... on a dreary damp day ...

LET ME CLEAR MY THROAT…

Two things … 1) This is an actual diary. I appreciate readers and all comments … but if my occasional “epic” entries bother you, I apologise … sorta. Because I don’t necessarily want to annoy anyone, this is by me for me. I preface this entry cause I feel a “whoot” comin’ on ..! 2) I believe very much that change comes when you change you. I am reorganizing how I think and experience life and I kind of thinks that it works …

… that said …

I am feeling rather dandy this morning. My weight is coming down and I wanted to keep it going. To accomplish this, I went on a ‘extended run’ which is where I categorize my runs of 4 plus miles. Runs like that really clear the ol’ noggin out of random debris, allowing for the birds, butterflies and squirrels to sit in the meadows of my thoughts.

Today I was taken back to when I first gained UP to where I am now at. I am a small heavyweight, by ANY standards. Going about 5’11 and 208lbs when I turned pro, I was a little guy fighting mammoths. I did have success though, but after my first loss, my ‘brain trust’ chalked it up to me needing to put on a little weight and a little more mass. It made sense, so I started to edge my way up.

SECOND CUP CAFÉ

 I have had my call ups to maybe making it into the big time. I snuck in a won a couple of times I prolly wasn’t supposed to, then when I could have thru a leg over the fence, got laid out. That is what spurred the decision to add weight. Won a few more fights, then got another call to fight on small time cable, which is big enough. It was a tough fight, but I managed to get the win.

The kid was an African émigré (what is with me fighting these Africans? I know now in hindsight, but in the moment I was like ‘What?’). He was big 6’4 and 245 - 250. He did have a softness around his middle, and though he was muscular, he wasn’t tight. Me at 225, I was cut from stone with a diamond drill (no really, I was).

The tension was thick for me. This cat had deep pockets behind him. I was brought in for HIM to fight … so I was behind the eight ball. Small town hick, used to fighting at saloons and in barns against farmers and milkmen, the deep pockets were thinking. Get a TV win and move on to the next step in ‘Kong’s’ development. That was the score, is the score, and will be the score. I was fighting from Carolina, and the wins that I had didn’t mean as much. The one big win was being looked at as the other guys’ ‘off night’ as much as I was a good boxer, especially after my bad loss. So this was going to be my chance to get my name back out a little, in the boxing circles.

Pretty Ballerina

I ‘fought’ my way up to my ‘deuce and a quarter’, meaning that there were stops at intermediate weights to see how I would carry it. So when I took the match, I was legitimately 225. I didn’t have any smart aleck remarks for this guy … I played humble because I had BEEN humbled. I just wanted to get into the ring.

Being a ‘small’ guy is a disadvantage in sports. But of course, you can change it to a positive thing, once you wrap your mind around the concept that you have no choice but to do what you need to in order to win. He’s 6’4 … I’m 5’11 … Honey, I tried to told you, the secret is OUT! I am going to be in his punching range for a looong time when we are engaged … and even when I am out of range for me, I am STILL in range for him.

I have never been a graceful guy. I have been an ‘ambler’ since I was small. Can’t dance, never thought about it growing up (didn’t matter … no one invited me to parties no how!), and I was otherwise graceless in all movements …

… except in sports. When I learned how to box … violence became the meter to which my movements would keep time to. When I learned how to impose my will upon another person physically, I may have well been modern dancer.

This cat, while similar to another big guy from Africa (sorry, I didn’t catch the nationality … I was too busy trying to figure out how to beat him down to ask), he was different in that he had more will. See IMO, big guys are short on the heart part of things, because they are so big. Cats like me, I don’t necessarily scare anyone. So when it comes time to pull cards, people will pull mine. But Mammoth guys don’t get called out, and if someone makes the mistake of starting trouble, THEIR heart isn’t in it … and when the big guy swings, they are ready to fall. Me, that ISN’T how I am cut. If he isn’t Sonny Liston reincarnated, I am going to take a run at him!

But I had been chin checked. And I NEEDED this win. So there was only one way for me to approach this fight … all in, no tomorrow, charge of the light brigade, and any other literary device you think would fit.

I have done a lot of ‘tough things’ in my life. But this was the toughest, if for no other reason that I truly believed that I had to have that win. My world would have blinked out of existence had I lost that particular match. My being was brought to bear for the first and maybe only time in my life. No doubt, the story concludes with me pulling out a victory, an improbable eight round decision win.

IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SO EASY

For the other cat. Not for me. Being the smaller guy I try to get to ring center first, and stake my spot in the ring out. If I let the big guy do it, I can count on a long night of eating jabs. I use my hand speed to land quicker blows, and I let the weight of my upper body carry the punch being the blows. The difference is kind of technical, and I don’t want to bore myself with that. This technique, is what I think ‘having heavy hands’ is about.

The first two rounds were about establishing my distance and making sure my speed could offset his strength. But at some point during the first two rounds, he caught me in the right eye and it began to puff up. This change my style from an ‘in and out’ kind of boxing, to a more stationary ‘Philly style’ where I hovered around his optimal punching range and slipped his punches. Didn’t have much choice if I wanted to see him and his punches. Letting him work freely to his left, my right would have rendered him virtually invisible. So I had to also manage to stay close to him as well.

You would think being so short, that I needed to do that anyway. But using my speed and the length in my arms, I could manage at range for periods of time. This though, was different. I had to not only find that range, but I was going to have to stay there if I had any chance of winning. And the kid had shown me that he wasn’t going to crumple like most big guys do. I made him grunt (it goes without saying that he had ME do the same thing) and he stayed in close and tried to match me on the inside. He prolly caught me in close with a accidental thumb on the inside. Or it could have been a hook. But he had heart and he wanted to win that fight.

But he didn’t have stamina to keep the pace that I had set. Not just a punching pace, but a movement pace. I kept stepping smartly around, turning him so I could see him. And just like the soldier’s at Bunker Hill, whenever I could see all of him, I let punches go at him. Not trying to go for the KO, because I didn’t want to risk a big exchange with him, but I tried to fill the air with punches in his direction. For whatever reason, African boxers aren’t all that nifty with their coordination. Even in the smaller weight classes, there is a stiffness to them. This translates to certain movements, classic and simple to American style boxing, is new for them. So I wasn’t really trying to break something new out, but the pressure for execution was great. I couldn’t afford to slip up. Not only was my eye swollen, but since I was banking on a decision to get the win, I had to worry about the judging.

In the sixth round, I finally saw fatigue settle him down. He activity had dropped and he started following me around the ring instead of cutting me off. I started throwing ‘fast ball’, quick short straight right hands that were more to slap and annoy than to hurt the guy. I needed to score points. Barring his complete collapse, he wasn’t going to go down.

He NEVER gave up. I can still hear his labored breathing as he leaned me into the ropes. Whining like a car engine in the RPM red zone, he kept pushing his punches at me, not really effective, but enough for me to be keenly aware that he wasn’t giving up. Since he wasn’t going to let me win, I went ahead and took it from him.

The last round, the writing was on the wall. Though the decision was a ‘majority split’, two judges giving me the fight, the third calling it even, the big cat kept lunging after me, sort of in the mind of Frankestein rampaging through the labrotory. Only the scientist wasn’t just running, but rifling off punches to surpress his advance.

It was a good win, and prolly the one I am most proud of. Not my biggest, not the one I looked the best. But the one that I felt in every fiber of my being I had to have, and I went out and got it. Wouldn’t ever win a fight at that level, but just like Rick and Ilsa will always have Paris, I will always have that win in rooty poo casino in flyover country ..!