The Final Round

Damn it, I should’ve recorded that voice when I had the chance.

For nearly 20 years, I’ve been taking a boxing class at the New York Sports Club with an incredibly gifted instructor named Abby Saez.

Abby taught a brutal but thoroughly enjoyable session, mixing vast boxing knowledge with punishing drills and withering sarcasm.

The class was tough, but the toughest—and, oddly most enjoyable--part by far was the one-on-one mitt round where you faced off against Abby and tried to survive his non-stop attacks, both physical and verbal.

Whenever he wasn’t pleased—which was pretty much always—Abby would yodel the Spanish version of my name at the top of his voice.

“Roberrrrrto!”

The sound echoed throughout the room and more often than not, some wiseass would pick up the call and piss me off even more.

I always felt like a kid being called home by his mother in front of all his friends. Only this was more painful.

But I always came back for more.

Well, that’s all come to an end now. I learned from one of my buddies in the class that Abby has started his own boxing club in the New Jersey town where he lives.

The NYSC, which, like all gyms had been shutdown for a year due to Covid-19, has yet to resume the boxing classes, so Abby had to move on.

I understand the logic perfectly, but it still sucks. This may sound crazy, but Abby’s class was a major part of my life.

I started with Abby sometime in 2002 at the noon class at the NYSC’s Wall Street facility.

I was working at Goldman Sachs at the time and the financial district—along with the rest of the country—was still reeling from 9/11 attacks.

Standing Eight Count

The class were so popular you have to call the gym two days in advance to reserve a spot, but it was worth it.

When the noontime class interfered with work, I switched—insanely—to the 7AM slot, where I got up before dawn and rode to Manhattan so I could be abused by Abby before going to the office.

I just have so many great memories of that class.

Abby took to calling me “Roberto” early on and then “Robert Venezuala,” which I assumed was the name of some prizefighter.

A quick internet search turned up a fighter with a similar name, but this dude had such an abysmal professional record I was appalled.

“You named me after that tomato can?” I asked him at the next class.

“I didn’t know that was a real guy,” Abby said. “I just made that name up.”

I got to meet some terrific people and we’d occasionally get together outside of the gym for one of Abby’s birthday or holiday bashes.

This was a lot more than just a gym class and it says a lot about Abby’s ability to inspire and teach people.

I hit a major roadblock a few years ago when I fell in the snow and had to get knee surgery. But I got right back to class as soon as my doctor gave me the thumbs up.

Obviously, nothing lasts forever, but the Covid-19 shutdown happened so suddenly, we were all scattered to the four winds without a chance to say a proper farewell.

I sent Abby an email wishing him well and thanking him for all the great times and excellent instruction.

I’m not sure what I’ll do next. I’ve been working out on my own for the last year, but eventually I’d like to back to a class.

My local club finally reopened and they recently hung up a heavy bag, which I brutalize every chance I get.

And when I start to get tired I just think of Abby’s voice calling out to me.

“Roberrrrrto!”