adminWhy Box…?
As the New Year brings forth resolutions to get fit, our man in the saw dust gym ponders the whims of “fitness” boxing and reckons you should train to fight
Article by Peter Brooker
Steep narrow steps precipitate the entrance of my boxing gym. Already I hear the floorboards creek under the weight of the skippers, the metrical 6/8 drumming of the speed bag pounding the backboard, the flatline beeps indicating the end of the round. Before I set foot over the threshold, I momentarily consider retreating to the comfort of my sofa. No one has seen me come in, no one will see me shamefully escape. My body cries internally, each muscle taut, hands in a sweaty clench. But I do go in, tilt my chin and balloon my tiny pectorals, offering the façade of an unfettered demeanour. You’d think this was my first time lacing up the gloves but I’ve been training for six years. Still my sphincter puckers with inquietude, and as feeble as this all sounds I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Why train? Why box? Other than having a soft spot for the boxing film genre, knowing each Rocky film word for word; even the gravel-toned dialogue Stallone churns out whilst rehearsing his Cuff & Link turtle routine for the timid Talia Shire. Other than refusing to tick all three boxes, short, bald and fat. Why put myself through the wringer, why risk messing up the cash register (I didn’t want to come across Mockney with a boat-race reference)?
It’s simple. The world is filled with arseholes. Every now and then you’ll encounter one neolithic-illogical dick splash that needs to be taught some manners, and when it’s on, its on. It’s instinctual, and I’m cursed/blessed to capriciously accept offerings for pugilistic duels, which is in contrast to my laissez faire approach to life, my ability to acquiesce in any argument and my innate fear of being hit hard in the face. When your mettle is called upon, it will be immediate, and rational thought is often overtaken by the reptilian side of the brain. You must fight. Once I picked up my girlfriend on the way to a gig, two minutes from leaving her front door I found myself trading blows with a motorcyclist in the middle of the A1, in broad daylight, with cars fizzing by either side of us…
So instead of hitting the cross trainer, why don’t you learn how to throw a punch. Instead of wearing out your knee cartilage on the treadmill, why not vent some suppressed aggression by pounding the heavy bag until your arms flop. The reason why I train is not just for fitness, it’s preparation for war. Plus my local is like the f*cking wild west on karaoke night. 