Right as my great-grandfather was saying this, I kid you not, Laila Ali—the Laila Ali—passed by us.
“Jesselyn, go over and introduce yourself,” my greatgrandfather said.
“No way!”
“Ohhh, don’t be silly. Take it from a wise old man—don’t let any opportunity pass you by. She crossed your path—your path—for a reason. Embrace it!”
It did feel like fate, and she was larger than life! (Truly, I didn’t expect her to be so tall.)
I jogged over to her. “Can I take a photo with you?” I asked a little sheepishly.
“Of course!” she said. She hugged me in the photo and told me to never give up.
“Ms. Ali,” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Why do you box?”
She laughed. “I box to feel free,” she said. Her smile relaxed.
That was such a good answer, I thought. I should start saying that.
It was the truest answer I had heard about my sport. I box to feel free. It wasn’t just about punching people. It was about feeling something deeper. I loved the way it felt to move in the ring, make my opponent miss and land a solid hit. What I loved most was the release of energy and the feeling of strength boxing gave me. It felt so good to feel strong! And to be able to do it with skill, strength, control, and discipline . . . That’s freedom. Some people think freedom means being a little out of control or without limits, like when you go exploring in the woods alone. But for me freedom was to be completely in control in a tight space with an opponent rushing toward me.
I loved the way it felt to overcome the things I didn’t like to do. I didn’t like to run. In fact, I hated the treadmill. Running two miles during training was at one time torture for me . . . but now it’s not so bad. Some days I even look forward to running.
My brother started giving me the business after Laila Ali walked away. Teasing me and jabbing at me. So I threw a few jabs back.
“Hey, you’ve got good form,” a man passing by said.
“Oh, thanks.”
“Are you a boxer?”
“Yeah, I box,” I said with fake modesty.
“Can I see a few more moves?”
I showed him some of my moves—a backhand hook, shoulder slip, duck under, a little bob and weave.
“Very nice. You need a little help with your footwork. Where are you from?”
“Bergenfield, New Jersey,” I told him.
“I’m right across the river in New York. My name is Carl.”
Carl was a gray-haired, middle-aged Puerto Rican man. He was strong and in good shape, and you could just tell by the way he spoke and carried himself that he was probably a strict coach.
We shook hands.
“I’m training for the Junior Olympics,” I said proudly.
“Well that would be quite an accomplishment if you got there. Who are you working with now?” he asked.
“Don Somerville.”
“Oh really? Don’s a great guy . . . You’re more than welcome to come to my gym. You ask him, okay? Tell Don you met me and I’d like to work with you.”
Turns out Carl was a head coach for the women’s boxing team at the New York Athletic Club—one of the nicest, fanciest clubs in New York City.
“You coach women?!” I asked.
“Yes, three or four at a time.”
“Wow! I’ve never met a boxing coach who trains that many women at once.”
“Well, now you have. Jess, you’ve got some really good moves. Would you consider training with me for the summer at the NYAC?”
“Really?!”
I couldn’t believe my ears! I could already imagine writing my summer essay for school. It would begin “‘My Summer Vacation’ by Jesselyn Silva. I spent my entire summer training with Carl, an elite coach at the New York Athletic Club. The New York Athletic Club. I worked out and sparred with top athletes by day and dined on the finest meals by night . . .”
“Well, hang on a second,” said my father cautiously.
My summer essay came to a screeching halt. I knew there would be a “hang on a second” somewhere in there.
“It’s gonna be kinda hard to swing it, you know . . .” my father said.
“Yes, I understand it would be a big commitment for you,” Carl said. “I’ll coach her for free for the summer”—he looked at me—“if you promise to work really hard and be serious about it.”
We exchanged numbers and he said, “I see a spark in you, Jess. Not all boxers have it, but you do. Think about training with me.” He walked away. I was so happy to meet a coach who worked with women!
“Papi, please can we, can we please?!”
“I don’t think so, Jess. How am I gonna get you to the city, and Jesiah, and work . . . Besides, you know how those gyms are. I just wanna know their real agenda. Are they trying to help or do they just want to cash in?”
It was true. The boxing world was messed up that way. A lot of the well-known gyms are just out to produce the biggest names in boxing—and they start them young. I’d heard of coaches buying kids cars and equipment, clothes, watches, phones, whatever to get them to commit to their gym. They tell them they’re great, that they’re the best, but it’s all about the reputation of the gym. Then they use them up and spit them out if they don’t make the cut.
Abuelo chimed in, “Oh, Pedrito, don’t overthink it. Give Jesselyn the opportunity of a lifetime. These kinds of things only come around once—take it from a wise old man.”
It was a deal! I would begin training with Carl in the summertime.
That night my great-grandfather barely touched his food.
“Abuelo, are you feeling okay?” I asked.
“I knew the Golden Gloves would be too much for you,” said Papi.
“No, no, it was wonderful! Being around all those strong women, Jess. It was good for you to experience it. Such talent in those women. You have given an old man a day to remember.”
* * *
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO find parking near Central Park, where the New York Athletic Club is. We had made a deal that I would train with Carl in the summertime on heavy footwork but still continue training at the PAL with Don. We finally found a parking spot several blocks away. My father complained the entire walk to the gym that he was going to get a parking ticket anyway and he should have sucked it up and paid for a parking garage. “But forty-five dollars for a couple hours of parking? That’s crazy. I’m not paying that!”
When we got to the front door of the athletic club, a very large, very muscular man in a doorman’s uniform stopped us. “No suit, no entry,” he said to my father, holding out his hand firmly.
“What do you mean, no suit, no entry. We’re going to the gym.”
“Yeah, there’s a dress code.”
“For the gym?!”
“To enter the building.” He showed us the dress code explaining the rules.
GENTLEMEN—Jackets are optional in most areas. Slacks, a collared shirt and dress shoes are permitted. Shirts must be tucked in. Jackets are required in the Main Dining Room and Cocktail Lounge.
LADIES—Permitted attire refers to business suits, tailored pant or skirt ensembles, and dresses. Spandex, open midriffs, halter tops, leggings, denim and extremely short hemlines (more than 3” above the knee, as a guideline) are not permitted.
JEANS, T-SHIRTS, SNEAKERS AND FLIP-FLOPS ARE PROHIBITED.
Jesiah thought it was hysterical that you had to get dressed up to go inside a place to dress down into sweats.
“Listen, we don’t have formal clothes with us. My daughter is a boxer, and she was invited here by one of your trainers to use your gym.”
“Name of the trainer?” the doorman said matter-of-factly.
“Carl.”
“Last name?”
Papi stumbl
ed for a bit . . . He couldn’t remember Carl’s last name.
“One moment, please,” the doorman said with a sigh.
The doorman went inside and made a phone call. When he came out, he said, “Are you Jesselyn?”
“Yes,” I mumbled, a bit intimidated by the situation.
“You? You were invited to train here? You must be pretty talented, because I’ve never seen someone so young train here before.”
He told us we could enter through the back entrance near the dumpsters and take the service elevator.
“This is cool! It’s like a bat cave!” Jesiah said.
The New York Athletic Club was large! Large fancy and large huge. I’d known it was going to be nice, but I’d never thought it would be so over-the-top. It offered everything a boxer could need and want and more. This was no little gym, like the kind I was used to. No sweaty-sock smell or rubbed-raw boxing mats or splintery gym floors or mop-water-smelling locker rooms. It smelled like fresh laundry in the locker room and chlorine in the hallways. The boxing gym was on the seventh floor—to get there you traveled up an elevator past several other gyms specific to individual sports. The swimming pool (and sauna and whirlpool tub) were on one floor; and a running track, full-size basketball court, cardio equipment, and weights were on another. Squash and racquetball courts were on almost every floor, and there was a wellness center and physical therapy floor, handball, and a dojo floor, as well as wrestling and fencing in the basement. This place was unreal! And I was going to be training here! Then the elevator rang at the seventh floor. I couldn’t believe my eyes: it was the fanciest, most state-of-the-art boxing facility I’d ever seen. “Spotless!” my father said. And it was. It was as if not one drop of sweat had ever hit the floor. Two boxing rings, tons of heavy and speed bags, plus anything you could ask for as far as strength and endurance equipment . . . They had it all. They even had central AC! Not one creaky fan in the place. Some of the places I boxed in didn’t even have fans.
“Olympic medalists train here,” Papi said, “so of course they’re gonna have AC.”
We all laughed.
“It feels like Christmas!” I said.
“You’re never gonna wanna leave,” said Jesiah, who was busy touching everything.
“This is just for the summer, Jess, so don’t get too pie in the sky,” Papi said. “But make it count, you know?”
“How much do you think it costs to be a member here?” I asked him.
“Very, very expensive. Nothing that I could afford.”
Jesiah and I both said, “Ohhhhhhh” at the same time.
My father then explained that unlike other gyms, you can’t just pay online and be a member or anything like that. You have to get invited to be a member—then you have to interview with board members, and get accepted like it’s some sort of college. I kind of didn’t like that part of it because it didn’t seem very welcoming; in my other gyms, no one ever needed an invitation to join. But this one was really, really swanky!
Little did I expect that it would be such a grueling summer—I trained with Carl three days a week and we focused solely on footwork, which is his specialty. He placed cones in a line and I jumped over them. Again. And again. And . . . again. His workouts were some of the toughest conditioning I’d ever experienced. My body ached. Muscles I never knew I had ached. Even my head ached. But man, my leg muscles got strong.
Carl said, “One reason a lot of boxers lose fights is that they don’t have strong enough legs for a long fight. I’ve seen guys out there collapse in the third round not from a punch but because they couldn’t support their shaking muscles any longer.”
So we kept training until fatigue set in, and then we’d train more.
“You’re not going to lose on a standing eight-count because of your own exhaustion, okay, Jess?”
Between huffs and puffs, I said okay.
An eight-count is like a knockdown without really being knocked down. In amateur boxing, a ref calls an eight-count if he or she notices a boxer being hit with several hard shots. In some cases, an eight-count can be given after even just one power punch. It depends on the ref.
We worked on balance drills, and I focused on blocking and staying upright. I studied boxing moves, focused on stance and balance, strengthened my footwork, and practiced learning how to read my opponents better. We worked on combinations and the angles of my punches over and over and over again. And when I was finished doing a full day with Carl, I’d wake up the next day and do a full workout with Don.
Their coaching styles were different. Carl was quieter and concentrated on movement, footwork, and getting inside your opponent. Don was loud and pushed his fighters to use their reach, to keep their distance, to work the opponent from the outside. Getting inside your opponent means you get as close to them as you can without getting knocked around, and it is critical for a boxer to know how to get inside and be able to do it well, because it not only allows a fighter to stay on top of their opponent, but puts them in close range to get solid and more accurate hits. You also have to be able to adjust as a boxer, so being able to defend from the outside is just as important, because it allows a fighter to keep their opponent away through jabs and straight punches. Boxing, in that sense, is a game of inches, and every inch counts. It might sound confusing to some people, but having knowledge in both areas of working a fighter from mental strength and physical strength is really important for a boxer.
Boxing, in that sense, is a game of inches, and every inch counts.
As the summer came to a close, I knew I wasn’t going to return to work with Carl, and it was a bittersweet feeling. Bitter because I loved working with Carl and I would miss him and everyone I had met there. Everybody at the New York Athletic Club was genuine and helpful and made me feel like I belonged there. Sweet because it was getting too hard for Papi to get me there all the time—and even harder to find parking! And yes, he did get a ticket on the first day. During the third week, his car got towed because he parked too close to a fire hydrant. In New York City you can’t be closer than fifteen feet, and Papi was about a foot shy of that. When he asked a taxi driver where they took cars when they towed them in New York City, the driver said, “It’s your lucky day . . . I’m on my lunch break and will take you there for free.” But it wasn’t Papi’s lucky day, because it cost us three hundred dollars to get our car back. A few weeks after the towing incident, we got into a minor car accident on the way home from the club. As he exchanged insurance information with the sweet lady who had bumped into us, he said, “I’m done with New York!”
“I’m done with New York too,” I told Papi. “But it was worth it!” I smiled.
Carl called a month after school started. “Hi, Jesselyn, how are you doing?”
I loved hearing his voice again. “Hi, Carl!” I was genuinely surprised he had called.
“There’s a group of fighters coming all the way from Ireland . . . and . . .”
“And?” I said with excitement and anticipation.
He laughed. “There’s a girl your age . . . Well, she’s a little older, but she doesn’t have as much experience under her belt as you do. I think you’d be an even match. You interested?”
Was I interested?! I jumped for joy!
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN YOUR FEET STOP MOVING, TROUBLE STARTS
The fight with the Irish girl was a last-minute thing. Carl told me about it on a Friday, and I was weighing in on Saturday. It was at the famous Gleason’s Gym in Brooklyn, New York. People call Gleason’s the Cathedral of Boxing because not only is it the oldest and most popular boxing gym in the world, but they’re known for churning out top-ranked contenders, especially in the Irish fight scene. It’s kind of like a museum when you walk in: photos of fighters everywhere and trophies and memorabilia and funny signs like the one in bold letters that says “No smoking or spitting on the floor.” To
fight at Gleason’s? Saying it was an honor was an understatement.
I hadn’t trained with Carl since the summer, and it was a chilly October morning when I walked through the door and first spotted my opponent. I felt ready . . . until I saw the girl. Her name was Lorraine, and she was much taller and older than I expected, and much, much bigger. She had this beautiful, thick, sandy-blond hair, fair skin, a strong body, and a wild look in her eye.
“Are you nervous, Papi?”
“No, why would you say that?”
I giggled at the sweat on his shirt.
As you enter the gym, there’s a big yellow sign on the wall with a quote by the poet Virgil: “Now, whoever has courage and a strong and collected spirit in his breast let him come forward, lace on the gloves and put up his hands.” Courage and a collected spirit in my breast . . . Carl came over to me as I was studying the quote on the wall.
“What do you think of Virgil’s words?” he asked me.
“They’re okay, but it would be better if it said courage in her breast! Next time I’m here, I’ll bring a black Sharpie and make a few edits.”
He laughed. “I have a feeling you’re going to do all right today.”
I was secretly very nervous, but didn’t show it, mostly because I didn’t want to worry Papi.
The two teams fighting each other were New York Metro versus Ireland. I was fighting for Metro. The Irish team had come all the way from Ireland just to box. For some reason, that made me really nervous. If she’d flown all the way from Ireland to fight an American girl, Lorraine must be pretty serious.
A familiar voice behind me called my name. It was a boxer named Sylvie I’d met in Florida a few months earlier at the Golden Gloves tournament. She’s Puerto Rican with a great Southern accent, and really tall with long brown hair and brown eyes.
“You boxing that one?” She pointed to the tall Irish girl.
“Yeah, and I’m kinda freaking out.”
My Corner of the Ring Page 9
