Boxing, the Manly Man Sport

Sheep Dogs in Patagonia, Argentina - photo by JoAnn Sturman

Scott Sturman
fliesinyoureyes.com

How difficult can it be to box three, one minutes rounds with 16 ounce gloves and full headgear? Very, especially if one doesn’t know what one is doing, but every freshman at the Air Force Academy had the mandatory opportunity to experience it first hand.

Some guys are naturally good fighters and not afraid to take a punch to give back two. They come in all shapes and sizes, but they all have the killer instinct. When they smell blood, look out! They’ll try to knock your head off of your shoulders.

I had none of these attributes, so I was not particularly keen to participate in a sport where my head served as target practice for someone who wanted to separate it from my body. Boxing was taught in physical education class where we were exposed to the rudiments before having to spare with other cadets. The guys with last names that started in Mc or O’ learned quickly, and they liked to give and take punishment. When they saw blood, they were piranhas in the ring.

Our instructors matched us with classmates who were more or less the same weight. A twenty pound difference was close enough. I wasn’t enthusiastic about my first match and hoped I would draw another prepubescent, hairless wonder without many muscles. Some of our instructors had a sadistic bent and were not careful about matching opponents, or maybe they were looking for carnage. They knew how to unleash the piranhas on the minnows.

When the time arrived, my heart rate was clipping along at 200 beats per minutes as the flight or fight reflexes took charge. The instructor didn’t pick a pugilist with a Mc or O’ name but rather a classmate who was a legend for being able to do a hundred chin ups - one handed. With that my heart rate soared to 240, when I took a look at my would be executioner. He had muscles on muscles and moved like a cat. Anyone could see we weren’t even close to the same size, but maybe that was the point or my imagination was getting the best of me.

Before the bell rang I was scared to death but set a goal. He would probably beat the Hell out me, but I couldn’t let him knock me out. As soon as the bell rang, there was no time to think. I ran into a buzz saw coming from all directions. All I could feel were the lefts and rights battering my head and body. I could hear my concerned instructor yelling, “Protect yourself, Sturman!” I threw a few wild punches that missed the target as the bell rang to conclude the round. I was still on my feet and hoped my “sparing” partner would be exhausted from throwing so many punches, or his hands too sore to continue from hitting my head so many times in such a short period of time.

The bell rang to start the second round. It was more of the same, as the instructor shouted more advice, “Finish him off! Hit him harder!” Towards the end of the round I got lucky. It was a right hook, as hard as I could throw under these desperate circumstances. But rather than swishing harmlessly through the air, it connected squarely on a jaw. The pummeling instantly stopped as my opponent stepped back and looked at me with a pair of glassy eyes. I was just as shocked as he was, as we both stood there with our arms to our sides. The bell sounded to end the round.

During the third round neither one of us could muster much of an effort. When hit there was no sting, and I responded with the customary wild blows that were ineffectual or off target. The final bell sounded. I lost the match but stayed on my feet. I was clobbered hundreds of times, but that one lucky round house right hand saved the day. Maybe I have a little Mc or O’ in me after all!