Much of what I know about life, I learned in the boxing ring

I started boxing  about 10 years  ago at a gym in Westminster
The people I’ve met there have been my mentors, even the men and women who drift in on a whim and leave anonymously a few weeks later, after they realize they don’t like being hit and there are easier ways to get a cardio workout. But those who stay learn valuable life lessons, learning many of them in the span of just three minutes—the length of a single round. If I’m working hard for those 180 seconds, I go somewhere very deep. I’m focused on hitting another man, and, if I’m smart, I’m not getting hit much in return.

The day’s cares evaporate in the ring. I’m not worried about my girlfriend, or that dispute with the insurance company or a nagging client at the office. If I worry about any of those things, a single punch to the head reminds me that I’ve temporarily lost my focus on the only thing that matters in this moment. Getting my ass kicked brings me back to what the Eastern monks might call mindfulness. No other form of meditation is as immediate as this. It’s just me and one other guy, reading each other like books, doing our best to damage each other. When the bell rings, I realize I’ve been somewhere else, somewhere deep.  This is what I’ve learned.

YOU’RE HERE BY CHOICE, SO REMEMBER WHAT YOU CAME FOR
You don’t say, “I wanna play football, but only to score touchdowns,” or “I wanna play tennis, but in mild temperatures only, and I don’t want blisters.” If you choose to step into the ring, you’re going to get hit. And you’re going to get hit in life, too. Even the champions get hit. Learn to relax, stay calm, don’t get damaged, protect yourself, follow your vision. Participate in your life. On my first visit to the gym in 1998, a trainer told me: “Be very clear on what you came for.” When I’m getting the crap beaten out of me, I could easily take a knee, but that’s not what I came for. In life, you could take a knee—stay home, pull the curtains, watch TV—but that’s not what you came for.

YOU’RE GOING TO GET HIT
And when you get hit, get over it. I learned after my first three times in the ring: Move on, or you’re going to get killed. Early on, I was in the ring with Dangerous Dick Jones. He was punching me in the face—say it with me: punching me in the face. It was the most surreal thing in the world. “I’m a nice guy,” I thought, “I’m here to work out, and this guy is hitting me in the nose.” Even when his punches didn’t hit me directly, they hurt—his glove glancing off my cheekbone was like being grazed by an electric sander. The more I focused on the pain of getting hit, the more distracted I was—and the more Dangerous Dick just beat the hell out of me. You’re going to give blows and take them. If you focus on your pain, you’re not focused on the thing you said you wanted—an amazing piece of artwork, a good job, a great night out—and you’re going to get hit again. And again. My advice: You can ice your pain later; I take an Excedrin cocktail after every workout. For now, though, stay focused on your prize, whatever you say it is.

LEARN TO READ PEOPLE
It’s a cliché, but it’s a cliché because it’s true, and we ignore it at our own peril: People are different. In the ring—and in life—there are at least three different kinds of fighters. The Brawler wants to stand toe to toe with you. This one guy, El Tigre, could move if he wanted to—he’s quick—but he prefers to stalk me around the ring, cut the ring in half, cage me, put his head on my shoulder and slug the shit out of me. We trade punches for three minutes at a time. Every time I climb into the ring, I know what El Tigre is after: a slugfest.

The Counterpuncher is the guy who works off what you do. He’s in his stance, sitting back. He’s not going to throw the first punch. He’s loading up and waiting for you to commit. I watch Iron Mike loading up that right hand of his. He doesn’t care how old you are, what kind of shape you’re in, whether you’re male or female: He’s loading his big gun, and you know what’s coming. Ever see those westerns when the cowboy says it’s too quiet? That’s Iron Mike. He’s waiting. He’s watching. He’s quiet. He’s dissecting everything you do—how quickly you throw your jab and pull it back. And then, when he has the information he wants, when he’s read you like a user’s manual, Iron Mike fires that right like he’s swinging a tire iron. He’s a stocky, fit German, an old guy who was a child when Americans were dropping bombs on his homeland. He’s a retired school teacher from Hawthorne who loves Dylan and gardening, and now he’s dropping the bomb on you. He’s hit me for 10 years.

Finally, there’s the Boxer. He’s got all the fundamentals. He’s all about movement in the ring. He changes the time and place of the attack from moment to moment. Unlike the Brawler or the Counterpuncher, the Boxer uses the whole ring, with constant movement. Everyone in my life is like one of those three people.

DON’T FALL ASLEEP (STAY SHARP)
One Saturday morning, I was lazily throwing jabs at Tim the Doctor, a cardiologist from Orange County, a Chinese-American guy who went to some New England prep school. He’s just the nicest guy. Married to a concert pianist. In the ring, he’s a killer. Like I say, I was just lazily throwing jabs, and Tim the Doctor was catching them. I threw. He caught. No one got hurt. Then, more of the same. And this went on like a metronome, until my jabs slowed. Then my hands drooped.

And that was the sign: I’d lost my focus. Tim the Doctor read the sign and shocked me with a straight right hand—all I saw was the black leather coming at my face and some bright, flashing stars. There was a sound like the ocean crashing over me. And then I tasted the blood running from my nose and into my mouth. Tim the Doctor was on me. Inside the ring and out, when I find myself drifting, I come back to consciousness, hoping to God I’m not going to pay the price for my lack of awareness.

LIFE’S A DANCE
Boxing is a dance. It’s chess. As much as it’s physical, it’s mental. It’s doing something, looking at the response—the feedback—from the world and adjusting to that. One time, I had spent most of a round jab-jab-jabbing at my partner until I backed him into the corner. And then it happened: I’d been in his face the whole round, so he raised his gloves to protect his eyes—and when he did, he couldn’t see me. His defenses were gone. Everything that happened next was like a dance. I stepped in and buried a left hook to his liver—simultaneously the sharpest and dullest pain you can experience. He let out this positively primal groan and caved in on his right side to protect his liver. When he did, I stepped over to his left side to begin working his ribs. When his arms dropped to protect his ribs, I delivered two quick shots to his head. It was a dance. It was brutal, and we did it together, he and I. Life is like that: When I throw out an idea, I watch how people react. Some respond with jealousy, anger, enthusiasm or joy. I respond accordingly. Always with calm. Always watching.

IT’S OKAY TO FIGHT
Every Saturday morning, we fighters wrap our hands and talk cordially—warmly, even—about the week just passed. When the bell rings, the conversations stop, and the hip-hop beats from Power 106 blasting in the gym turn into war drums—we let it all out. When the sparring ends, we shake hands and go back to being cordial. No matter how hard we punch, no matter who had the edge that day, when the fighting stops, we’re friends. Outside the ring, it’s the same idea: I deal with people every day knowing that we’re human, and, because we’re human, we’re going to fight. But I always know I’m going to ask that person to come to the next meeting or to have lunch later in the week. If I hold back the truth about my own experience, I’m dishonest and deal in unstated resentment. I’m weighed down by leaden grudges. So, I fight, and I encourage you to fight me. To take blows and to give them. And to love anyhow.

THREE MINUTES CAN BE AN ETERNITY, SO DON’T TELL ME YOU DON’T HAVE ENOUGH TIME
When you’re getting hit, three minutes is forever. One time, a pro was after me. I couldn’t go backward fast enough. Every one of his punches landed like he’d double-majored in engineering and murder. I remember sneaking glances over his shoulder at the clock—and damn if this seemingly eternal pain had been going on just one minute. I knew that no one was going to jump in and save me, and this guy was dictating the pace, and the pace was glacial.  He was hitting my face, arms, chest. I was teetering on fear, and time seemed to have stopped. The last 30 seconds of the round, I was getting the shit beaten out of me, saying to myself, “bell, please ring.” I couldn’t quit, but I couldn’t get away. When people tell me they haven’t got enough time to do something, I think about how three minutes can seem like an eternity. I can get more done in three focused minutes than many people can in the first three hours of their workday.

TAKE A VACATION
In the first few weeks of my education, I faced a semi-pro fighter. He was ferocious. Deep in the very first round, he was pressuring me. Every punch hurt. I was nervous, didn’t have the ability to get him off me. I was in pure survival mode. No technique. Felt like a third grader again. By the time the bell rang, I was hyperventilating. I had an adrenaline buzz. My legs felt like anchors. Then, I had to go out there again. The trainer told me to relax, but I could barely hear him, and nothing in my experience told me that what he had to say might make my life easier. I went back into the ring much the way I’d left it—and I barely survived. I soon learned that breaks are everything: rest, rejuvenation, perspective. I use breaks—from the ring and from life—to meditate, to get my heart rate down, get the body back to a relaxed state, drink some water. Get to that nearest faraway place. Problems seem smaller after even a one-minute break.

LIVE A LIFE OF NO REGRETS
If I’d only thrown more jabs, worked out more, more bag work, more road work, breathed, relaxed—if only I’d done those things, I’d have won. It’s not enough to cruise through life or the ring. You’re missing it. Play the chess game, take your blows, give them back, do the dance. Chief among my teachers is Iron Mike, a guy in his mid-60s who, until retirement, taught in Hawthorne and declares each week: “The gym is my church. Sparring is my prayer. The end of each workout brings redemption and purification.” Iron Mike says he doesn’t have to do this at his age, but he wants to live a life of no regrets. And I guess boxing teaches him how to live that life. He warms up, steps into the ring, beats the hell of me and feels good the rest of the week.

Long Beach native Blair Cohn played drums for local punk bands, co-founded International City Racing (which holds the annual Long Beach International City Bank Marathon), and is religious about Bob Marley, USC football and pineapple sherbet. He is executive director of the Bixby Knolls Business Improvement Association and has developed a strong left jab.

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