“But only just a little more time . . .” Jesiah said.
Papi smiled. “Yes only just a little more time.”
My father had scheduled a haircut appointment for himself at 9:00 p.m. that same night at J.C. Barbershop—the only time he could fit it into his schedule these days. He had left Jesiah at home with Grandma and taken me with him. I wasn’t tired anyway and loved the alone time it offered us. Sometimes our best talks were in the car running errands together without my little brother around.
“Papi, when are you going to take Jesiah seriously about his boxing?”
“When he’s willing to take it seriously. I see him at the gym, half training, half goofing off.” Then he added thoughtfully, “With you, it was easy—you didn’t want to do anything else but box. With Jesiah, he wants to try a lot of stuff, like football and baseball and karate . . . He’s still figuring it out. But I don’t want to force him into something he doesn’t really want to do. He sees you boxing and thinks maybe that’s what he needs to be doing, too . . . but he doesn’t.”
“And if he decides to box?”
“Then I’ll help guide him the same way I helped guide you, Jess.”
“Papi, I think some of the kids at school think I push too much to be a boxer.”
He looked at me for a second. “Don’t put any energy into things that make you feel bad about things that you’re doing that make you feel good about yourself.”
“But do you think there’s something wrong with it?”
“You’re passionate and dedicated to a sport you love. I absolutely see nothing wrong with that.”
At the tournament that day, it was just me, Papi, and Don. It was kind of nice to have my father to myself.
“Last call weigh-in,” the female announcer said over the loudspeaker. “Last call weigh-in.”
“I need lotion,” I said to Papi. “You packed it, right?”
“Yes, and the Vaseline is in the side pocket. Put it on after weigh-in. Go.”
I weighed in at 79 pounds, just under the 80-pound maximum for my division. I had pretty much starved myself that day to make sure I was just under. I had skipped breakfast and lunch and didn’t drink anything before weigh-in.
My father knew I was hungry, so he left the gym and went searching for food.
Twenty minutes later, which seemed like an eternity, he came back and handed me a huge aluminum carryout container of my favorite dish—beans, rice, and avocado— from a restaurant nearby.
“Here you go . . . A nice hot plate of Spanish food and a decaf caramel Frappuccino from Starbucks.”
I scarfed it down immediately. It was delicious! I loved it. And there was plenty of time before the fight to digest. My opponent, Molly, was a few pounds lighter but also made weigh-in, so the fight was officially on.
“Weigh-ins are closed,” the announcer said over the loudspeaker.
There’s a lot of waiting around before fights begin. This tournament’s weigh-in started at 10:00 a.m., but the fights weren’t set to start until 4:00 p.m.—even then they didn’t start until 5:00 p.m. because of administrative stuff and getting boxers into the right categories and paired with the appropriate opponents. You’d be surprised how many no-shows, dropouts, and failed weigh-ins there are that complicate the process.
Papi always complained about the long wait between weigh-in and the fights. “I don’t get it. What takes them so long? . . . These things are so disorganized . . . Why can’t they figure out how to run these events more smoothly?” I could tell he was getting nervous. He would either talk too much or not at all when he was nervous.
As I was stretching, I overheard a boy next to me say to his teammate, “That’s the kid I’m fighting over there.”
His teammate said, “That scrawny kid?”
“Yeah, I’m beating him up today. I don’t know who he is, but I’m beating him up.”
(By the way, the kid who said that? He ended up losing. But that’s a different story.)
A bunch of Irish boys had come down from Boston to fight. And a large group of teenaged boys from Syracuse. I didn’t see many other girls fighting that day—maybe two others. Didn’t matter: everyone in that room, every single one of us, was hungry for a win.
My gold, black, and purple uniform had been tucked in a storage bin long ago; now I wore the standard royal-blue jersey with an American flag and “USA” under it, and matching royal-blue boxing shorts that hung just below my knees. You’re given pre-approved gloves—blue or red—and headgear. I trained with twelve-ounce gloves, but boxed in sanctioned matches with ten-ounce gloves. That way punching during a match came a little more easily.
As I was rubbing lotion on my body, my opponent was warming up.
“How does she look?” I asked Don, who was studying the competition.
“Her moves are sloppy. Her coach says she only trains two or three days a week.”
Then I rubbed the Vaseline on my face, which helps the punches slip off.
“But don’t worry about her,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“I feel good today. It helps to know who I’m fighting . . . Papi is at his best too when he knows my competition.”
We looked over at my father, who was acting like his usual nervous self before a fight. Don and I laughed. “It will never get easier for him,” Don said.
“Nope, never. He’s the best,” I said, smiling.
After a lot of waiting, we finally heard over the loudspeaker, “Welcome to the regional tournament for the Junior Olympics in Yonkers, New York. We have twenty-three exciting bouts for you this evening. As always, no yelling, screaming, swearing . . .” A bunch of kids laughed. “No fighting outside the ring. No flash photography. And now, please stand for our national anthem.” One of the referees sang a very screechy version of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but the sound kept cutting out because of the gym’s old PA system, and once in a while the microphone feedback interrupted with a loud jarring hum and people covered their ears. Once the ref finished singing, the crowd went crazy cheering, but it made me wonder whether they were cheering because he was good or because they were glad the song was over.
Boxing events like PAL Nights are a totally different thing; even though they’re sanctioned fights, and count as wins or loses on your record, they’re not like regional tournaments . . . but you still need those smaller local matches to gain ring experience so you can perform on the bigger stage.
The announcer came on again. “Coaches, please have your book in hand. If you don’t have your book, you can’t work the corner . . .” A coach’s book shows that they’re registered under USA Boxing, and it’s red. Fighters have books too—boxers’ books are white. You need them to fight in a match. If you don’t have your book, you can’t fight. It’s like a passport.
“Make sure your boxer has their shirt tucked in and a contrasting waistband. No pink, red, or orange mouth guards.” Nothing that could make it hard to identify blood. A couple of fighters looked at their mouth guards. “And girls, make sure your hair is tucked into your headgear.”
One boy jogged over to his mother. “I don’t have another color mouth guard.”
“Well, what are you gonna do?”
He started to freak out and ran over to his coach.
It was the same stuff every match—last-minute details and nerves that started to get the better of everybody, even the most seasoned fighters.
With that, the matches began in two separate rings. My fight was third—which I was thrilled about. It meant less waiting around and not enough time to have the butterflies build in my stomach, but just enough time to mentally focus on getting in the ring.
I was digging through my bag—soap to wash my hands, a bag of scrunchies, various creams, a change of clothing—when my father asked “How you doin’, Jess?”
“I feel good. How are y
ou doing?”
“Good. Good. Molly’s a good kid. It’ll be a solid fight. You’re not nervous, are you?”
“Naaawww. Just a little nervous for Molly.” I looked at my dad and laughed.
“You had some tough breaks from judges in the past,” he said as I stretched my calves. “Some judges just aren’t fair. That’s why you can’t leave it up to the judges to determine a fight. You have to go for a technical knockout if you want to win this thing. Okay?”
A boxer can receive a win by technical knockout—a TKO—in the amateurs by giving their opponent consistent eight-counts or just by knocking them out cold. TKOs are also given if an opponent gives up. People have asked me what it feels like to give a solid TKO, and I tell them that it’s like all your emotions coming together—excited and happy but also a little worried for the other fighter. It’s as exciting as it is scary.
Don was stretching me when over the loudspeaker I heard, “Jesselyn Silva to the glove table.”
Don looked at me and I looked at him. “What do they want?” They called my name again: “Jesselyn Silva, please report to the glove table.” I headed over, and a woman said, “We need your gloves back.”
I was really confused. Don came to the table moments later and said, “What’s up?”
“We need her gloves back.”
“Why? She passed weigh-in.”
“No, that’s not it. There aren’t enough gloves to go around. We need them for the first fight. She’ll get them back afterward.”
I panicked a little but Don reassured me that everything would be okay.
The judges took their places around the ring.
The announcer introduced the first two matches, and the fighting began. Papi helped secure my headgear. He tucked my baby hairs into the holes so no little strands were sticking out. He was so delicate about it. Then he gently kissed my forehead.
“Be smart, and please protect yourself at all times,” he said to me.
“Protect yourself too,” I said, smiling. It was a joke, because once Don had passionately kicked over a table after a bad decision and it had almost knocked out a parent on the bleachers near my father.
I did a lap around the gym to loosen up and then jabbed with Don. I laughed as he dodged my punches with ease. I felt relaxed and confident . . . but not too confident.
The bell rang, and the first two matches were over. One of the boys in the ring where I was about to fight was pointing to himself to declare his own victory, but the win went to the other boy. The guys from the Irish gym yelled foul play. “Judges called that one right,” someone on the bleachers said.
A boy from the other ring walked over to me and threw his gloves at me. “Here. They said you needed these.” (It was the boy who had said less than an hour ago so confidently that he was going to beat up his opponent.)
“Did you win?”
“Naw . . . lost. Cursed gloves. Good luck.” He walked away.
“Matches three and four, get to your ring,” the woman said over the loudspeaker.
“Okay, that’s us,” said Don. Papi gave me a gentle hug, and Don escorted me toward the ring. He rubbed my shoulders to relax me, and then gave me a few final words of encouragement. “You’re going to be great out there. Just imagine what it will feel like to win and be one step closer to the Junior Olympics.” It was my turn to enter the ring. My opponent entered from her corner. Our outfits were similar—blue shirts, blue shorts, matching approved headgear. We were equals at the start.
We both stomped our feet at each side of the ring to acknowledge our respect for the judges.
The woman on the loudspeaker introduced our fight. “In ring number one, bout number three, the eighty-pound female division. Boxing out of the red corner, representing Metro, Molly Sullivan.” [Cheers.] “And boxing in the blue corner, representing New Jersey, Jesselyn Silva.” When she announced my name, I bounced up and down and pumped my fists in the air. I heard my father and a few other people in the crowd cheer.
“Eighty-pound female, three one-minute rounds, begin,” finished the announcer.
We met in the middle and bumped fists. Then it was back to our corners. I heard a father say to his little girl in the bleachers, “They ain’t playin’ no games, right?”
The little girl said, “Go, girls!”
Don gave me a bunch of fist pumps. “You got this one, Jess!”
It seemed like forever before the bell rang. She came out fast, but I got the first few punches. Then she landed a hard right, but I got her back with a few solid uppercuts—enough to give her an eight-count. The bell rang, and I knew I had dominated the first round.
“You’re doin’ good, doin’ good, keep it up,” Don said. I drank some water and was up and bouncing, ready to get back in there. I looked over at Molly and could tell she was having a tough time. She was younger and less experienced, and I knew how she was feeling. She slowly lifted herself up.
The bell rang and we were at it again. She was trying to dodge my punches, but I kept landing them. Another eight-count for my opponent. “Get your punches out faster,” I could hear her coach saying. But her arms were getting tired, and I got inside her for a few more solid hits. The second round was over.
Papi gave me a big smile. “Nice work, Jess.”
Round three and my mind was saying, Go! Go! I wanted this win. I wanted to make it to the championships. I’d never been to West Virginia. Why not now? The bell rang and I came out swinging and hit her hard. “There you go,” Don said loudly.
I wanted this win. I wanted to make it to the championships.
Her coach was saying, “Get your balance. You got good balance. Stay with it.” She landed a shot or two, and I heard her coach say, “That’s my girl.”
Then I got angry. No, I thought to myself. There is going to be no doubt in the judges’ minds this time. I’m going to win this completely. So I went crazy with punches. I could hear Papi shouting, “Nice! Good job, Jess!” The ref called the fight because I had given the girl her third eight-count, which automatically gave me the win under the three-knockdown rule. It was done. The girl and I hugged and gave our signs of respect. Then I bumped fists with her coach.
When I took off my headgear, Don said, “That was some really good fighting. I’m very proud of you.”
The decision had been delivered and the announcer came on. “In ring number one, bout number three, for the eighty-pound female Bantam division, your winner boxing out of the blue corner, Jesselyn Silva, representing New Jersey!” I raised my arms in victory.
I was heading to West Virginia.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROAD TRIP AND THE JUNIOR OLYMPICS
It’s almost six hundred miles from Bergenfield, New Jersey, to Charleston, West Virginia. That meant I was going to be crammed in a car for over nine hours with Papi, Don, and my boxing teammate, Zack. I quickly came to realize that this road trip was going to be a different challenge of endurance: one of limbs falling asleep and foreign body odors and then of course the big issue of OPM . . . other people’s music.
It was the end of June 2018, the summer before seventh grade. It had been a month since I fought Molly at the regional tournament in Yonkers, and since then, I had done nothing but prepare for the Junior Olympics, which meant focusing more at the gym, and less talking with my teammates. It also meant daily weigh-ins to make sure I wasn’t gaining any weight.
The night before we left, I carefully packed my boxing outfits: my blue USA Boxing outfit, and my red ringside outfit with my white-and-blue HyperKO and neon-green HyperKO boxing shoes. Boxing shoes are one of the most important pieces of equipment a boxer owns, if not the most important piece. Good boxing shoes give you better control with your footwork and anchor your step. Bad ones make your feet slip, and you end up sore. I also packed my Everlast gloves for when we did mitt work for tune-ups. In mitt work, the coach
holds mitts so that a boxer can work on combinations. It emulates a boxer throwing punches and helps a fighter work on slipping them. Finally, I packed my army socks. I always wore my army socks, because I was going to war. “Kill or be killed!”
That night I had a tough time sleeping because I kept thinking that I had forgotten to pack something. But I couldn’t think of what, so every so often I’d jump out of bed, check my packing list, and double-check my bag. Then I’d throw one more thing in until my bag was busting at the seams.
We got on the road at 4:45 in the morning; I was super tired, and my mouth had that toothpaste taste in it that made me feel a little nauseated. It was the last day of classes before summer vacation, but I skipped school that day to head to nationals. All my teachers agreed it was a pretty good excuse to call in absent. My classmates and friends were very supportive as well. A few friends even wrote me notes of encouragement; I was a little sad not to be there on the final day before summer, but at the same time I was ready for the Junior Olympics, mentally and physically. All I could think about was the moment I would step into that ring and meet my opponent face-to-face.
The sun rising over sleeping cities looked like a huge bowl of sherbet. Jesiah loves sherbet, but his favorite ice cream flavor is Neapolitan—the kind with three flavors in one: chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. He’d make sure to get a stripe of every flavor on his spoon before gobbling each bite.
I was going to miss him. The last words he said to me were “I hope you win!” Then he hugged me really tightly and said, “Good luck . . . Now good night!”
It was one of those warm, sunny mornings when you’d rather be at the beach than in the car for a whole day—but “Better this than snow,” Papi said. Even without the snow, traffic was slow, sometimes at a standstill for what seemed like forever. And you know how it is when you want to get someplace: standing still seems like an eternity.
My Corner of the Ring Page 13
