“Come on, stop fighting at arm’s length,” Don was yelling. “Jess!” Yelling louder.
Don wasn’t the kind of coach who got mad easily, unless you weren’t listening. But he was a loud coach, he was a passionate coach, and he liked to yell. He liked to show what he was capable of doing as a coach, but he reserved screaming for when it was absolutely necessary. That day it was necessary. Round one was over, and it had been a disaster. I’d been thrown around badly.
“Don’t get off the game plan. Get your head back in it.”
I spat water into the bucket. “I can beat her.”
“I know you can. She’s throwing her punches fast, so slow her down by working off your feint. Work the ring and your combinations. Don’t let her dictate the fight.”
“Okay . . .” The bell rang for round two.
I thought about the combinations I had worked on over and over again. I got in with several one-two-five-twos (jab-cross-left-uppercut-cross) and knocked her off balance.
“Yeah, Jess! Again!”
So again with a combination. I had picked up so many moves in the previous several months of training that they were working themselves. Round two was mine.
When the bell for round three rang, I came in hard and fast and got a little overly confident.
“Come on, girl!” I said to her. And threw a punch that barely hit her.
“That’s all you got?” she said.
We were both tired toward the end, but she put on the pressure. She handed me some big hooks. Even the ref grimaced. A couple twos missed her, and I ended up pulling back. I looked at Don and he was clapping to show his support . . . but I felt like I could have done more. After the fight I was furious with myself. I didn’t even care this time that it was one more sanctioned fight closer to the Junior Olympics. I wanted to win. Maybe if I had trained harder, maybe if I hadn’t taken three days off right before the fight . . . maybe . . . maybe . . .
I had learned my lesson about fighting outside the ring, and I had gained a deeper respect for what’s done inside it. The boxing ring, that beautiful square, had become my wild country. It’s where I would roam. It’s where I could blaze a trail and learn about myself. When I was outside that space, I would put on my street clothes and go back to being a kid. I thought again about that quote from Virgil that I had read at Gleason’s: “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.”
A strong and collected spirit. Maybe that’s what power is about. It isn’t about using it whenever you want, it’s keeping a collected spirit and using strength when it’s most needed.
I stared at my dream calendar during the days I was grounded. It had changed several times since my first draft. I had made it more colorful and neater, but my goals were mostly the same:
WIN MY FIRST MATCH (which I did)
FIGHT IN GOLDEN GLOVES (going to happen when I’m able to at age sixteen!)
QUALIFY FOR JUNIOR OLYMPICS (yet to be determined)
WIN JUNIOR OLYMPICS (yet to be determined)
(LOTS OF BLANK SPACES FOR MORE GOALS HERE . . .)
FIGHT AT MADISON SQUARE GARDEN (will happen someday!)
I made a new goal on my dream calendar after the fight with the Rhode Island girl—one I would probably work at my entire life. It read:
BE A BETTER ME!
CHAPTER NINE
SAVING FACE
Around the time I lost to Lindsay from Rhode Island, I began to notice that my approach to boxing was changing even more—or maybe my mind-set was changing. Whatever it was, something about the sport felt different to me. It wasn’t instant, like a light bulb going on and off; it was more a kind of force that I could feel building from within. When I first started to box, Papi and I would joke that I was whacking at the bag to “get my crazies out.” But lately I had been thinking that that wasn’t why I boxed anymore. The things that got me into the ring in the first place—it looked fun, I liked punching people—still got me motivated, but what I’d begun to like most about boxing wasn’t about the hitting or even that I was getting into a ring to fight; it was that when I boxed, no one else could enter the ring with me to fight for me. It was just me against my opponent in there, sweating it out. It was mine to win and it was mine to lose. Instead of getting my crazies out, I was thinking about getting inside myself more and how to get inside my opponent. It’s what happens as your skills as a boxer improve—instead of it being just a physical sport, it becomes a deeply mental one.
I wanted to fuel my strengths in other ways. I continued to train harder and stay focused and use boxing as my outlet for whatever was going on outside the ring, but I also wanted to figure out how I was going to be a better me. I decided the best place to begin was to look at my bad habits. In the ring I had a few bad habits, like not moving my head enough and dropping my lead hand at times, and I wasn’t good at getting inside my opponents yet.
Other bad habits I wanted to correct were biting my nails, not making my bed in the morning, forgetting to say my prayers at night, not doing my homework, forgetting stuff at school, and, my worst offense, according to Papi, leaving the rubber bands for my braces on the kitchen table. Those were the first bad habits that came to mind. I figured if I could break some bad habits, if I could let go of the bad stuff, I could make more space for good habits and clear my mind of the negative that sometimes invaded my thoughts.
Good and bad habits aside, the only true way to get really good at boxing was to focus on my craft daily. So I increased my hours at the gym. I sparred with my teammates, my coaches, friends of teammates, visiting boxers at the gym, anyone willing to get in the ring for some technical sparring. I hungered for fights, and Don went looking.
One day he told me he had arranged a fight for me in Paterson, New Jersey, with a girl from Philly named Cassidy. She would be one of the toughest competitors I’d faced yet, because her record was 6-0 and she had a reputation for being strong and scrappy.
Cassidy weighed five pounds more than me at weigh-in, but it was close enough to count as a sanctioned fight. She was tall and lean with long, slinky arms, and she glared at me with a look of determination. I really liked that, because it upped my game. We were both there to win, and we were going to challenge each other. I couldn’t wait to get into the ring . . . Of course, Papi was pacing back and forth. The anticipation grew as our hands were wrapped and our coaches gave us final words of advice. Don said to me, “With a fighter like this, everything is going to happen really quickly. There’s a lot you’re going to be taking in all at once. Just focus on what you’ve learned. Stay relaxed and have fun.”
“And protect your face,” Papi interrupted.
“Yes, protect your face,” Don said. “This girl is coming into this match with confidence—she hasn’t lost yet. Let’s see if you can be the first to beat her.”
Papi added, “She might have a record of 6-0, but it doesn’t mean anything, you know?”
“After this match, she’ll know what it feels like to lose,” I said with confidence.
As the three of us continued our prefight talk, I noticed my mom and members of her side of the family walk into the gym, including my half sister, who was four years old. It was my mom’s first time watching me fight, along with my aunt and a little cousin. They all lived near Paterson, so it made sense that they would show up, especially since my dad had mentioned the fight to my mom. And the reason Papi had mentioned it to her was that she was planning to be with us that weekend. I guess seeing her there made me both a little nervous and really excited, because all of a sudden my heart started to beat out of my chest. Focus, Jess, focus, I thought. I was dying to show my mom my skills. I wanted to win more than anything now!
Just before the match started, I walked over and said hi to her. My mother hugged me and wished me luck, and tol
d me to kick some butt. Then she gave Jesiah a great big hug and spun him around. I was glad she was there.
I always thought it was cool to see my mom and dad in the same room together. They were really nice to each other—it wasn’t weird or awkward like in some families. And when I would ask Papi why he doesn’t look for another woman to marry, he would just say, “Naw, I have no time for marriage. I don’t want that for us—at least not in the ‘I do,’ ring-on-the-finger sort of way . . . Besides, what do you need a stepmom for when you’ve got your mother? Just because she only visits on the weekends doesn’t mean you’ve got any less of a mother.” It was very true, and I needed to be reminded of that.
The fight started quickly after the announcer introduced us, and Cassidy came in fast. But I was going to bring the fight to her, and I came in just as hard. We were both landing our shots, and neither of us were backing down. It was a solid first round, and there was some aggressive punching on full display.
The thirty-second bell rang and Don called “alpha time.” In boxing, your coach will call out a code word or phrase to indicate that there’s thirty seconds left on the clock. It tells the boxer they need to use every ounce of energy they have left. Before each match, Don and I would come up with a code phrase. In the last fight it was “Be different!” this time, “alpha time.”
“Come on, Jess, no time to waste,” I heard Papi yell.
“Extra push, extra push!” called Don.
“Give it your all!” Papi said.
Family members chanted, “Go, Jesszilla!”
Time goes by quickly when you’re watching someone else fight, but when you’re in the ring, especially in those last thirty seconds of a round, time moves slowly. Every hit, every move matters.
In those last few seconds, I landed some pretty hard punches on Cassidy and could hear my mother cheering for me. I thought, Yaaayyyy, I like this feeling. So I landed another and another. I could hear my father say, “Let’s go, Jess,” and Don say, “Pick up your hands,” and before I knew it, the bell had rung and the round was over. Because I’d gotten a late start in the round, I couldn’t tell if I’d won or lost, but I knew I’d ended it solidly and that my opponent knew I meant business.
“Okay, you’re doing well keeping up with her, but you need to move your head and get inside of her more,” said Don.
I took a swig of water. “Okay.”
“And you’re dropping your hands. Gotta keep them up.”
“Okay, pick up my hands,” I said.
The bell rang for round two and I busted out. I threw some of my hardest punches at her, and for every four I landed, she landed one.
I had the hometown advantage, and the crowd was definitely on my side. Every time I landed a solid punch, the gym cheered and I thought, Yes! I want to do that again and get the crowd cheering more!
I counterpunched and got out of range of her hits more quickly.
In the second round I came out with force and even got an eight-count on her. “I’m coming for you!” I said with a fierceness I was learning to enjoy.
By the third round I had gotten the advantage, waited for her, got inside of her, struck hard, and before I knew it, the fight was over.
All three rounds had been a solid battle. Our bodies were heaving and bruised. The judges’ decision on who had won would be close. I was pretty sure I would come out victorious. But you never know how they’re gonna score a fight.
Cassidy and I stood in the center of the ring with the ref, waiting for the results . . . The win went to . . . “the red corner.” The Philly girl had won? Even Cassidy was surprised. I could hear my family screaming. There was still clapping for Cassidy, but the crowd was questioning why the blue corner hadn’t won. “I don’t know!” a person in the crowd said loudly. “Jess was robbed!”
“No way, judges!” Papi’s brother yelled. “Come on—you’re kidding, right? Jess was the clear winner!”
Don was upset and started to question the judges’ decision. “Our opponent got an eight-count the second round!” He said. But their decision was made.
After the match, I was given a second-place medal but I was so angry at not winning that I threw it on the ground. Don yelled at me. “Hey, my boxers don’t act like that. Pick up your medal and always remember it’s not a loss, it’s a lesson.” My mother was disappointed that I didn’t get the decision. Everyone was disappointed. And I was disappointed not only because I had lost, but because I had really wanted to show my mom how strong I was. Later she would tell me she already knew how strong I was and also how proud she is to have me as a daughter . . . but it would have been nice to land the win anyway.
It’s not a loss, it’s a lesson.
I had never seen Don and my father so upset. The decision was split two to one, and the ref said to my father afterward, “I really thought your daughter won.” But scoring a fight is a weird thing. You’d think it would be easy and straightforward, but it’s one of the most flawed things about boxing. The way it’s supposed to work is that judges score by the number of punches thrown. If you get knocked down, you lose a point. Sometimes they use a ten-point system in amateur boxing—which is the same system they use in professional boxing. Yet boxers get robbed by the judges all the time, especially if you have a home-court advantage.
Judges are looking for hard, clean punches when you fight. Defense is just as important—how solidly a boxer is slipping, parrying, and blocking shots, whether you’re controlling the ring and enforcing your will and style. But many boxers have had some pretty bad decisions called on matches they clearly won.
Don walked over to the girl’s coach and talked to him calmly. When he was finished talking, the coaches shook hands and Don came back to our raucous group.
“Listen. There’s a show in Long Branch, New Jersey, tomorrow. The girl’s coach said she would stay another day and fight you in a rematch.”
“Yes!” I said.
“Well, wait . . . hold up,” said Papi. “You’re okay for back-to-back fights?”
“Papi—I want to beat this girl . . . I did beat this girl. I want to prove it. I’m not even tired!”
It was settled. A rematch on Sunday. A chance for redemption.
The next morning I was a bit sore and felt disorganized, but I was more ready than I had been the previous day. Usually I packed my gym bag the night before a match, but I was so focused on the rematch and rattled by the loss on Saturday that I forgot to get everything together. One of my lucky socks was missing, and I couldn’t find any hair ties, but fortunately my dad always kept spare hair ties in the car. We got there . . . and it turned out that our rematch was the first fight of the day. “Good!” my dad said. He wouldn’t have to go through the anxiety of waiting.
The weigh-in went smoothly, and I shook Cassidy’s hand firmly then walked away without saying a word. Usually I was fine with talking to my opponents, but that day I had come to take care of business. Also, I could tell Cassidy was on cloud nine from the victory she had stolen from me the day before. I knew she thought it was going to be a cakewalk: get in and get out. But it was not going to go her way today! The girl just looked way too confident. I was pretty calm, and ready for the rematch. Don hadn’t shown up yet, and I started to wonder if he was okay. He was never late. Then Papi delivered the bad news. “Don just called . . . He forgot he has to attend his nephew’s birthday party today, and his wife isn’t letting him out of it.” My eyes went wide. I hadn’t fought a match without Don in my corner in a very long time. “But Joe and Mark are here, and they’ll coach you through it.” Joe and Mark were coaches from my gym, but truthfully, it didn’t matter who was coaching me that day: I had come to win. I had come for blood. I wasn’t going to lose. My ego had been bruised the day before. Not today. I’d dominate every round so the judges would have no choice but to give me the decision.
But as I was getting ready to enter
the ring, I realized I had forgotten my headgear. And I completely panicked.
“Papi!” I said as I dug through my bag just to double-check. “I didn’t pack my headgear.”
I thought he was going to flip his lid—he was the most orderly person, and hated when things didn’t go smoothly. “Jess,” he said, trying not to seem upset. “Where do you think you left it?”
“I think I left it at yesterday’s match.”
I had been so furious about the decision that I didn’t even remember packing up my stuff to leave. I was sure it was still there, sitting on some bench.
“Don’t worry about it; we’ll find someone else’s you can borrow.”
I could always rely on my father.
I raced around looking for anyone I knew, and luckily found a couple of teammates who were fighting that day. “Hey, Brian, can I borrow your headgear?”
“My headgear?”
“Yeah. I’m the first match and I forgot to pack it.”
“Yeah, sure, Jess, but it ain’t gonna fit.”
“I don’t care—I need something!”
“Okay. Good luck, Jesszilla.” With that, he handed me his headgear, but just looking at it, I knew it was going to be way too big.
Papi and I quickly adjusted the Velcro, but even at its tightest, it was too large. I was worried the refs weren’t going to let me fight, so I turned my one ponytail into two buns and shoved them in to try to get it even tighter.
Papi shook his head. “Let’s hope this works . . .”
Just as I was heading to the ring, I noticed a familiar face smiling and waving at me. It was Mackenzie and her father. She had come! I exhaled, gave her a huge smile and waved back.
My Corner of the Ring Page 11
