As I stepped into the ring, it felt surreal, like I was floating, like I was on another level that day. There was a big crowd and lots of cheering on either side. Since we were the first fight of the day, people weren’t yet tired of watching match after match. All eyes were on us.
At the start of round one, I came out big and loud with my body. I was there to make a statement, and I did. Truthfully, round one wasn’t even a fight. I completely dominated, and by the time the bell rang, I knew I was going to be victorious.
But then in the second round, I went in too hard with a punch and strained my left biceps. I couldn’t let the judges see how hurt I was, so I pushed through it. But the pain was strong by the end of the round. Again, I came out on top. This one was mine.
I iced my arm for twenty seconds and was back in the ring to finish her, which I did with every ounce of strength I had in my body. I won in a unanimous decision by the judges.
I had enough sanctioned fights under my belt to compete in the Junior Olympics. Now all I had to do was win at regionals. I would train even harder.
* * *
AS MY FATHER tucked me in that night, I said, “Papi, I read in a library book that in the early days—”
“You mean when I was a kid?” he said jokingly.
“No, like when those old-fashioned cars were around.”
“So maybe you’re thinking of the early 1900s?”
“Yeah, then.”
“Okay, go on.”
“I read that in the early 1900s, the three most popular sports in the United States were baseball, horse racing, and boxing.”
“That sounds about right,” Papi said.
“Baseball is still popular,” I said, carefully studying my father’s reaction.
“Yes.”
“I guess horse racing is still popular—especially that race where all the ladies wear fancy hats.”
“The Kentucky Derby.”
“Yeah. It looks stupid, but people like it.”
“That’s because people like to gamble their money on it,” he said.
“And at one time, boxing was more popular than baseball.”
“Yeah . . . It was more popular. Because boxing is known to be the most difficult sport in the world.”
“The book said that boxing has lost its popularity over the years and that if you compare boxing with football or baseball, those sports have a lot more fans—and more well-known players—than boxing.”
“Well, I can see how that’s true.”
“Why?”
“Think about it. In football or baseball, there are one or two major playoff games or world series, and many of the players are known and have huge followings because of the state the team plays for. Boxing started with eight world championships, and now it’s grown to seventeen weight classes and four boxing organizations sanctioning fights. It’s harder to keep track of the boxers, and yes, the big championships are on late at night or you have to pay sixty dollars to watch it on pay-per-view . . .”
My father said his theory is that boxing has lost popularity because of bad judging and corruption.
“I just think it’s messed up, Papi. You don’t have to pay to watch the Super Bowl.”
“Well, I guess the point is, maybe the sport isn’t less popular; it just needs some fresh faces to get people interested in it so that championships aren’t on in the middle of the night.”
I said, “That’s me! I’m going to be that fresh face! I’m gonna be the next Laila Ali or Claressa Shields! I’m gonna bring boxing’s popularity back.”
“If you want change, be the change.”
“Hmm. Maybe I need a sponsor like Everlast or Under Armour,” I said, thinking out loud.
Papi hooted laughter. “Maybe you should just think about going to sleep.”
“If I had a sponsor like all the greats, I’d make girl boxing really popular!”
I jumped out of bed and ran over to my dream calendar. In purple Sharpie I wrote, “GET A SPONSOR!”
“I like your thinking!” Papi said.
In the boxing world, it’s hard for women to get sponsors. It’s all about image, and nobody wants to represent a bloodthirsty woman. So it was like that: without sponsors and coverage, women were left unseen more than seen. And in my opinion, that seemed bad for the sport of boxing.
CHAPTER TEN
GROWING A THICK SKIN
By now everyone in school knew me as the girl boxer. It might have had something to do with the local newspaper and television coverage that began to appear about my boxing journey and my desire to compete in the Junior Olympics. Mostly kids thought my goals were pretty cool. Sometimes it was the adults who had problems with it.
By now, at age twelve, I was receiving a lot of media coverage about my boxing career—and particularly about my goal of winning the Junior Olympics. Then an article about me appeared in a newspaper with worldwide readership. I made the mistake of scrolling through the readers’ comments on the newspaper’s website. There were many positive remarks: “Jess, you’re awesome! Keep up the hard work.” And “I think she’ll bring change to a sport that isn’t well understood. Go, Jesszilla!” But there were many negative comments as well. Like this one: “How can her parents expose her to such a violent sport at such a young age!” And “She doesn’t have any opponents to box because boxing for young kids is dangerous.” Another person commented, “She’ll break her pretty nose and be done with it.” Ouch! I thought. What kind of a person would write such a thing? And actually, I have the perfect nose for boxing. It’s flat enough not to bleed. I’ve never once gotten a bloody nose from fighting. (Knock on wood.) I’ve seen noses explode plenty of times—some boxers just have those kinds of noses; one tap in just the right spot, and it’s a gusher. Sometimes I’ve even been the one doing the exploding.
“Stop reading the comments!” Papi told me. “You’re always going to have critics in this sport, no matter if you’re a male or female. Boxing just always carries this shadow with it. So don’t fuel it.” Then he paused. “In fact,” he continued, “you’re always going to have critics in your life, not just in boxing, so my advice is to grow a thick skin.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Grow a thick skin is an expression that means don’t get upset when people have opinions about you or criticize you in any way. Because at the end of the day, they’re only just opinions and they don’t matter.”
Soon after the article appeared, which was when I was in sixth grade, I was in art class, my favorite subject in school, when I got some criticism from my art teacher. Art class was always on Monday, and usually I was glad to start the week that way. I loved to draw, especially superheroes . . . and Captain Underpants for Jesiah. I didn’t like to draw flowers or horses or balloons like some of the other girls. I don’t think my art teacher was thrilled that I was always drawing Spider-Man.
“It’s for my teammate Brian. He loves Spider-Man!”
“Maybe something else this week.”
“Why?”
“Because you are a talented artist and drawing many things will develop your skills.”
Along with being a boxer, I had a reputation for being a pretty good artist—at least that’s what my art teacher said. A few years ago, our school had a fire safety poster drawing contest and my “Hear the Beep When you Sleep” poster won second place.
This wasn’t the first time my art teacher had encouraged me to develop my talents. It also wasn’t the first time she suggested I draw something other than superheroes . . . I knew what she was getting at, so I pulled out a blank sheet of paper and drew a beach landscape. It actually wasn’t half bad. I made really good waves rolling along a shoreline, some birds in the sky, and a bright sun. I looked at it and it was pretty. To complete the picture, I drew Superman flying in the sky.
My art te
acher looked at the drawing and shook her head.
After class, I helped gather homework for Mackenzie, who had recently hurt her ankle when she fell down some stairs and was on crutches.
My middle school was big—three floors big. So big that it even had an elevator, but you could only use it if you were injured or had a disability. It was so awesome helping Mackenzie around for that week, because we got to use the elevator and could be late to all our classes. After art class, she and I were late for science and rode up and down the elevator, laughing, until a teacher told us to get to class.
On our way to science I told her about an upcoming sparring match I had with a boy at the gym.
“You like this kid?”
“What do you mean? Yeah, he’s my friend.”
“No, I mean like-like.”
“No way! Do I look like an adult to be thinking that way? Gross! He’s like a brother to me. Yuck!”
“Why do you always have to box boys?”
“Because there aren’t a lot of girls to box. If more girls boxed, then I’d be sparring with girls.”
I was always trying to explain to my friends at school that boxing was as much of an art form and a sport as any of their hobbies. Blood, sweat, and tears were my fists of ink. My ducks and dodges on the mat were like any dance move.
We entered the science classroom, and all eyes turned to us.
“Glad you got here, ladies,” our science teacher said. “Mackenzie, I hope your leg is feeling better. Go get your bridges at the back counter.”
In science class, the challenge that week had been to make a bridge out of exactly one hundred Popsicle sticks and a bottle of Elmer’s Glue. Mine was not the best bridge project in the class. It was a little crooked and a lot wobbly, but it was good enough to hold the weight of a few books placed on top. That was the challenge: build a bridge that could support as much weight as possible.
Everyone had approached the challenge differently. Some bridges didn’t have much support on top. Others had crossing bars or V-supports—very impressive. Mine was flat on the bottom and held twenty-seven textbooks. The winner’s held sixty-eight. It was pretty amazing to see sixty-eight textbooks balance on a little bridge made of Popsicle sticks.
“Hey.” A boy in my class leaned over.
I looked at him weirdly.
“Pretty cool of you.”
“What is,” I said.
“To sign up for the wrestling team.”
Mackenzie looked at me and said, “Say what?”
“I figured why not . . . Wasn’t like I was going to get the lead in the school play.”
“Why do you always do these crazy sports,” she said, trying to balance another book on her very wobbly Popsicle-stick bridge.
“I wanted to try it.”
“But why wrestling?”
“I don’t know. I guess I like combat sports.”
I’d tried football briefly, but I’d seen how big the boys were in football and said no thanks. So I’d signed up for the wrestling team. There were five other girls besides me, but otherwise it was all boys. I didn’t know a single thing about wrestling, and it was totally different from boxing. But I figured it would help with my endurance since wrestling has longer matches and involves more grappling and full-body contact.
“Are you gonna wrestle boys?” Mackenzie asked, still with a confused look on her face.
“Yep.”
“What does your father think?”
“Well, I haven’t told him yet.”
“That should be an interesting conversation.”
* * *
“HOW’D THE BRIDGE project turn out today in class?”
“I got it to hold twenty-seven books.”
“That’s pretty good!”
“But I wanted to get more.”
“Yeah, well, maybe use Krazy Glue instead of Elmer’s next time.”
We both laughed.
“Oh, Papi, just to let you know, I’ve signed up for wrestling.”
“Wrestling?!” Papi was cutting carrots for that night’s salad. “Oh, that’s cool, but don’t you think you should stick to boxing?”
“I can do both—and wrestling will help me stay in shape. It’s three days a week right after school.”
“Well, I have a feeling you won’t take no for an answer.”
“Probably not.”
That night, my father looked tired as he sat at his desk paying bills.
“Papi . . . thanks for believing in me.” I gave him a big hug.
“Always, Jess.”
“Why, though? Why do you do so much for us?”
“Because . . .” He closed his checkbook. “You know, I’ve got one shot at raising you and Jesiah, and I’m going to do it the best that I can. I’m gonna make mistakes because I’m learning the same as you’re learning. But I’m still gonna try my best.”
I knew that he had sacrificed a lot over the years to raise Jesiah and me—taking a job he didn’t really like, completely changing his lifestyle—but we were so lucky to have him.
“So what is a new goal for you, Jess, besides wrestling? What is something you really want to do?”
I want to help create a world where there’s no boy and girl stereotypes . . . Especially when it comes to sports.
I thought about that question for a beat. I’d actually been thinking about the answer for a while.
“I want to help create a world where there’s no boy or girl stereotypes . . . Especially when it comes to sports. It’s just boxers boxing and wrestlers wrestling and gymnasts being gymnasts.”
Just then, my dad’s cell phone rang. Papi and I looked at each other, surprised. No one ever called us this late at night.
At first, Papi didn’t answer the phone, expecting to hear bad news, because the number on the screen belonged to a cousin of his he hadn’t spoken to in a really long time. He knew what the call was about. But he finally answered the phone.
“Hello? Oh hey, Pedro Antonio,” my father said. (I told you there are a lot of Pedros in my family . . .)
It was about my great-grandfather. Papi left the room saying “Mmm-hmm” a lot. A few minutes later he came back into the room. “Jess, Abuelo has died.”
I burst into tears. Even though he was old and we all knew he was going to die, it was still a shock. I was never, ever going to see him again or hear his voice or watch old boxing matches with him, or eat his spicy food. I could barely wrap my mind around it. When we were down in Florida visiting him the previous summer, he’d said to me, “You know, Jess, the great thing about dying is that you only get to do it once.
“And . . . ,” he had continued with his usual gentleness, “the same is true about living, so make your life worth living.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PLAYIN’ NO GAMES
It was almost the end of my sixth-grade year and I was fighting in the regional tournament for the Junior Olympics, which was held once in the summer and once in the winter. This was the summer tournament—my first actual tournament—and it was 92 degrees in the shade that day as my father and I looped around the block searching for parking. The regional tournament was held at the Police Athletic League Center in Yonkers, New York, which was at one time an armory building that looked like a fortress from another time period. Finally, we found an open space. I got out with my gym bag as Papi loaded the meter with quarters. With the last quarter inserted we were set to walk away when the meter suddenly flashed red: “Out of Order.”
“Out of order?!” Papi fumed as he rattled the meter. “I want my quarters back!” But that wasn’t going to happen. A man walking past us said, “It’s Yonkers—what do you expect?” A working parking meter for one thing. We got back in the car and circled until finally we found a parking garage ten blocks away.
Outside the Police
Athletic League, boys in heavy sweatpants were jumping rope in the hot sun to shed a pound or two before weigh-in. There was an air of anxiety as we walked through the large gates surrounding the gym. I’d sparred plenty, and boxed in several matches, but tournaments were different—more fighters, tougher competition, more stress. Like in matches, boxers move up and down in weight divisions all the time, so you never know who you’ll box until the day you arrive. I was fighting a girl named Molly who was ten years old and from New York. I was two years older. She was a slender white girl with French braids and a pretty voice. Even though Molly was younger and had less experience, boxing is one of those sports where you just never know what will happen. A few hard punches can change everything. Don always said be confident, be smart, and make sure you always have fun in there—a steady balance. Whoever won this match would move on to the national championship tournament in West Virginia. This one fight was a big deal. If I won here, I was closer to my ultimate goal. If I lost, I went home.
The gymnasium was set up for a big tournament, with two boxing rings in the middle, surrounded by various tables and stations. There were tables for officials and a few for refs. There was also an area for judges to gather and a room for doctors and people helping at the weigh-in. Someone had to ring the bell, and there was an announcer. The crowd began to fill the bleachers. The concession stand workers started grilling sausages with peppers and onions. That’s the usual setup for these kinds of events.
Since I was a little hungry, I was noticing the smell of all the food—everything, even kids opening chocolate bars.
Jesiah had decided the day before the fight that he wasn’t going to come with us—he was sick of being dragged around to gyms.
“When is it going to be my turn to fight?” he had asked Papi the previous morning.
“When you’re ready,” Papi had said.
“I’m ready now!”
“No. You’re not. But I’m sure your heart is ready. You need to get physically and mentally ready—that’s just what you need to do to be ready. Your heart, you’re born with that . . . but you need a little more time to grow.”
My Corner of the Ring Page 12
