Richard Lord’s Boxing Gym in Austin, Texas

 Jesus cutting it up, sparring hard with a tough, younger fighter, Eddie. Eddie was married in the ring last week, waiting for the bell signaling the end of a round before agreeing to matrimony in the minute reprieve. His bride and baby live in the back room of Lord’s gym. As Jesus Gabriel Sandoval Chavez had done a decade ago.

Steeping out of the ring, super-saturated, indescribably drenched in sweat, Jesus paused to answer my questions. “How do you feel,” I asked. He quipped, without hesitation, grinning, “with my hands.”

Gold and black hand wraps festoon the ropes like Mardi Gras beads; the floor is sanctified with sweat. Colorful caricatures of star boxers stud the walls, amidst a mélange of posters advertising now famous fights. The whimsical art is reminiscent of Milanese murals on a traviata wall. Instead of the faces belonging to the restaurant proprietor, his family and employees, it’s the face of the guy showing you footwork, or the woman with whom you shadowbox, or the heat source for this incubator, Richard Lord.

A knot of hard bodied young Mexican fighters form around me, hoping for publicity for their prowess. The spokesman is Jose Gonzales, 2-0, boasting 380 amateur fights as a light welterweight. He is 23, and hopeful. Aspiring. It blazes in his eyes, the future, and his breath is erratic as he envisions it, then held, as one does for all things exceedingly pleasurable or painful. His future holds both. As does the future of all real fighters.

His peers are Marco Antonio Rubeo, ranked 7th in the world by the WBC as a junior middle weight. 29-2 with 7 KO’s. Julio Garcia, ranked 17th, as a light welterweight. Armando, ranked 10th as a super bantam. And Alexis Camacho and Raul Martinez, who are self-described as “up and coming.”

Jesus, stepping out of the ring, absorbed in another conversation, catches this phrase like a hawk beading down on prey, and volleys back, “up and coming” with a hard question mark. The boys, humbled and chastised, tuck their chins and are quiet.Young boys enter the ring to take advantage of the break in sparring.They have shiny hair, slight frames. They are Caucasian boys whose mothers still buy their clothes, and they are in awe. They awkwardly practice the footwork and combinations, with the self-consciousness of adolescence.

I feel as “connected” in this environment, as a baby in utero, the organ systems audible, regular, comforting. From an ancient prototype stairmaster squeaking like a porch swing, to the speed bags’ thump and the heavier heartbeat of hits to the big bags, it is a thriving, vibrant system, and I am a part. And perhaps this is the appeal. The three minute bell is startling; the gym’s adrenals. Only the music continues after it sounds. Music and the pulse coursing through, the almost audible hum of hope, anticipation, juices flowing. Fear, maybe.

It is nearing 7 p.m. Many boxers have already put in 6 hours. Things are winding down inside. I exit. In the parking lot, down the alley towards the Goodwill, UT students jump rope under the mostly full moon, the air cool like silk, carrying no hint of the oppressive heat to come, that unctuous emollient of heavy laden hot that is summer in the deep south. I negotiate a path between 25 college kids jumping rope, ritualistically.

 Jesus is training for a big fight with Carlos Hernandez in Staples Auditorium- LA. I ask him how badly he wants to win. Serious now, he replies, without reflection. His answer is not what I had overlaid from my belief system of who Jesus was. Sentences wafted up in my psyche, extracts from a book I’d read recently about Jesus, “The bullet meant for me.” He was the man with an “overwhelming need to win,” the gladiator with a joie de vivre and a purity in his love of the sport and his desire to be the best. The beautiful young boy crying as he shadowboxed, taunted by guards, alone in solitary confinement for 3 months. 3 months. He was only 17, serving a sentence at Statesville prison, in Illinois. He shouted back to the guards that he would be the world champion one day.

Day 2

Linda sparring with Amalia Litras. Richard comments on how pretty her name is. She is pretty. And strong. She ties a hand wrap across a ring, practicing squats on the move in a boxer’s limbo, head ducking on alternate sides as she moves backwards and forwards. She teaches me. She encourages me…to spar.

I have a Greenfield filter in my vena cava, which I had assumed would prohibit me from sparring. Yet, I salivate at the thought of putting my conditioning and new skills to the test. She tells me about www.titleboxing.com where I could special order gear that would protect my middle. “We wouldn’t hit you there, anyway, but for your peace of mind, check out what they have.” she says, enthusiastically. A “you can do it” seed planted. She is kind.When she sparred with Linda, she was also brave. Linda is a steam roller, a cyborg programmed “kill.” She has a 10 inch tattoo on the outside of her right calf. A witch with a pointy black hat and a cauldron of swirling red alchemical mist.

Watching her advance on Amalia, I see a chimera, a fighting cock with wings spread, before it thrusts dangerous spurs, now a dragon, transforming; that cauldron is cooking eye of newt and more than a sprinkle of opponent’s fear. But Amalia is courageous. She takes what appear to be hard punches to her nose and perseveres. They both have protective gear that scrunches their cheeks toward the center of their faces, so you cant really read expressions.

Now Eddie spars. He is Richard’s hopeful. I can tell. He has such quick feet. He is a shock wave of fists, fast hands. He never spars in boxing shoes; only Nike’s. Perhaps they’ll be his first sponsor. His stance and his hands, open too wide, purposefully, as a taunt, as if to say “Bring it on!”

“More body shots! Work the angles” Richard admonishes, from the corner. Eddie strikes a low, grounded stance. He leaps into it as if having just pounced from a high place, Ninja-like, and he lets a left upper cut fly. His right hook describes a huge arc, followed by a barrage, a flurry of fists.

An ex-fighter shows up with his baby girl asleep on his shoulder. Richard jokes that Ilya has gained weight from too much Stoly, as he gently brushes aside the curls from the sleeping daughter’s face, to admire her. He was so tender. A characteristic I find frequently in this gym. Tenderness.

He stroked her hair in the middle of a round, for a long time, with patience, fondness and genuine love. The time he devoted to the child was , unrushed, natural. It was exactly what the moment called for. Nothing contrived. Certainly not for show. It was just Richard’s nature or his instinct for…timing.

And maybe that, timing, the natural unfolding of abilities and talent, the body revealing what it is capable of as the lessons sink deep in neural pathways, maybe that is what allows life to best articulate itself. At its own pace. An esoteric comprehension of timing may be Richard’s greatest gift and greatest teaching.

The father moves on, and Richard grins, as another youth enters the ring. “Now this is what you call hungry.” A kid smiles with duct tape over his teeth. He forgot his mouthpiece and really wanted to spar. A Jr. Olympics silver medalist with a mouthful of tape adhesive because he so badly wants to get in the ring. That’s what boxing does. That’s what boxing is about.