FourOuncesToFreedom.com - January 9, 2008

by Jeff"It ain't about how hard you can hit. It's about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. That's how winning is done." ~ Rocky

No matter how much I want to fight, I have very little interest in getting hit. Getting hit sucks. Some guys, they smile while someone beats their face into smashed pomegranate and claim they love every minute of it. They're insane.

Getting hit hurts.

Reacting to a punch the way a fighter is supposed to is completely unnatural. You take any dude on the street and swing at him, he won't keep his eye on the shot and slip to the side, he'll shut his eyes and duck his head. Or flat out run away. They usually do that.

Dodging and taking punches in proper form means teaching your body to do the exact opposite of every instinct. If you're worried about the pain of getting hit, it's that much harder to stay composed under the pressure. Impossible, really.

When I first started training, I couldn't block a shot or duck a punch to save my life. I'd squint my eyes every time I saw the leather coming at me and turn my head to the side, partially covering up. I couldn't counter worth a shit, but I learned real quick how to keep my gloves up and cover my face.

Months of training and I've learned to react accordingly when someone throws a hook my way, but when those shots connect they still hurt like hell. A punch to the nose wells up my eyes and scrunches up my face like I've just blown a fat line of cane sugar. Black eyes come easy and raising a mouse on my head doesn't take more than a snake-lick jab. I'm carved from warm butter. You don't want to fight like you're afraid of being hit. At least I didn't, but that was exactly what I was doing.

I've started taking my work home with me, and my roommate, Justin, is more than happy to help out. As a guy who routinely has me punch him in the face to better prepare for, as he puts it, "anything that might go down," he's happy to help out. Picture the scene from Fight Club, with less shock and confusion.

"I want you to hit me as hard as you can."

"Cool. No problem."

He sucks the last bit of smoke from his cigarette and crunches the butt on the pavement.

"So, like in the face...gut? What are you lookin' for here?"

We punch each other in the face, rotating between bare knuckle and glove depending on how damaged we are from the day before, or how much whiskey is involved at the given moment. After beating on each other in malls, beaches, restaurants, and bars, we could teach a class on eliciting looks of disgust and malaise from strangers. Justin and the gym aren't the only things busting up my face. I've taken to hitting myself.

Every day, in the shower, until large knots form or it hurts too much to continue.

Every day.

Seems masochistic, I know. But it's no different than Muay Thai fighters cracking their shins against cement-filled bags to deaden the nerves and temper the bone. Of course, I do that too. Some swear by rolling bottles or bats down the bone, but I have yet to go that route.

A face of leather doesn't help too much if my body is soft as a bruised plum. Justin and I have a great workout, doing pull-ups while he works my torso like a heavy bag. I also return the favor. It doesn't feel great, but getting hit is what it takes to get used to getting hit. That's just science.

Waking up every day, twice as sore as I would be from a regular training session, feels great. Eventually, the swelling and the aches started to fade. My ribs are no longer tender to the touch and the tissue above my cheekbones is staying the right size. Training is easier. Better.

I'm sparring with Jose. We spar on Tuesdays.

Jose lives in Tijuana and crosses the border every day to train. He fights like he's working out some deep seeded frustration. I gather that he sleeps on a found mattress in a shanty built of old garage doors and duct tape, his furniture is old milk crates and to pass the time he and his neighbor throw used c-cell batteries at stray chickens. It would explain why he feels the need to beat the shit out of someone every day.

I'm slipping most of his shots and countering his kicks with a few of my own. But when I duck a hook and counter I'm exposed, and he drives a cross right down the line. His glove fits right between the padding of my headgear and flattens out my nose. It hurts a bit, but I barely react and slap two left hooks into his kidney and right to his head.

I still don't like getting hit. Those guys who do are nuts. But I don't fight like I'm afraid of being punched either.

Posted by Jeff at 8:55 PM