Boxing and the Body

By Andrea Scarpino

 

My coach played the video: speed work on the heavy bag. My uppercuts looked good: my balance good, legs strong, chin down. 

 

Then my hooks. I started to laugh. What was I doing, slapping my arms limply at the bag like that? Distracting my opponent with how ridiculous I looked? 

 

Next day, another round of speed work. My coach told me to step closer to the bag, to put my weight into it. I thought about the video. And something clicked: hook after hook, the bag made a deep and satisfying sound. I punched harder than I’ve ever punched anything. I heard my coach cheer. I heard Zac cheer. My hands in my boxing gloves were light and solid and free from fear. 

 

And that may be the key: fearful. Fearless. 

 

I have lived so much of my life in fear. Fear of physical pain (it always returns eventually). Fear of losing people I love (I have, I will). Fear of never being smart enough (for what?) or good enough (for what?) or the best in something (what?).  In college, I wore my glasses to bed because I was afraid of not being able to see if someone broke in. For years, I slept with a knife under my mattress. 

 

Doing mitt work one night in the ring, my coach said I was “flinch-y.” Hitting her red mitts, I could feel my eyes flinch, I could feel my body flinch. I just couldn’t stop it from happening. And I couldn’t name fear’s object: I knew she wouldn’t hit me back with her mitts. I knew we were only training. She kept telling me to hit harder. I kept flinching. 

 

But that moment with the hooks, I felt no fear. I punched and punched and I heard the sound of my body hitting the bag and I heard cheering and I felt no fear. Body in action. Body in the moment. 

 

“Very few of us live with perfectly intact bodies,” one of my mentors says. 

 

I’m writing a book-length poem about the body in pain. My body in pain, the bodies of others in pain: football players, Frida Kahlo, young cancer patients. I’m writing a book-length poem about the ash tree: ashes to ash tree. I’m writing a book-length poem about how medicine failed me. Continues to fail me. 

 

“We write what we need to understand,” another mentor says. 

 

That night with the hooks—maybe it only lasted 20 seconds, but for those seconds, I understood my body. It did what I wanted it to do. I didn’t feel pain or fear. I didn’t flinch.