At some point, anyone who has ever laced up a pair of boxing gloves envisions stepping into the ring. To do so, however, you must convince yourself of two truths — at least one of which is undeniably false. First, you must believe the blows you exchange will not cause permanent harm — a fiction you cling to, despite the evidence, because you want to see boxing as a sport rather than sanctioned brutality. Second, you must believe you can defeat the fighter standing across from you. Pride and the need to prove yourself hang in the balance. Doubt betrays confidence; without confidence, hesitation follows. Hesitation shatters the fragile illusion that this is anything less than a raw test of survival.

So here I am, standing in my corner, gloves cinched tight, waiting for the buzzer to sound. I am confident. I am terrified. My heart pounds. My breaths come too fast. To arrest my rising fear, I narrow my eyes, roll my shoulders in loose circles, and try to project an air of controlled intensity and power. I take measure of my opponent, scanning for weaknesses. How can I hurt him?

Across the ring stands Rico — wiry, all muscle and twitch. His face is sharp, his eyes constantly darting, always searching for something — or someone. A few inches shorter than me, maybe 5’9”, and twenty pounds lighter, he crackles with nervous energy — like a ferret on crack. For all I know, he might be on crack.

Rico appeared at the gym about three months ago after serving a stretch in the penitentiary. He now lives in an old van parked in the lot next to the building. Maybe he gets by with odd jobs — painting houses or hanging drywall. Who knows? But it is clear his real job, at least in his mind, is fighting. He trains relentlessly, endlessly shadowboxing, skipping rope, hammering the bags. He never seems to tire. Most guys pack it in after an hour or two, but Rico stays until the lights dim and the manager shoos him out. Then, like clockwork, he reappears the following morning as soon as the doors open.

We are both novices — the term used for fighters with no sanctioned bouts, at least not ones officially recognized by the gym. Maybe Rico fought on the streets or in prison, but never in a ring with gloves and a timer. So when it was time to pair up for beginner sparring, we both got the nod.

I had been training seriously for months — attending group sessions, working one-on-one with a trainer, and pounding the heavy bag and mitts. In training, light sparring, in and out of the ring, is part of the routine. You practice combinations, timing, and learning to move. But it is all choreographed. When you get hit, it is either because you miscalculated, your partner threw a stray punch, or you asked to take a solid smack, which can feel oddly satisfying. Still, the question lingers: do you have what it takes to truly fight?

That is the question every sparring session dances around but never answers. Training is controlled, careful, detached — a simulation. But there is no choreography to fall back on now. This is the ring. And Rico will no longer be pulling his punches.

* * * 

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeent. The buzzer sounds, sharp and electrifying. Rico and I lunge at each other. He throws the first punch, slicing through the air. I step back, then counter with a jab. He absorbs it without flinching, surging forward with a blistering left-right combination. Blap. Blap. His gloves snap against my guard. Before I can adjust, he follows with another two — a right and then a hook — driving his knuckles into my face and ribs. This time, the punches land clean and unforgiving.

Stunned, I swing a loose right, but he slips it easily and lands another solid body shot, knocking the wind from me. Gasping, I stagger back two steps and shout, “STOP!”

Barely thirty seconds into a three-minute round, and I am already crumbling. All those months of drills and footwork seem like a distant memory. I need a break — or for this round to be over — to reset. But despite my assertive plea, Rico keeps advancing. Maybe he did not hear me. Drawing in what little air I can, I shout louder: “STOP!” But Rico keeps coming, and the punches rain down relentlessly. Instinctively, I raise my gloves to cover up.

Amid the chaos, a realization cuts through: this is what it means to face another man in combat. There is no time out. No referee. No one to save you. It is about imposing your will before they impose theirs. It is just Rico, me, and two and a half more long minutes until the sound of the next buzzer. Either he keeps hammering me until I drop to a knee, or he knocks me out. Or I fight back with enough force to stop him.

* * * 

The saga of how I found my way into the ring began almost a year earlier. For that, I have my long-time friend Rafael to thank or blame. Rafael and I met in college, and though we had good intentions to keep in touch, life had other plans. Over the years, he rose to prominence as a well-known public official, and his time had become increasingly limited.

When we last spoke, he mentioned he was training for a charity fight — three rounds of friendly sparring with someone from the opposite side of the political aisle. He suggested we meet at the gym and even invited me to join the workout.

Sure, I said. It sounded like a lark. I had always wondered about boxing. Was it sport? Was it spectacle? Both?

A week later, we met at the gym. I knew nothing. The trainer wrapped my hands, and we spent forty-five minutes doing drills. Step forward. Step back. Step sideways. Step back. Add a jab. Step back. Add a right. Step back. All the while, we worked our way around the floor adjacent to the ring. The trainer gave continuous instructions. Hold your hands up. Bend your knees. Turn your hips. Tuck your chin into your shoulder. It felt more ballet than boxing. 

Between drills, we ran laps around the block to build endurance and keep us winded.

When we finally put on gloves and lined up against the bags, the trainer kept barking commands: Jab. Jab. Jab-right. Jab-right-hook. The focus was as much on following directions as on hitting the bag. But hitting the bag felt good. It gave us purpose, even if the bag barely moved. There was little power behind the punches — mastering that would take months. By the end, we were sweaty, exhausted, and strangely satisfied.

Then Rafael said something that stuck with me. He told me he had invited many friends and colleagues to meet him at the gym. A few had shown up, but none lasted the full session. Maybe he was being generous, maybe he was just being a friend, but it got to me. Perhaps I could stick it out. Why not?

I had always admired combat sports, but I was afraid of them. I had not grown up with a brother or been in many childhood scuffles. Fighting was not part of my upbringing. If anything, I leaned toward being a peacemaker. Mostly, I lacked confidence. I feared putting myself to the test and discovering I might not measure up.

Still, I was drawn to the physicality of contact sports. From high school into my thirties, I played basketball, and I liked pushing people around — and getting pushed around. There was a rawness to it, an unspoken permission to challenge and be challenged. But there was more to it than that. 

Somewhere deep inside, there was a streak of anger in me. It was not visible to others — I had been conditioned to suppress it. Yet it lingered, a persistent force I had carried for years. Perhaps it had its roots in childhood, where a catalog of unresolved grievances — real or perceived — began to take form. By adulthood, that list had steadily grown. Yet as you grow older, you are expected to move on, to leave those feelings behind as though they no longer matter. But burying them does not erase them. It only forces them beneath the surface.

I needed a physical outlet — something immediate. A way to channel all that pent-up energy. Boxing seemed like the answer. So, I called the gym and signed up for a regular group training class

At first, I was just another face among the tourists. Boxing gyms see plenty of them—not the ones betting their futures on their fists, whether in the ring or on the streets, but guys looking to get in shape. Primarily white, thinking boxing sounds cooler than CrossFit or spinning classes. They show up, train for a few weeks, and realize how difficult and technical it is. Or they drop out because the gym, with no heating or air conditioning, gets bitterly cold in the winter and suffocatingly hot in the summer. Or they discover how little they have in common with the regulars who live close to the edge. Then they disappear..

Because of this, guys like me are not taken seriously. At least not for a long time

I would enter and leave the gym like a ghost. No one but the person at the desk or my trainer acknowledged me. The regulars seemed indifferent, but the truth was, they were always watching. Measuring. Assessing strengths and weaknesses. Silently assigning ranks in an unspoken order.

Three or four months passed before the first real interaction. A guy at the heavy bag next to me — someone I had seen at the gym many times — gave me a slight upward nod as I squared off against the bag. It caught me off guard. Unaccustomed to being acknowledged, I froze, staring blankly back. He did not linger; he looked away and returned to hammering the bag. The next time I saw him, I gave him the nod. He nodded back again.

First contact.

Over the next few months, as I put in the hours, poured out the sweat, and worked the bags, the guys began to accept me — or at least accept that I was not going anywhere.

Around that time, my trainer Roger decided to open a gym — a club, he called it. A small group of us followed. With income from only his regulars, he could afford only a modest space, one he would eventually transform into a competitive gym. But it worked. In those early days, we were a tight-knit crew. While the numbers grew over time, there were maybe thirty of us to start. We trained together, traveled to tournaments, and cheered each other on in competition. Some would go on to win titles.

But that would come later. For now, I had to deal with Rico, who was presently beating the stuffing out of me.

* * * 

His blows came from every angle. For a moment, I could do nothing but absorb them as he drove me backward, smothering any chance to breathe or think. The ring seemed to shrink, and I could feel myself nearing the ropes. My mind urged me to fight back, but my hands stayed glued to my head, locked in defense. When I finally threw a counterpunch, it was desperate, undisciplined — I was focused only on slowing his advance. Another followed. Yet for every one I threw, I absorbed two or three in return.

All of my training had fallen away. I did not remember how to tie up a fighter to smother his punches. I did not remember how to pivot out of a corner, even as I was being herded into one. Instinct might keep me in the fight, but to win — even avoid getting knocked down or knocked out — I needed something more.

The essence of believing you can win a fight lies in grasping the how. It demands an unwavering faith that you hold an inherent advantage over your opponent. The mindset goes beyond preparation or sheer willpower; it hinges on pinpointing the one factor — or perhaps a combination of factors — that instills the confidence to take that decisive step forward. For me, it was speed and reach. 

I have quick hands — something I learned playing basketball. I could steal a ball from anyone, no matter their size. And my arms? Their length gave me an undeniable edge. I also had one other real advantage: size. In boxing, twenty pounds can mean the difference between punches that sting and punches that overwhelm. Between enduring pain and succumbing to it. Yet none of that mattered unless I began to fight back.

Rico was relentless. I had to do more than react — I needed to calculate my moves.

I stepped to his left to evade his right and countered with one of my own. The punch grazed the side of his head, a near miss. He fired back immediately — two, maybe three punches in quick succession. They landed before I even had time to register them.

My right hand connected with his chest, solid enough to push him back. But only for an instant. He shifted to the side, then surged forward again. I jabbed, harder this time, catching him square in the mouth, and followed with an awkward combination. Jab. Jab. Right. Jab. Hook. He responded in kind — landing a sharp left, a quick right, then another left. 

As he unleashed another hard right at me, I pivoted to the side, catching the blow on my shoulder.

From outside the ring, the clash between two skilled fighters can appear orchestrated — a violent dance. Most are. Combinations delivered with precision; footwork sharpened through endless repetition; every movement committed to bodily memory. Ours was nothing like that. Our punches were crude and unrestrained, a frantic exchange of anything we could summon.

Gradually, though, the initial wave of adrenaline passed. The chaos settled as we found ourselves still standing, and the rhythm began to emerge. Jab. Jab. Straight. Step back. Counter. Hook. Pivot. Step to the side. We were no longer throwing punches. We were fighting.

Gradually, the initial surge of adrenaline began to fade. The wild flurry of punches slowed, and the chaos gave way to something more deliberate. We were still standing, locked in a brutal exchange, and a rhythm began to take shape. Jab. Jab. Straight. Step back. Counter. Hook. Pivot. Step to the side. It was no longer about throwing punches at random — we were fighting. 

Then suddenly, Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeent — the buzzer trilled, signaling ten seconds left. We pressed on, trading punches as fast as we could until the second bell rang, marking the end of the round.

As the echo of the buzzer faded, we stumbled to our corners. My head buzzed, blood dripped from my nose, and my ribs throbbed like a piñata after the candy had spilled. But I survived. The first round was over.

Somehow, we went two more — three rounds in total. With each round, something shifted. The ring grew smaller, the space between us shrinking as our focus sharpened. Reckless chaos gave way to purpose. Each strike deliberate, searching for an opening.

By the end, we were no longer two fighters flailing in the ring. We had become opponents locked in a fierce contest, defined by every jab, every hook, every split-second decision. We both gave as much as we got, testing each other’s limits and revealing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. 

To be fair, if a judge had been scoring, Rico would have been awarded the bout. Still, I took pride in surviving that first match — and I did.

When the final buzzer sounded and the fight ended, we clinched in a hug as a gesture of respect. I peeled off my gloves and slid down to the edge of the ring. The blood was still trickling from my nose.

As I sat at the edge of the ring, one of the regulars — a boxer I had always looked up to — walked past me, gave a quick nod, and muttered, “Not bad.” In the language of the gym, that simple gesture spoke volumes. It marked a shift.

Boxers look at you differently if you are willing to fight — even if you lose. Stepping into the ring takes more than courage. It strips you bare, exposing every part of you — your fear, your resolve, your limits. In doing so, you enter into an unspoken fraternity bound by the shared experience of putting everything on the line. You are no longer a tourist. You are one of them. And those bloody noses and separated ribs — of which I have had my share — are the price of admission to a club no one can buy their way into.

In the days that followed, the nods turned into names: Burley, Chucky, Fernando, EJ, and Rambo. Then came the invitations — to join a run or share a meal.

In time, I became a fighter. I sparred with opponents of every size and background. Heavyweights who hit like trucks. Featherweights who moved like shadows. Southpaws who turned my world upside down. I won some. I lost more.

But that first fight with Rico taught me more than how to take a punch. It taught me to keep going when every instinct demanded I stop. It showed me that survival in the ring is about more than fists and footwork — it is about reaching the part of yourself that believes you can win, even when the odds seem insurmountable. It stripped away my anger and replaced it with trust. Not just in myself but the trainer who shows you the way when you cannot find it yourself..

While you may be alone in the ring, you cannot get there without someone in your corner. You rely on a trainer to see what you cannot see, to tell you what you need to hear — not what you want to hear. They bark instructions, cajole you, and push you to adjust — stay on your toes, move, slip left or right, throw more punches, and always, always cover-up. Those hours of repetition build trust. And through that trust, you become something more — not just a fighter, but someone who can take the wins with the losses and keep stepping forward.

I kept showing up. I kept putting in the work. Over time, I earned a new name: El Gallo. The old barnyard rooster that refuses to die. It was not exactly a compliment, but it was not meant to be either. In the ring, names are not handed out lightly. They are paid in blood and sweat. And once you earn one, it stays with you, like a scar you wear with pride.

Boxing began as a way to hit something without consequence, but it became so much more. It tested me, forced me to confront fear, and taught me to carry myself and see others in a different light. Because once you have stood toe to toe with fighters from all walks of life, you realize the ring is the great equalizer. It humbles everyone, teaching what it means to face a man alone — and what it means to belong. ¶

(With gratitude to Roger Rodas and the members of R&R Boxing Club.)