I Try Boxing. Uh, Oh. - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

I Try Boxing. Uh, Oh. - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

I loved boxing, especially appreciating the skills of Arujo, Zanelli, and Marciano; favorite fighters I saw at The Arena with my Dad. So, boxing gloves, and a training bag were my Christmas requests one year. Those tan gloves with long, white laces were light enough to augment my blinding speed, jabbing, crossing, and hitting. I loved the freshness of their leathery smell.

The training bag, on the other hand, was not what I expected. Rather than hanging from a beam in the cellar, it was attached to a flexible metal pole that in turn was attached to a stand with a metal base that rested flat on the floor. When I stood on the stand and hit the bag, the rod and bag arched away, then snap returned, ready for another punch. Though I became proficient, my footwork suffered because all I did was stand inertly to punch the returning bag. I jumped rope.

The cellar was the winter gym where I practiced. Spring arrived, and I was ready, eager, to take my skills on the road. The junket turned out to be one I did not expect.

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My first encounter under the grape arbor in my rear yard was with Paulie, a tall, underweight ‘weakling,’ who ambled down the driveway.

“Look what I got for Christmas.” Beaming while rocking and shifting my feet, I showed him my new gloves. After slipping them on, I practiced a few feints, imitating the French boxer, Ray Famechon, a fighter I saw on television’s Friday Night Fights. Famechon brushed his nose with the thumb of his glove as he circled his opponent. Ready to attack, he snorted like a bull and then blew out through his nostrils like a whale through a blowhole.

I showed Paulie some of my best moves as I danced, snorting like Famechon, jabbing like Zanelli, with the footwork of Arujo, and the power (kinda)of Marciano. I asked him if he wanted to box. He nodded with a smile. Hmmm. I offered him a set of old, worn, poor-fitting gloves with dirty laces.

The confines of the grape arbor became our ring. I danced and fired meaningless jabs into the air, remembering to brush, snort and blow. I popped him with a couple of jabs, one on each shoulder. He ducked a few other quickies and uttered a chuckle. Aha. No longer would I go easy on him.

Annoyed, I moved in, eager to hit him a little harder. But, a problem. I forgot that he was left-handed. He hit me on the nose with a punch I never saw. Wow, it hurt. Embarrassed and a little shaky, I dropped my arms and retreated. I pirouetted to the bench, sat, and chucked off the gloves. “I’m not doing this anymore,” I blurted. I took the gloves to the cellar and hung them on a nail.

That was my first fight. That was my last fight. 

I thought, “There are many more sports out there that I enjoy. Boxing is out.”