Hit Like a Girl

“Whether I was in a slump or feeling badly or having trouble off the field, the only thing to do was keep swinging.”

-Hank Aaron

I always knew my dad loved me—but I’m fairly certain he was hoping his firstborn would be a boy. His parenting style reflected this internal struggle. Most of the time (to my great annoyance), he treated me like a fragile little cream puff…his princess.  And yet…by age six or seven, I somehow was coaxed into watching football with him while he explained every single rule in excruciating detail. By eight, I could identify just about any penalty or play. This was highly unusual for a young girl in the mid-1960s, when most girls didn’t know hand signals for “illegal procedure” or “offsides.”

My dad also loved boxing almost as much as football, so along with becoming a walking football dictionary, I learned about jabs, crosses, hooks, and uppercuts along with stories like the night Rocky Marciano knocked out Joe Lewis.

The late ’60s and early ’70s were the golden age of boxing—Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, George Foreman and others all in their prime. My dad would be jumping out of his seat, woo-hooing and yelling at the TV during legendary matches like The Fight of the Century and The Thrilla in Manila. I’d sit there pondering the truly important questions, like: What exactly is on that gigantic cotton swab they shove up a boxer’s nose to stop the bleeding?

When my younger brother was old enough to watch sports, I assumed I was finally off the hook for all things boxing. Wrong. One of our favorite activities when my dad was watching us was playing “boxing championship.” We’d head to the basement, put on oversized winter mittens, and stand in our respective “corners.” My dad served as announcer, pulling an imaginary microphone down from the ceiling and booming, “Good EVENING, ladies and gentlemen!” He’d announce our names, hometowns, and some ridiculous boxer nickname.

My brother and I would jump around like wildly overconfident champions as we were introduced. Then my dad would yell, “Ding! DING!” and the round would begin. I honestly don’t remember us actually punching each other—at least not hard (although my brother may have a distinctly different memory). Mostly there was a lot of dancing around the “ring,” our version of “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”

As a teenager and young adult, I decided boxing was barbaric. Girls didn’t box—even if they wanted to back then. I remember thinking, how can people hit each other like that? And why would anyone pay to watch it? (Although I gladly paid to watch every Rocky movie ever made.)

Fast-forward to roughly 50 years since my basement matches, for reasons still not entirely clear—possibly displaced frustration with the state of the world—I signed up for a kickboxing class. I should have known better when I saw the chippy young instructors bouncing around with zero boxing knowledge or experience and offering no instruction beyond a “just jump in!” vibe.  Three months of physical therapy later, lesson learned.

A few years after that, I wanted to work out at a real boxing gym. A ring. Grit. Sweat. No trendy nonsense. My only requirement: the instructor had to be a current or former boxer. I trained with a boxer named Steve, learned the basics, and discovered something important—I liked hitting things…at least bags and pads. It was very satisfying. Then the gym closed, I had both knees replaced, and I was officially down for the count.

On the Ropes Boxing

But with brand-new knees and a stronger core, I knew I had to find another place to box. I went through the tedious search process again with my same criteria and found a boxing gym nearby called On the Ropes Boxing and Fitness in Warwick RI. I set up my first lesson and the first thing I noticed when I walked in were championship belts lining the walls—and photos of female boxers. Turns out the gym is owned by four women: four unassuming, inspiring, and extremely bad-ass champion boxers. Women who support and empower each other and serve as role models for their students.  It immediately felt like home.

My instructor Kathleen, a national master’s championship titleholder, holds pads for me and calls out numbers which correspond to a specific punch—or puts on a body pad and lets me go to town. Since I’ve only ever punched one person….in 1970, an older bully who was relentlessly picking on my five-year-old brother (no regrets), it took a lot of encouragement for me to hit a person even though they were wearing protective padding.

I’ve never felt like the old lady in the gym. When my chest is heaving and my legs are wobbling, Kathleen doesn’t coddle me or patronize me by asking, “Oooh, do you need to rest?” She just says very reassuringly and matter-of-factly, “You’re okay. I know you can do this.” And over time she helped me build enough confidence to try sparring.  Even though I’ve sworn up and down, I would never spar.  (I should know by now to never say never.)  There’s a mutual trust in the ring.  I’m fully aware she could knock my lights out in about three seconds but graciously chooses not to, and she knows I’m not about to go rogue and start throwing wild haymakers like I’ve completely lost my mind. It’s invigorating, although that may change very quickly when I’m not the one who gets to do most of the punching.

And oh yeah, the drills. Ducking left and right under a rope strung diagonally across the ring—while punching. Side-stepping around the ring (as fast as I can, which is…not fast) until she calls out a combo and sends me the other way. My legs turn to jelly. I am convinced the timer runs intentionally slow.

Just when I think I can’t lift my legs enough to climb out of the ring—more rounds on the heavy bag or double-ended bag. And then the grand finale, five nonstop minutes on the speed bag. The first minute my triceps scream, WTF, absolutely not. By minute three, my arms go on autopilot til the final buzzer.

It’s the best hour of my week.

This is what 66 looks like.
Until next time—don’t stop swinging. 🥊