Not-so-speedy Speed Bag

Clickity... Clickety.... Clickity.... The Englishman never taught me the speed bag. That came later. It didn't sound rhythmic when I tried. It sounded painful. Like experimental jazz. Like terrible music played too loud. I play the speed bag now. Clickity-clack-clickity-clack-clickity-CLACK It's a train now. It reverberates through the gym. The Englishman, wherever he is now, can feel it in his teeth. That train rolls through everyday at noon. Come in. The Englishman should. Wherever he is now.

British Boxing Imposter

The Englishman was secretly a Salt Laker. I have no proof of this besides the calligraphized ink up his forearm of a Salt Lake city. I imagine he must have been born a Brit since his accent was authentic and because of his affinity for golf. He certainly boxed like an Englishman, and that is really what matters in this tale. He said things like "go on Kate." He told me this frequently. A lot of times I didn't know where I ought to be going, but thought better not to ask. There was always the good chance it was some place I did not want to go. "Go on" also meant "You're standing too long. Get down and do the f------ burpee." He was English. The f word was merely an accent to a sentence. To me, it meant I better get on that floor, or feel the rath of "bloody 'ell". The f word was also used to inform one that there is no such thing as an f------ girl push-up. He rarely said it when I was in the ring. He must have known I knew where I was going. I knew where I was going. You would not think the ring would be hard to get lost in, but the confusion of being pummeled gets to you. I understand the boundaries. The perimeter. The danger of the ropes. And no Englishman had to tell me to stay away or where to go. In the ring, "go on Kate" is pointless.

Training Day

I learned to box from a tattooed Englishman.

He used the F word and blasted the rap. He had the ability to teach multiple boxing classes a day, then, as a cool down, rode his bike a hundred miles.

He was a bad ass.

The Englishman taught me a stance, taught me a hook, left and right, and most unfortunately he taught a burpee. A real burpee: an up down with a push-up and jump as an added bonus.

And I never met a burpee I cared for.

Some thought I fought and bled for the Englishman, the same who thought he was a pretty face. Not true. I fought and bled for myself, for my own sanity. The Englishman merely taught me how. And despite all his vanity, vulgarity and general vice, I have to thank the Englishman.

The Englishman taught me to fight. And I fight. I fight for self-esteem, I fight for power, I fight for a chance to fight. Almot every metaphorical punch I've wanted to throw, I've now thrown literally.

I promise to throw all the literal punches needed to sufficently have fought back.