Bleeding to the Oldies

If you’re going to get your ass kicked, you might as well have a good soundtrack.

I learned this rather painful lesson yesterday when I sparred with a Russian boxing instructor at my gym for what turned out to be a remake of Rocky IV.

I’ve been taking boxing classes at the New York Sports Club for--ye gods--more than 20 years now.

I get a great work out, I train with some really fine people, and I don’t have get to my cardio in subzero temperatures like I did back in my old jogging days.

Most Saturdays I break the routine by going to a cycling class at the Bay Ridge club on 86th Street. I work up a serious sweat without having to trudge into Manhattan for a boxing class on my day off.

Before class I hit the weights and loose up in one of the studios so I’ll be pumped for the cycling class. And for the longest time I’ve seen these two Russian dudes in there
going through a boxing workout.

I didn’t understand what they’re saying, of course, but it was obvious one was teaching the other.

I’d had very little contact with them, other than to ask the Instructor (I still don’t know his name) if I could use the heavy bag while he did mitt work with his buddy. And he always says yes.

The Instructor also gives lessons to a teenaged boy whose grandfather is a club regular. One day about two months ago, he had just finished doing mitt work with the kid, when he just waved me over and started working with me.

I don’t know this man’s background, but he does know boxing and he’s been giving me a ton of pointers about my technique—or the lack thereof.

He is a man of few words, but that’s okay because I’m getting what amounts to semi-private boxing lessons for free.

I had been wondering if we could take things a notch higher and do some sparring, but I didn’t know how to ask.

And then on Saturday he asked me.

Now, I am no kind of fighter and, as I’m in my Sixties, I never will be. I don’t have the temperament for it, and by that, I mean that I’m deathly afraid of getting my ass kicked.

But sparring has a benefit beyond a good workout. You find out pretty quickly what your weak points are and, more importantly, it can put the fear of God in you.

When you only do the drills—shadow boxing, mitt work, and punching the heavy bag--there’s a risk that you might think you’re some kind of badass, that you really know how to box.

Sparring—particularly with someone who is more skilled than you—brings you right back to reality.

"I Must Break You"

“Nothing personal, just friends,” the Instructor said to me before the rang began. “Say it.”

“Nothing personal, just friends,” I repeated.

“Good. That shows we’re not trying to hurt each other.

Oh, you got that right, brother. I don’t want to see anybody hurt—especially me.

First, we just traded left hands, or, more accurately, I ate a seven-course meal of left hands. Clearly this guy had been in the ring.

Then we went at it with both hands.

We didn’t have much time because a Zumba class was going to start in about 10 minutes and the teacher, who is a very nice fellow, was setting up his music for the class.

And just as the round started he switched on Barbara Lewis’ 1963 classic “Hello, Stranger.”

Shoo-bop, shoo-bop, my baby...

Then the slaughter began.

I felt like I was taking on a gang of octopuses (octopi?) with punches coming from all directions, while Barbara Lewis sang her tale of woe.

You stopped by to say "hello" to me…

The slow, mellow song provided such a weird contrast to the unholy shellacking I was getting.

According to Wikipedia, when the “Hello, Stranger” track was completed, one of the background singers started shouting, “It’s a hit, it’s a hit!”

Oh, it was a hit, all right. And speaking of hits, I was getting hit in my head, my stomach, my ribs, and my ego.

This wasn’t a fight, it was target practice.

At one point in this debacle, the Instructor nudged me slightly and sent me flying on rear end.

“Your balance is not good,” he said.

Neither is my breathing, buddy.

The Zumba class is almost all female and I had a slight pride issue at the thought of “looking bad” in front of these women.

But I was here to learn. Too often in the past I’ve held myself back from doing something because I was afraid of how I looked or that I would "fail"—whatever the hell that means.

Please don't treat me like you did before…

Finally, after what seemed like a mighty long time, the round came to an end. I thanked the Instructor (sincerely) for his help and Zumba-ed my sorry ass over to the relative safety of the cycling class.

Okay, so I got a first-class boxing lesson and an important reminder about how much I need to learn. I had a hoped to make a better showing, but I’m not doing this to pay the bills—thank God.

The only unfortunate thing in this whole affair is that this wonderful song will be forever associated in my mind with that sound drubbing I got.

Shoo-bop, shoo-bop, my baby…