I want to preface this post with two warnings. First, this will be edited tomorrow or Saturday after the second practice. Two, I'm going to romanticize the coach (The fat welsh boxing Mr. Miyagi) more than Emily Bronte romanticized Heathcliff. I do this to show how much I respect him and to show that though he's graying and balding, he's still in better shape than I am. I won't be doing it all tonight, but probably throughout my time here. I should really learn his name.
Tonight was my first night boxing. We started with stretching and warm-ups. The stretches weren't anything extensive. Touch your toes, hold, try to touch the floor, back up, on your toes, stretch your hands over head, back to your toes, back to the floor if your Gumby. Stretched your arm, wrap one around the other shoulder, switch, put it between your shoulder blades, switch, circle circle circle. It wasn't anything an athlete would find odd, interesting or fun.
Then we warm-ups were a lot of jogging in place, punching forward, punching up, punching down, faster, faster faster. Jumping jacks, butt kicks, high knees, fast feet, jog, repeat. I looked around and saw a lot of kids panting and I thought, Yeah, I can take most of these guys. They've got no stamina, probably no form or power. And I thought all of this while I held my breath trying to slow it down, like the rest of them.
We split into two groups because there were so many of us. One group did one exercise and we did another and then we switched and then we joined together to run bare the treads of our shoes. The first group was mostly girls and I'll get to describing them in their various shapes and fashion choices a few paragraphs down.
But first, my group and my experience. I was paired with a lanky Brit from between Chester and Dover named Philip. He had done tae-kwon-do for two years and was tired of kicking folks around and thought he'd try punching them out. Tae-kwon-do rounds, he told me, are only a minute long. Boxing is three (two for amateurs).
Phil was given two worn one-size-fits-most gloves and I was handed a big rectangular pad with straps on the back and a hand hold. I put it on like my neighbors did theirs. Two straps around the forearm then grip the hand-hold with both hands and keep it steady and by my face so that Phil doesn't accidentally punch my teeth out.
The coach, was leading the girls and two experienced boxers were leading us. One was named Steve (I think) and the other I didn't know his name but he had been boxing for six years, been in four fights in which he did alright, and needed to stop smoking. Those two were paired so they could show us how much we suck at the exercise.
The exercise was hit the pad once, then twice, then three times and up and up until you get to twenty then come down, nineteen, eighteen, all the way to one jab. The first few hits nearly knocked me over so I braced myself and held it steady and Phil hit again. My arm got tired when he was at ten, but I wasn't going to force him into a break before he was ready. So I held my arm up and suffered through it until he lost track of his punches and we just said he was at twenty. Then he came back down, pausing between each round to drop his arms and breathe and adjust his stance and whatever else he could think of to stall.
I was given the gloves, he was given the pad, we got ready and I hit him and he saw how hard it was to stay steady. Granted, I'm bigger than him, probably by fifteen pounds. I hit, hit, hit, keeping a rough estimate of my punches, slowing after ten, losing power at twelve, losing form at fifteen and losing my breath at twenty. But I came down and that last jab was the most gratifying thing in the world. Except I missed the pad and had to do it again.
I watched the experienced boxer whose name I didn't know get up to twenty with great form, great speed, great power, and without a break he went right back down.
Then I watched the girls do their exercises. Before I describe what they were doing, you have to know what some of them looked like. The guys were pretty consistent in their dressing. T-shirt or long sleeves, athletic shorts or sweat pants (called trackies here) and tennis shoes. The girls were more diverse.
Some were appropriately dressed. A t-shirt and...leggings? Compression pants? Spandex? Under armour? Call them what you want. They cling to their legs and butt and make it easier to move. I hear they're warm too. Three were dressed like the guys, trackies and t-shirt, but two of them clearly didn't have sports bras on. The easiest way to spot this was the bouncing that was hard to miss. And one was fat so it wasn't all good bouncing. The second way to tell was when they got to sweating and their white t-shirts clung to them, the outline of their bras were clearly not sporty. Two girls had piercings in their lips.
Then there was one girl. I don't know any of their names. I only knew Steve, Kevin, Patrick, Jordan, George and Phil. There were about forty people there so I couldn't learn everyone's names and about ten of them were girls. But this girl had on a shirt I've seen girls go to clubs in. It has a swooping neck line in the front and back. Usually girls wear it with one shoulder poking through the neck hole and their bra strap showing. It had frills. It was lavender (I don't know what lavender looks like but it was a light purple). It was loose. And this girl was curvy. And she didn't have a sports bra on either. So I don't know what she expected or what she was doing there.
Anyway, exercises. They did them, then we did. First, they were taught the boxing stance, always hold the left guard up, try to keep the right one up, left shoulder forward, left toes at 45 degrees, always on the ball of the foot, bounce back and forth, never let your feet get too close together or too far apart.
Throw the jab. Jab. Jab. Higher. You should be looking down the arm to the opponent's nose. You don't want to hit his chest. You want his jaw or nose. Jab jab jab jab jab jab. Their left arms must've been tired because some giggled with their neighbors and bent over and looked around and panted and then got back into place for the next jab jab jab jab. It was a full round of jabs.
Next, the one-two. Jab, right cross. Twist the hips. Bend the knees, push off with the back leg. Keep that jab up, draw it back, right cross. Keep the guard up after the jab. Don't hit yourself when you pull back. Twist at the hips. Don't lean forward. Jab, right.
By the tenth minute of this, the coach introduced the left-right cross-left hook combination. It's probably a wonderful combination, but everyone was so tired by then they only threw about ten in the five minutes they had to practice it. That's two a minute. That is a terrible work rate. But they got through it, then we did and I thought we were done.
Nope. Next were sprints. I haven't done *serious* exercise for any prolonged time since eighth grade track. That's seven years. I had some in high school but it was gym class. Ten minutes to get dressed, five minutes stretching, a warm-up, a little exercise, ten minutes to shower and get dressed. That's not hard or prolonged. So I wasn't prepared for this twenty minutes of sprints.
We did suicides. We were on a basketball court so we went from one boundary to the free-throw line, back, to the half-court line, back, to the other free-throw line, back, to the other boundary and back. And after each we did either push-ups (press-ups they call them), burpees, squats, rounding push-ups front and back (I won't explain them), or jumping jacks. Then the next person in our line went. It wasn't a lot of reps but after the punching and right after the sprint, five or ten ground work exercises are hard!
After the second sprint I did some dry heaves over the trash can. I ate early and only had two apples around seven so I didn't have much, if anything, to vomit. But I made it through the third sprint and slowed my pace a little (everyone else had too) and the constant turning and sloshing in my stomach settled.
And it helped that the coach was "in" our group. We were right by the exit and so everyone could turn to see him demonstrate the exercise before the sprint in case they never had gym class. And on the first sprint, he actually went. And he kept up with group! He was chanting, "Faster faster!" as he sprinted. Sometimes he was the first to finish! (usually because he was the one saying "Go!" and he'd go a second before everyone else, usually catching them off guard).
Because he stood by us, he supervised our form for the groundwork exercises and though I was holding down vomit, I was being praised with "Perfect press up!" "Get your head up, now that's a great burpee!" "Squat all the way down, just like this guy!" "There you go, you've done this before." (This was on the rounding press-ups, which backwards looks like you're doing the worm, and forward looks like you're humping the ground so I'm not sure I like that my form was perfect that time).
And that praise, in his wonderfully musical Welsh accent, kept me going! More so than the generic cheers behind me of "Keep it!" "Almost done!" Yadda yadda yadda.
After tonight, I imagine most of the beginners won't come back. I had the flight instinct screaming in my skull to grab my bag and get the hell out of there before one of these pierced girls knocks you fuck out. I weathered it though. Through the pants and cramps, through the helpful though annoying advice of my seniors, through the dry heaves over a trash can, I survived with a smile.
But, practice is at Normal site. Normal site isn't even on the map of Bangor Uni (which stretches half the town) because it's approximately a mile from Ffriddoedd site where I live. So walking back was hell. Not only was it dark and a long way but I didn't know where the turn off was. Luckily Phil and his violent and appropriately dressed girly friend were there to walk with me. They pointed me to the turn off and I got back to take a cool shower.
Welsh weather doesn't feel so cold tonight. Even in a sweaty undershirt and trackies.
Tonight was my first night boxing. We started with stretching and warm-ups. The stretches weren't anything extensive. Touch your toes, hold, try to touch the floor, back up, on your toes, stretch your hands over head, back to your toes, back to the floor if your Gumby. Stretched your arm, wrap one around the other shoulder, switch, put it between your shoulder blades, switch, circle circle circle. It wasn't anything an athlete would find odd, interesting or fun.
Then we warm-ups were a lot of jogging in place, punching forward, punching up, punching down, faster, faster faster. Jumping jacks, butt kicks, high knees, fast feet, jog, repeat. I looked around and saw a lot of kids panting and I thought, Yeah, I can take most of these guys. They've got no stamina, probably no form or power. And I thought all of this while I held my breath trying to slow it down, like the rest of them.
We split into two groups because there were so many of us. One group did one exercise and we did another and then we switched and then we joined together to run bare the treads of our shoes. The first group was mostly girls and I'll get to describing them in their various shapes and fashion choices a few paragraphs down.
But first, my group and my experience. I was paired with a lanky Brit from between Chester and Dover named Philip. He had done tae-kwon-do for two years and was tired of kicking folks around and thought he'd try punching them out. Tae-kwon-do rounds, he told me, are only a minute long. Boxing is three (two for amateurs).
Phil was given two worn one-size-fits-most gloves and I was handed a big rectangular pad with straps on the back and a hand hold. I put it on like my neighbors did theirs. Two straps around the forearm then grip the hand-hold with both hands and keep it steady and by my face so that Phil doesn't accidentally punch my teeth out.
The coach, was leading the girls and two experienced boxers were leading us. One was named Steve (I think) and the other I didn't know his name but he had been boxing for six years, been in four fights in which he did alright, and needed to stop smoking. Those two were paired so they could show us how much we suck at the exercise.
The exercise was hit the pad once, then twice, then three times and up and up until you get to twenty then come down, nineteen, eighteen, all the way to one jab. The first few hits nearly knocked me over so I braced myself and held it steady and Phil hit again. My arm got tired when he was at ten, but I wasn't going to force him into a break before he was ready. So I held my arm up and suffered through it until he lost track of his punches and we just said he was at twenty. Then he came back down, pausing between each round to drop his arms and breathe and adjust his stance and whatever else he could think of to stall.
I was given the gloves, he was given the pad, we got ready and I hit him and he saw how hard it was to stay steady. Granted, I'm bigger than him, probably by fifteen pounds. I hit, hit, hit, keeping a rough estimate of my punches, slowing after ten, losing power at twelve, losing form at fifteen and losing my breath at twenty. But I came down and that last jab was the most gratifying thing in the world. Except I missed the pad and had to do it again.
I watched the experienced boxer whose name I didn't know get up to twenty with great form, great speed, great power, and without a break he went right back down.
Then I watched the girls do their exercises. Before I describe what they were doing, you have to know what some of them looked like. The guys were pretty consistent in their dressing. T-shirt or long sleeves, athletic shorts or sweat pants (called trackies here) and tennis shoes. The girls were more diverse.
Some were appropriately dressed. A t-shirt and...leggings? Compression pants? Spandex? Under armour? Call them what you want. They cling to their legs and butt and make it easier to move. I hear they're warm too. Three were dressed like the guys, trackies and t-shirt, but two of them clearly didn't have sports bras on. The easiest way to spot this was the bouncing that was hard to miss. And one was fat so it wasn't all good bouncing. The second way to tell was when they got to sweating and their white t-shirts clung to them, the outline of their bras were clearly not sporty. Two girls had piercings in their lips.
Then there was one girl. I don't know any of their names. I only knew Steve, Kevin, Patrick, Jordan, George and Phil. There were about forty people there so I couldn't learn everyone's names and about ten of them were girls. But this girl had on a shirt I've seen girls go to clubs in. It has a swooping neck line in the front and back. Usually girls wear it with one shoulder poking through the neck hole and their bra strap showing. It had frills. It was lavender (I don't know what lavender looks like but it was a light purple). It was loose. And this girl was curvy. And she didn't have a sports bra on either. So I don't know what she expected or what she was doing there.
Anyway, exercises. They did them, then we did. First, they were taught the boxing stance, always hold the left guard up, try to keep the right one up, left shoulder forward, left toes at 45 degrees, always on the ball of the foot, bounce back and forth, never let your feet get too close together or too far apart.
Throw the jab. Jab. Jab. Higher. You should be looking down the arm to the opponent's nose. You don't want to hit his chest. You want his jaw or nose. Jab jab jab jab jab jab. Their left arms must've been tired because some giggled with their neighbors and bent over and looked around and panted and then got back into place for the next jab jab jab jab. It was a full round of jabs.
Next, the one-two. Jab, right cross. Twist the hips. Bend the knees, push off with the back leg. Keep that jab up, draw it back, right cross. Keep the guard up after the jab. Don't hit yourself when you pull back. Twist at the hips. Don't lean forward. Jab, right.
By the tenth minute of this, the coach introduced the left-right cross-left hook combination. It's probably a wonderful combination, but everyone was so tired by then they only threw about ten in the five minutes they had to practice it. That's two a minute. That is a terrible work rate. But they got through it, then we did and I thought we were done.
Nope. Next were sprints. I haven't done *serious* exercise for any prolonged time since eighth grade track. That's seven years. I had some in high school but it was gym class. Ten minutes to get dressed, five minutes stretching, a warm-up, a little exercise, ten minutes to shower and get dressed. That's not hard or prolonged. So I wasn't prepared for this twenty minutes of sprints.
We did suicides. We were on a basketball court so we went from one boundary to the free-throw line, back, to the half-court line, back, to the other free-throw line, back, to the other boundary and back. And after each we did either push-ups (press-ups they call them), burpees, squats, rounding push-ups front and back (I won't explain them), or jumping jacks. Then the next person in our line went. It wasn't a lot of reps but after the punching and right after the sprint, five or ten ground work exercises are hard!
After the second sprint I did some dry heaves over the trash can. I ate early and only had two apples around seven so I didn't have much, if anything, to vomit. But I made it through the third sprint and slowed my pace a little (everyone else had too) and the constant turning and sloshing in my stomach settled.
And it helped that the coach was "in" our group. We were right by the exit and so everyone could turn to see him demonstrate the exercise before the sprint in case they never had gym class. And on the first sprint, he actually went. And he kept up with group! He was chanting, "Faster faster!" as he sprinted. Sometimes he was the first to finish! (usually because he was the one saying "Go!" and he'd go a second before everyone else, usually catching them off guard).
Because he stood by us, he supervised our form for the groundwork exercises and though I was holding down vomit, I was being praised with "Perfect press up!" "Get your head up, now that's a great burpee!" "Squat all the way down, just like this guy!" "There you go, you've done this before." (This was on the rounding press-ups, which backwards looks like you're doing the worm, and forward looks like you're humping the ground so I'm not sure I like that my form was perfect that time).
And that praise, in his wonderfully musical Welsh accent, kept me going! More so than the generic cheers behind me of "Keep it!" "Almost done!" Yadda yadda yadda.
After tonight, I imagine most of the beginners won't come back. I had the flight instinct screaming in my skull to grab my bag and get the hell out of there before one of these pierced girls knocks you fuck out. I weathered it though. Through the pants and cramps, through the helpful though annoying advice of my seniors, through the dry heaves over a trash can, I survived with a smile.
But, practice is at Normal site. Normal site isn't even on the map of Bangor Uni (which stretches half the town) because it's approximately a mile from Ffriddoedd site where I live. So walking back was hell. Not only was it dark and a long way but I didn't know where the turn off was. Luckily Phil and his violent and appropriately dressed girly friend were there to walk with me. They pointed me to the turn off and I got back to take a cool shower.
Welsh weather doesn't feel so cold tonight. Even in a sweaty undershirt and trackies.
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