Fighting a boxer

Many years ago, I had the horrible misfortune of being in a bit of a scrape with a boxer.  I'm not talking about the kind of guy who joins a boxing aerobics class and thinks he is learning to box, nor am I talking about the type of guy who pays an athletic trainer to make him think he is training like a boxer.

No.  What I am talking about is much different specimen.  I'm talking about the type of guy who wants to learn how to box.  This guy goes to a boxing gym, filled with other boxers and does this of his own free will.  This guy spends hours on end trying to master his craft.  He spars with other boxers.  He works on his footwork, his stamina and his agility.  He works on slipping punches and works on throwing effective counter punches.  He also works on defense, something you would never learn about in an aerobics class.

Now, I'm not a tough guy.  I have not been in too many fights.  In fact, I am not a big fan of me being in fights.  As it turns out, that shit hurts.  I guess I am old enough to realize that now.  When you encounter a regular guy who wants to fight, most lack the essential skills to stick around long.  Most don't know how to throw a proper punch.  Testament to that thought is, I've managed to keep my teeth in my mouth, in their original position.  More importantly, these people typically don't look like they know what they are doing.  They just start swinging for the fences and one of a few things will happen.  They will gas out after flailing around for 20 seconds, they will get lucky and connect once or twice, or they will get throttled with a straight punch right up the middle.  None of that silly shit is going to happen when you fight a boxer.  Nope.  Not a bit of it.

I can't remember what exactly started the fight.  I think my boxer friend tactfully removed that from my memory while moving both of my eyebrows around on my forehead.  Knowing me in my younger years, I'd suggest that I was running my gums about something, he objected then I said one last thing that got under his skin.

What I do remember is this.  He squared up with me, real quick... as if Micheal Buffer was just done announcing our names to everybody in the arena and the referee was going to give us fight instructions.  There was no Michael Buffer, no arena and frankly no referee.  His chin went down, his hands came up and just by the way he did that alerted me to the fact that I was going to have my hands full.

I admit, he caught me off guard.  He didn't look like he knew what he was doing.  Man, was I wrong about that and I'd learn that lesson in about 9 seconds.  He bobbed 2-3 times as if I were already throwing punches and then it happened.  Left, right, left.  It was a left jab, straight right and a left hook even before I could get my hands up!  Right eyebrow, busted!  Left eyebrow, busted!  Left hook to the chin and out went the lights.....

So, when a professional ass whipping is administered in this fashion, nothing hurts.  You don't feel a thing but you do oddly remember the look on the guys face and each punch right before it ricochets off of your face.  Uhm, he looked serious, by the way.  Kind of like he knew what he was doing.

I could only tell that the beat down was over because my head was no longer bouncing around on my shoulders, and as the lights began to come back on, I found myself in a compromised position.  I was on my hands and knees, a fair amount of blood coming mostly from my right eyebrow and I had the spins.  I could hear people talking and I could feel someone trying to stand me up.  The fog began to clear a bit more.  It dawned on me that I had been issued an official, professional ass whoop and someone had come to my rescue.

I remember thinking, "who is this person, gracious enough to put an end to the savage beating I just took?"  I wiped some more blood from my eye and at the same time hoped the guy who beat me up got run over by the space shuttle or some shit.  Who was standing in front of me?  The guy who just beat my ass...  "You're gonna be all right," he said, "but you're going to want to get that eyebrow looked at."  He turned me around, somehow pointed me in the direction of my truck and said, "Have a nice night, okay?"

I stepped off the curb and stuffed my finger tip into the hole in my eyebrow.  I thought, "not only did this guy beat me senseless, he also knows when a fellow needs about 8 stitches."  I took his advice and headed towards the hospital.  The first thing they asked was, "what happened?"  The next thing they asked was, "Have you been drinking?"  I hadn't but I wish I had a cold one right about then.  I told them I got beat up but "my opponent was good natured and well mannered enough to pick me up, dust me off, give me some medical advice and pointed me in the right direction to get it."

8 stitches in one eyebrow, 3 stitches in the other and two ice bags later, I was sent home to nurse my wounds.  I sat there and kept going over the course of events.  "How could this have gone so wrong?'' It took playing the loop over in my mind about 10 times, but I figured it out.  My mouth sent an invitation to a party that I had no business throwing.

Since then, I have caught myself randomly asking people if they are professional boxers before I go and say something stupid.  I think I owe that to myself.  Call me a hard learner, but I now know what the professor looks like at the school of hard knocks.