this argument can lead to dangerous places. We do need to pay attention to how we speak.

I think Ethan would have apologized immediately if the critique came in the first instance from women with a stake in the music or men who were civil. But that’s not what happened. The quote was pulled out of context by jazz boys fighting for turf. It was batted back and forth with sporting glee until people he’d never met were Tweeting asking if he thought women should even be allowed to play jazz.

If you’ve never been subject to an Internet shitstorm, you can’t understand just how fucked up and deeply personal things get. I got trolled by the nation of Ireland during the Summer Olympics, because I fired off a dumb Tweet about boxer Michael Conlan. By the time the two hundredth Irishman has called you a stupid cunt who knows nothing about boxing, you’re not in the mood to apologize.  

A few days into the pile-on, Ethan really started to unravel. He came home from a gig on the verge of tears because he was getting lost in the forms. The idea that he had hurt so many women he didn’t even know was really painful to him. Real feminism isn’t about tokenism or irreproachable usage: It’s about valuing female power and intellect. It’s about the way Ethan treats me, my mother, his teacher Sophia, his female students and collaborators, and the great women musicians, writers, and dancers he reveres.

Let me tell you how we met. On New Year’s Eve 2001, the saxophonist Bill McHenry threw a costume party. I went in my (extremely unflattering) amateur boxing gear, including my mouthpiece and abdominal protector. It was like that scene in Buffy where Willow wears an Inuit snowsuit because she doesn’t understand that Halloween is a free pass to dress like a slut.

When I got to the floor with the booze, I saw this bald guy, deep in his cups, whose nasal Midwestern voice floated to me across the brownstone.

“I have no patience,” he was saying, “for these narcissistic male writers like Updike and Mailer and Roth who have no use for women.”

I was astonished. It would have been love at first sight, except that I didn’t think anyone who got drunk and complained about misogyny in literature could possibly be heterosexual. Instead, I thought, “We are going to be best friends.”

He is still my best friend, and he turned out to be straight!

I was very glad he ended up apologizing about the interview, and Ethan was, too. I think it humbled and strengthened him. At the gig the other night, he soloed with a freedom and sadness I hadn’t heard in a long time. If you wanna play the blues, you gotta pay the dues. And we don’t get to choose what they are.

photo: Sue Johnson

The other day at the Barclays Center, I watched featherweight champion Heather Hardy improve to 19-0 to an empty stadium. Hers was the only woman’s bout on the card, and they made her go first, off TV, so that she took her ring walk while the doors of the venue were still closed and her sponsors waited outside in the cold. This despite the fact that she sold $37,000 worth of tickets, far more than anyone on the card. They put the kid from my gym who was having his very first pro fight – and who was not, as a male prospect, required to sell any tickets – in a favorable position near the main event. That is misogyny.

I watched the fights from the nosebleed seats, because I’ve quit trying to get press credentialed. The only time in my twenty years of involvement with boxing that I’ve consistently gotten great access was when I was fucking this male media executive who knew nothing about boxing. A couple years ago, my membership application was rejected by the Boxing Writer’s Association of America. I wasn’t trying to win an award or anything; I was just trying to be a member of the only trade association in my craft.

Check out the condescending rejection note they sent me, and bear in mind that I’ve published three novels, won a Pushcart Prize and McDowell Fellowship, got cited in Best American Essays and Best American Sportswriting, won the NYC Golden Gloves, assisted in the coaching of multiple national champions, and wrote for NBC’s boxing coverage of the London Games:

Dear Sarah,

I’m sorry to report that the membership committee has voted against admitting you to the BWAA at the present time. No one person was responsible for this decision.  It was a consensus reached after discussion among all committee members.

The act of writing a hundred or more articles about boxing does not necessarily qualify an applicant for membership.  We look for articles that are full journalistic work.  We look for variety.  And we look for articles that evince a full understanding of what goes on behind the scenes as well as on-camera.

Your love for the sport came through in your application and you have plenty of background.  I encourage you to look at some examples of what the BWAA considers to be exemplary writing about boxing and absorb the ways in which the authors try to go above and beyond in their fact-finding, their analysis, and their use of language. Links to many award-winning boxing articles from the past several years are here: http://www.bwaa.org/writingawards.htm

Best of luck with your continued writing about boxing.  Just like it works in the ring, the best way to move up the ladder is to keep working at it. Applicants may reapply for admission after one year.

Best wishes,

Cliff Rold

You can bet I will not be reapplying, if only because I’m scared of what I might do to Cliff Rold if I run into him at the yearly banquet. The BWAA has four women out of 115 members and they’re all in the non-voting category. That is misogyny. And when I’m crying with impotent rage over some bullshit like this, Ethan is the one who holds me and talks about Virginia Woolf. I would have thrown in the towel years ago if not for him.

My tenth anniversary tattoo

Is it misogyny when one of my male colleagues tells our fighters, “Don’t punch like a girl”? I guess. He’s using “girl” to signify “weak person who doesn’t understand how to generate power from the lower body.” It’s sexist language, but I know what he means, and I know he’s not talking about me. I’ve seen the respect he accords his wife and daughters and the few serious women boxers who have come through our doors to train. So I pick my battles.

When his language is particularly egregious – or when there are actual girls present – I pipe up, but I avoid direct attack. It is very hard to change someone, and (as I wrote in the following post on the Women’s March) nobody learns when they feel shamed and backed into a corner. People learn when they are calm enough to take in new information.

My husband blogs for free, even though we’re being priced out of our apartment and I am a financial albatross. He pays for his interview transcriptions himself and spends hundreds of hours every year researching and editing. He does what he does out of love, so I think people will forgive him.

Haters gonna hate. If even one more person learned where the clitoris is, my team won.

Why I Love Floyd Mayweather

My recap of the Superfight is here.

Other recent fights: Klitschko vs Jennings, Brooklyn undercard, and eye candy at the weigh-in.

Whiplash

My husband really gets into it about jazz drumming and race over at Do the Math. 

Tonight he plays in the solo piano showcase at the Village Vanguard, part of an exciting week of programming coordinated by Jason Moran to celebrate the 80th anniversary of that hallowed dive. I used to be scared to go to the Vanguard because the owner was so mean. Now it's my favorite place to hear music. I guess it wouldn't be a treasure if it didn't have a dragon.

Thanks to everyone for your support about the fire. Still no progress on our place, and we've got crash pads lined up through April. 

 

When I walk in the door of the boxing gym, I always feel better. I never know what kind of questions the young people will ask me. I've got a poetry student, a meditation buddy, an aspiring essayist, a kid slogging through pre-calculus, and yesterday Donovan brought in some linear equations. Meanwhile, our elite fighters continue to kick ass in the Golden Gloves. Last night Chiquito made it to the finals at the Barclays Center. Shu Shu is in, too. Tonight Africa, Big Black, and Omar fight. 

As Ray Arcel told Thomas Hauser, "The important part of boxing is not that youngsters realize their dreams, but that they can dream. Every day in the gym they're somebody special. They're a fighter."

Fact Checking the Atlantic's The Real Knockouts of Women's Boxing

All press is good press, and so I was happy to see the Atlantic paying attention to my grimy, girly corner of the sporting world. Kate Jenkins's sympathetic piece looks at the pressure on women fighters to market themselves as sex symbols, yet there is an odd way in which the piece is itself evidence of the problem it decries. If we want people to take our sport seriously, we need to get the details right. Here's a list of the errors I saw, beginning with the two most obvious, the rankings.

"Tori Nelson, ranked #1 in the US and #2 in the world" 

WBAN has Nelson #2 in the US and #4 in the world; Boxrec has her #1 in the US and #3 in the world

On Tyreishia Douglas: "Currently, she’s the #1 ranked female bantamweight in the world" 

Douglas is a flyweight not a bantamweight. WBAN does not rank her, and Boxrec has her at #18 in the world. 

The rest of these points are debatable, but I still see them as inaccurate:

"She estimated that the winnings for equivalent male fighters start off between $20,000 and $30,000." 

Tori is a 13-0 welterweight. It's hard to find "equivalent male fighters," because at 13-0 most male welterweights won't yet be fighting for titles, but this figure seems too high as a starting point. Local promoter Felipe Gomez of New Legends Boxing estimates that a man with that record could pull $4,000 for an 8-rounder on the cheap end, $6,000-$12,000 if TV is involved. Al Haymon guys, Olympians would be pulling much more.

"Then she added, referring to the men, “Maybe I gotta fight them to make that.” I don’t doubt she’d do it. Nelson, like nearly all female boxers, began training by sparring almost exclusively with men. There are still so few women in the sport that the training gyms pair men and women out of necessity." 

Boxing is one of the most strength-intensive sports. Pee wee boxers might spar members of the opposite sex but competitive adult women are generally paired with men for technical sparring only. When elite women are paired with men for open sparring, there will be a weight advantage accorded the woman. Women don't need to be able to beat men to be serious athletes. 

"The trainers, in turn, know what the promoters are looking for and are likely to select their fighters with that knowledge in mind...Because of a perceived lack of interest in women’s boxing, trainers, managers, promoters, and sponsors are all reluctant to work with women." 

True of the business-side people, not of the trainers. All the trainers I know (including myself) love training women. Most trainers these days make their money off white collar clients anyway, and women are good for business. I called Gleason's Gym, where pro Kiesher "Fire" McLeod-Wells told me they have approximately 80 trainers, nearly all of whom have female clients. Church Street Gym reported eight trainers on staff, plus independent contractors, none of whom discriminate against women.

On Douglas's loss to Esparza at the 2012 Olympic Trials: "White believes Douglas is a stronger fighter than Esparza, but she told me Douglas’s managers couldn’t raise enough money to make her an appealing candidate. (In cases like Douglas’s where there is no knockout, the winner is determined based on the judges' assessment.) Many of the people I spoke with implied that for the cash-strapped Olympic team, a boxer with financial backing is an asset." 

Esparza beat Douglas 32-17 in the Olympic Trials. As I reported from ringside, the lopsided score did not reflect the strength of Douglas's performance, but Esparza was still the clear victor. This decision had nothing to do with sponsorships and everything to do with Esparza's superior ring generalship and conditioning. This was a double-elimination tournament, and Douglas's first loss had come earlier to Christina Cruz of New York, a fighter who moonlighted as a waitress to make ends meet. The winners of the other two divisions, Queen Underwood and Claressa Shields, were also cash-strapped.

"The media has disarmed Esparza, reducing her from a skilled athlete to just another frivolous female celebrity." 

Jenkins does to Esparza precisely what she criticizes others for. There is no mention of Esparza's recent gold at the Women's World Championships in Korea, nor is Esparza interviewed in this piece, despite being the most thoughtful and quotable of boxers. Moreover, not all media have taken the reductive approach: Sue Jaye Johnson at WNYC, independent journalist Raquel Ruiz, and Girlboxing's Malissa Smith have all written about Esparza's achievements from a pure boxing perspective.

"Even for the rare sex symbol like Esparza, it’s hard to sustain a lucky streak. Once Esparza leaves the Olympics to go pro, Nelson speculates that her sponsors will drop her."

Esparza's bone structure may be due to luck, but nothing else about her career is, and why should we believe Nelson's mildly embittered speculations about Esparza's sponsors? As Mikaela Mayer - a technically excellent and physically beautiful boxer sponsored by Dr. Pepper - once told me, it's hard work to close these deals and to maintain your performance under the added pressure of corporate patronage. Dealing with suits takes a certain decorum and reliability in short supply in boxing gyms. Why didn't Jenkins interview some of the A-siders who could have spoken from the inside about the devil's bargain of sexing up yourself to sell? 

"The addition of women’s boxing to the Olympic lineup ultimately means little if the boxers still can’t expect to make a living as professional athletes afterwards." 

The addition of women's boxing to the Olympic lineup means everything in the world to those of us who care about the sport. Christy Halbert, whose advocacy helped secure the Olympic inclusion, told me, "Not every woman boxer wants to turn pro. The fact that women can now be Olympic boxers has changed their lives. There are women in other countries who have money they wouldn't have if they hadn't won a medal. It can be a life-changer, not only for the boxer but for her whole family."

 

Visitation from a Champion

 

Claressa Shields, reigning Olympic and World Champion, came to visit my gym yesterday!

Bottom row (Left to Right): Nyisha "Siyah" Goodluck, Me, Little Nick Scaturchio, Claressa "T-Rex" Shields, Chris "BHopp" Colbert 

Top Row: Tara Ciccone, Mo, Hamza Alhumaidi, Reshat "The Albanian Bear" Mati, Coach Aureliano Sosa, Richardson "Africa" Hitchins, Bruce "Shu Shu" Carrington, Jr, Akil "That Guy" Auguste, Coach Hilergio "Quiro" Bracero, Derrel "Bro Man" Williams

I was so happy watching Claressa shadowbox in the ring while the kids gathered around asking about her fights and her training. I consider this Darshan for my boxers. Claressa is the best woman in the world at what she does, perhaps the best woman boxer ever. Seeing that can change you. 

It's been a rough fall. Over at our gym blog, I've posted a tribute to a young man who was shot to death in Brownsville.

I haven't been doing much writing, but I have essays coming out soon in Penthouse Forum and the Threepenny Review. Here's hoping Claressa was Darshan for me, too.