Thursday, April 14, 2005
The Contender
Of our four boxing teachers, Robert is the nicest, the most soft-spoken, the only one who told you to give him 30-push-ups "please." Without yelling and scolding like the others, he always runs the tightest, craziest, most disciplined circuit trainings -- chin-ups, burpees, unattainable crunches and weighted shadow boxing. His cheeks are always a slightly flushed rosy red, he's got a cute day-old scruff and he moves like a cat -- I've seen him scale up a wall while hoisting a 50-pound punching bag onto its straddle.
Tonight after class, a group of us headed over to St. Andrew's Gym in the neighbourhood to see Robert fight in his first Golden Gloves competition. The Golden Gloves is a series of sanctioned amateur boxing matches that has a home base in cities known for guts and glory home-grown boxing -- Chicago, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Detroit, Louisville. The Chicago installment is the most famous, because of its long and storied history. It didn't matter if you were from the North Side, the South Side, the Northwest Side or the Far West Side -- the Golden Gloves took you off the streets and into the ring. These are some of the people who've passed through Chicago Stadium and St. Andrew's Gym: Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier. It's every kid's dream to win the Golden Gloves.
There was a neon sign for hot dogs, the Army was recruiting and people stacked around the ring on bleachers and metal chairs. Each bout was three tw0-minute rounds; because it was amateur-level, the referee can call the fight if he felt that there was the potential for severe injury. I sat next to Tina, our toughest teacher (and she yells) and Johnny, a classmate who's a fighter. Johnny told us how Robert was supposed to have fought in his first Golden Gloves last year, but got his nose broken during a practice spar the week before by a professional fighter. It was a blow at the head that really was a shot below the belt -- beating someone up is not the point of a spar, especially if you were pro and he wasn't.
When Robert came on, there was no Don King glitz. He didn't even have a trainer. He didn't have someone to hold down the ropes for him as he stepped into the ring. He didn't have real boxing clothes, just a sleeveless T-shirt and Nike shorts I've seen him wear in class. He didn't have anyone but his boxing class rooting for him. He was fighting a black guy the same size as him, and both of them were like cats in the ring. They sprighted from one corner to the other, but the opponent came on Robert like a vulture on a baby bird. He pounded Robert and -- thank god he is agile -- Robert leapt away from the punches, but didn't quite have the stealth to hit back. At a couple of instances, Robert recovered to throw a few shots, but ended up getting sprayed by jabs and crosses. The referee stepped in and gave Robert the eight-count. At the end of it, Robert raised his arms in defeat and shook his head. He conceded the match halfway through the first round.
When Robert came down from the ring, he hung his head down as we gathered around to tell him that he was still our hero anyway, that neither of us could have even made it into the ring. He thanked us for coming in his soft voice and told Kate, another teacher, softly, that he was embarrassed we came to see him lose. Then he said he had to go.
Outside, Kate told us that Robert had been working at a coffee shop for the last few months, ever since he started going to school to get a degree in philosophy. He had been showing up for work with chaps and cuts on his hands from boxing and had been getting shit for it. He told her that when he was getting beat in the ring, all he could think about was his face and what the boss would say the next day. He knew he had it to take the heat and try to come back, and he desperately wanted to, but he couldn't lose the job because he needed it.
At my first boxing tournament, I was thinking about how romantic the sport really is and how you could look around St. Andrew's Gym and see the spirit on which this city is founded on. It's a lot of blue-collar people who look up, see four industrial-strenght spotlights shining down on one centrestage, two people portraying an act of strength, individualism, endurance, determination and blood. It's how this city was built. I'm not sure if Robert is coming to class on Saturday but earlier on, Tina said that when you're in the ring, emotions and thoughts you never knew you had flood your mind. You thought about survival and you thought about pulling through and you find something in yourself you never knew you had.
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/desireekoh13/album?.dir=61c6&.src=ph&store=&prodid=&.done=http%3a//pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/desireekoh13/my_photos
Tonight after class, a group of us headed over to St. Andrew's Gym in the neighbourhood to see Robert fight in his first Golden Gloves competition. The Golden Gloves is a series of sanctioned amateur boxing matches that has a home base in cities known for guts and glory home-grown boxing -- Chicago, St. Louis, Minneapolis, Detroit, Louisville. The Chicago installment is the most famous, because of its long and storied history. It didn't matter if you were from the North Side, the South Side, the Northwest Side or the Far West Side -- the Golden Gloves took you off the streets and into the ring. These are some of the people who've passed through Chicago Stadium and St. Andrew's Gym: Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier. It's every kid's dream to win the Golden Gloves.
There was a neon sign for hot dogs, the Army was recruiting and people stacked around the ring on bleachers and metal chairs. Each bout was three tw0-minute rounds; because it was amateur-level, the referee can call the fight if he felt that there was the potential for severe injury. I sat next to Tina, our toughest teacher (and she yells) and Johnny, a classmate who's a fighter. Johnny told us how Robert was supposed to have fought in his first Golden Gloves last year, but got his nose broken during a practice spar the week before by a professional fighter. It was a blow at the head that really was a shot below the belt -- beating someone up is not the point of a spar, especially if you were pro and he wasn't.
When Robert came on, there was no Don King glitz. He didn't even have a trainer. He didn't have someone to hold down the ropes for him as he stepped into the ring. He didn't have real boxing clothes, just a sleeveless T-shirt and Nike shorts I've seen him wear in class. He didn't have anyone but his boxing class rooting for him. He was fighting a black guy the same size as him, and both of them were like cats in the ring. They sprighted from one corner to the other, but the opponent came on Robert like a vulture on a baby bird. He pounded Robert and -- thank god he is agile -- Robert leapt away from the punches, but didn't quite have the stealth to hit back. At a couple of instances, Robert recovered to throw a few shots, but ended up getting sprayed by jabs and crosses. The referee stepped in and gave Robert the eight-count. At the end of it, Robert raised his arms in defeat and shook his head. He conceded the match halfway through the first round.
When Robert came down from the ring, he hung his head down as we gathered around to tell him that he was still our hero anyway, that neither of us could have even made it into the ring. He thanked us for coming in his soft voice and told Kate, another teacher, softly, that he was embarrassed we came to see him lose. Then he said he had to go.
Outside, Kate told us that Robert had been working at a coffee shop for the last few months, ever since he started going to school to get a degree in philosophy. He had been showing up for work with chaps and cuts on his hands from boxing and had been getting shit for it. He told her that when he was getting beat in the ring, all he could think about was his face and what the boss would say the next day. He knew he had it to take the heat and try to come back, and he desperately wanted to, but he couldn't lose the job because he needed it.
At my first boxing tournament, I was thinking about how romantic the sport really is and how you could look around St. Andrew's Gym and see the spirit on which this city is founded on. It's a lot of blue-collar people who look up, see four industrial-strenght spotlights shining down on one centrestage, two people portraying an act of strength, individualism, endurance, determination and blood. It's how this city was built. I'm not sure if Robert is coming to class on Saturday but earlier on, Tina said that when you're in the ring, emotions and thoughts you never knew you had flood your mind. You thought about survival and you thought about pulling through and you find something in yourself you never knew you had.
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/desireekoh13/album?.dir=61c6&.src=ph&store=&prodid=&.done=http%3a//pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/desireekoh13/my_photos
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Cub Day Afternoon
The Cubs' 2005 home opener at Wrigley Field came and went like a lazy Sunday afternoon in-between softball games at Hamlin Park.
Apart from the day's festivities, which featured an announcement of the entire team and newly minted Hall of Famer Ryne Sandberg throwing out the first pitch (all of which I watched quietly on my own as Sonny and Sara went to get the hot dogs), it felt much more like a mid-summer afternoon playing hooky from work than the very exciting first home game of the season. Even the wind blowing in from leftfield was sort of lackadaisical, the boo birds came out early with LaTroy Hawkins' first blown save of the season and Corey Patterson's third strikeout of the game. The peanut guy tossed a bag to someone a few rows in front of us and the peanut procurer miss the catch. That was the kind of afternoon April 8 was.
The Cubs played lethargically, dragging out a game that seemed to average an infield pop-up and walk issued per inning by the heart of our order and our pitchers respectively to 13 innings which then, of course, ended in a home loss. Thank you, Dusty Baker, for leaving Jon Leicester in for 49 pitches without any bullpen activity even after two walks in a row.
It may be more interesting to note that although we had hot dogs, peanuts, cheese fries and chili nachos, neither of us had a beer. Not a single sud. We gulped Pepsi from souvenir cups but didn't make the trip to any of the newly designed food stands (by the way, they look great! Thanks Levy Brothers, food service to Wrigley Field) -- the newly bumped-up prices were too rich for Sonny's blood and Sara and I had a bar to go to after the game.
Although I wish the ball game had been a little more exciting, a day off from work spent at the ball park with good friends is one of the finer moments in life. It's not often that you come across people who are good friends and people who are good ball players. For that one afternoon and more, we were both.
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/desireekoh13/album?.dir=a3fc&.src=ph&store=&prodid=&.done=http%3a//pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/desireekoh13/my_photos
Apart from the day's festivities, which featured an announcement of the entire team and newly minted Hall of Famer Ryne Sandberg throwing out the first pitch (all of which I watched quietly on my own as Sonny and Sara went to get the hot dogs), it felt much more like a mid-summer afternoon playing hooky from work than the very exciting first home game of the season. Even the wind blowing in from leftfield was sort of lackadaisical, the boo birds came out early with LaTroy Hawkins' first blown save of the season and Corey Patterson's third strikeout of the game. The peanut guy tossed a bag to someone a few rows in front of us and the peanut procurer miss the catch. That was the kind of afternoon April 8 was.
The Cubs played lethargically, dragging out a game that seemed to average an infield pop-up and walk issued per inning by the heart of our order and our pitchers respectively to 13 innings which then, of course, ended in a home loss. Thank you, Dusty Baker, for leaving Jon Leicester in for 49 pitches without any bullpen activity even after two walks in a row.
It may be more interesting to note that although we had hot dogs, peanuts, cheese fries and chili nachos, neither of us had a beer. Not a single sud. We gulped Pepsi from souvenir cups but didn't make the trip to any of the newly designed food stands (by the way, they look great! Thanks Levy Brothers, food service to Wrigley Field) -- the newly bumped-up prices were too rich for Sonny's blood and Sara and I had a bar to go to after the game.
Although I wish the ball game had been a little more exciting, a day off from work spent at the ball park with good friends is one of the finer moments in life. It's not often that you come across people who are good friends and people who are good ball players. For that one afternoon and more, we were both.
http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/desireekoh13/album?.dir=a3fc&.src=ph&store=&prodid=&.done=http%3a//pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/desireekoh13/my_photos
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Opening Day Shut Down
This winter, we played indoor soccer and volleyball so whenever I saw a ball, I either dug it up with my arms or pummelled it with my feet. Nothing about swatting at it.
So when I saw my first pitch of 2005 today, I took it for a ball. "Easy enough," I thought to myself. I'll wait for a pitch. So I waited for a pitch, and it came... not a perfect strike, but in the zone, hittable. I took a big swing and lined it foul. I'm known in the leagues as a pull hitter, although I was spraying the entire field nicely by the end of the 2004 season. But why make Opening Day complicated... I just wanted to make contact. With a full count on my back, I saw another not-bad pitch and swung hard. And I missed.
This year, spring sort of crept up on us. With the cold clinging on like a car window decal, we never got a chance to play catch or take some B.P. All of a sudden, it was time to play ball. Faux swings in my living room didn't help much.
Because on my next plate appearance, I fouled out. And on the one after that, I fouled out again. And finally, another swinging strikeout.
I was trying too hard and my timing was off, as well as my eyeing of the pitch. Finally, on my fifth plate appearance, I drove a line drive down the third base line. Open for business as usual.
The next game wasn't pretty either -- 0-4, but I actually felt better about that than my 1-5 performance earlier, because I hit the ball hard every time I stepped up. So the contact is back, I just have to figure out how to play the ball better into the field.
On defense, I muffed a few during the first game but caught a mile-high pop-up during the second that I knew that if I missed, would've knocked me out. Just like the mile-high pop-up in secondary three that put out my right eye for a week. I learned very well from that game, I'm all grown up now. (Although I took a laser beam off of my right thigh during fielding practice and on a hard slide into third base, scratched up my left calf. I think I can safely say that the season has begun.)
So, on opening day, I'm 1-9 with one single. Cowboy up!!!
So when I saw my first pitch of 2005 today, I took it for a ball. "Easy enough," I thought to myself. I'll wait for a pitch. So I waited for a pitch, and it came... not a perfect strike, but in the zone, hittable. I took a big swing and lined it foul. I'm known in the leagues as a pull hitter, although I was spraying the entire field nicely by the end of the 2004 season. But why make Opening Day complicated... I just wanted to make contact. With a full count on my back, I saw another not-bad pitch and swung hard. And I missed.
This year, spring sort of crept up on us. With the cold clinging on like a car window decal, we never got a chance to play catch or take some B.P. All of a sudden, it was time to play ball. Faux swings in my living room didn't help much.
Because on my next plate appearance, I fouled out. And on the one after that, I fouled out again. And finally, another swinging strikeout.
I was trying too hard and my timing was off, as well as my eyeing of the pitch. Finally, on my fifth plate appearance, I drove a line drive down the third base line. Open for business as usual.
The next game wasn't pretty either -- 0-4, but I actually felt better about that than my 1-5 performance earlier, because I hit the ball hard every time I stepped up. So the contact is back, I just have to figure out how to play the ball better into the field.
On defense, I muffed a few during the first game but caught a mile-high pop-up during the second that I knew that if I missed, would've knocked me out. Just like the mile-high pop-up in secondary three that put out my right eye for a week. I learned very well from that game, I'm all grown up now. (Although I took a laser beam off of my right thigh during fielding practice and on a hard slide into third base, scratched up my left calf. I think I can safely say that the season has begun.)
So, on opening day, I'm 1-9 with one single. Cowboy up!!!
