Boxing again. It’s not my favourite thing to do. I’m only doing it because the world is collapsing around me. I need the resilience that boxing gives me and a chance of escaping desperate future skirmishes, fought as part of guerrilla wars that could erupt in the unfolding climate crisis, within even the boundaries of this proud island.
I enter the gym early and nervously, but it’s okay -as I thought they would be, the kids are still training. I sit down to watch but am told to move into the back room where the other seniors are waiting. I stand in the corner of the back room like a chump. One of the trainers comes in and says don’t be scared, there are plenty of seats, but I still just stand there. Glad that this costs a humble three quid a pop.
We begin by stretching and then some rope work. I’m not too good on a skipping rope. I guess like many forty year old guys I dream of a late comeback in terms of fitness, but soon realise I am knackered when I watch the young guys doing doubles and criss- crossing. Besides which I chose a rope too small for me, a purple one that I have to hold by the very ends of the handles, which is a pain for my wrists.
Then we do some shadow-boxing and shadow-boxing with partners. I catch the eye-brow of the old guy I’m with, by accident, but he’s okay. I recognise him from another boxing gym, a while back, I’m not sure which one.
The temperature has dropped outside. How is there any way I can communicate the climate crisis to these guys? I guess I could wear an educational t-shirt, next time. I guess I could write ‘climate emergency’ or something similar on all my training clothes. And then show them how well I can box, so that they may follow what I say on a different subject. Maybe…
I enjoy the bag work. Someone has written on a whiteboard behind the heavy uppercut bag I am hitting, ‘There are no losers in boxing, only first and second place’. Typical boxing humour. I know enough to know that both first and second place can be very painful, although I’ve never trained enough to fight.
Then we play a game in pairs, where we each put our worst foot forward inside a hoop and hit each other in the stomach, and try to block the others’ punches. I go for it. I’m not scared of getting hit any more but I’m still scared of talking to people, especially these people, because I judge them to be rougher than me. I hope they punch all the judgement out of me.
I enjoy getting hit and hitting back. I have been to a few boxing gyms over the years, and now finally I have got to the stage of thinking ‘fuck it’ and understanding that I don’t need to be scared of the physical pain, and I don’t need to be scared of inflicting it either. It’s a game but a serious one, because my mind is on defending my girlfriend and my niece. I’m relaxing into this sport although it is still tiresome to me. I would rather be writing.
The physical pain is a necessary release and cathartic symbol of the stress of the climate and ecological nightmare we inhabit. If only these guys all knew about it, they would produce the best fighters in the region. They would all be as fired up to defend the planet as I am.
When I leave the gym, my jacket gets caught on the door handle. One of the coaches gives me a puzzled look as he helps me unhook it. He talks to me kindly as I resign myself to the cold night.
Image: ‘Wild Card Boxing Club Calavera’ by Ernesto Yerena
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