Guest Pass

Because he is such a charitable person, Peter offered me a 30-day guest pass for October to New York Sports Club, one of the many franchise gyms that populate the city. While the pass entitled me to full access to the club, the purpose of Peter's donation was singular: I could now join him in a weekly boxing class which he had been attending since the middle of summer and praising pretty much since his first exposure.

Now this is not the type of boxing class you might be imagining. There is no boxing ring. We don't spar with each other. Most importantly, we aren't forced to submit ourselves to abject humiliation by boxing against an instructor -- in this case a bald-headed behemoth of a man, who is at once an initimidating ogre and kind-hearted teacher. A curious blend, to be sure. He could, I'm fairly certain, single-punchedly decapitate any one of his students, even those who have obvious boxing expertise. But, emotionally, I don't think he could bring himself to do it. His paternal instincts bar such violent behavior.

But I digress. This isn't one of those Tae Bo classes that were all the rage in the late 1990s, either. We wear gloves. We hit heavy bags. We are taught to jab, to uppercut, to duck and move, to use the right foot for power and stability. When doing "mitts," we coordinate all of these activities, striking at the instructor's hands while he circles and dodges. Jab, jab, strike. Jab, uppercut, pivot, jab. Sometimes he even fights back with gloves instead of mitts, but I haven't had the pleasure of getting pummeled yet.

Before the first class, I was, frankly, a bit apprehensive. Peter explained the format, and claimed that it was very easy to catch on. Despite his reassurances, though, I was convinced that I would either (A) look like a total moron in boxing gloves, despeartely punching a heavy bag which refuses to budge while a diminutive 40 year-old woman standing at my side pummels the very same bag, rocking it back and forth as if it were afloat in the perfect storm; or (B) be so out of shape as to collapse, midway through the hour, and become the object of the thunderous laughter and subsequent pity of my classmates as I am wheeled out of the room, hooked up to an IV.

It turns out my mind wasn't too far off when it concocted the second scenario. Although Peter warned me to take it easy, that first class I valiantly attempted to keep up with the instructor's commands. Jumping jacks, squat thrusts, mountain climbers, high knees, more jumping jacks, push-ups, topped off with even more -- see a pattern here? -- jumping jacks. This continued for what seemed like an eternity. It wasn't long, perhaps 10 minutes into that eternity, before my insides began to burn, my legs to ache, and collapse began to appeal as a life-saving alternative to more jumping jacks. Pity be damned. I was hurting here.

The instructor must have noticed my internal struggle and sensed weakness, because he yelled, at the very moment when I had finally decided to protest any more physical exertion, the following: "Hey, new guy! Suck it up!!"

And, dammit, he was looking directly at me. I was that new guy! The guy incapable of keeping up. Peter was right: I should have taken it easy! But now was no time for regret; I had to "suck it up" and perservere.

So I did. Although I could barely stand, I managed, to my surprise, to perform close but shaky equivalents of all of the exercises, with periodic panting breaks every few minutes, of course.

By my third class, which was last night, I had finally discovered the art of the punch: elbows in, legs shoulder-width apart, left hand at chin to block incoming fists, right foot pivoting on the toe outward to provide power, fist moving straight forward, rotating so that the knuckles become horizontal. Boom. And, yes, the bag moves when I hit it. Quite a bit, in fact.