The Future Ain’t What It Used to Be
“Butterflies? There’s no way it could be butterflies,” I thought.
I hadn’t felt like this since I was 17 years old. Mid-September, the air thick with the scent of peat and fireplaces. Strapping on shoulder pads on a crisp autumn night, preparing to step onto the gridiron against some faceless team. Full of youthful folly and big dreams of stardom.
But that was a twinge from another lifetime, a parallel universe.
I’m an old man now. I exit the Metro and begin a lengthy walk toward the DC waterfront. I have a hitch in my step, a reminder of the ceramicized metal alloy that now functions as my right knee. I head south on 7th Street SW, eventually bending right onto Maine Avenue. The restaurants and bars are sensory overload: music and the chattering masses and the scent of foods commingling.
I’ve got about a quarter mile until I hit the venue. I check my phone and see it’s not yet 5:00 p.m. A hundred yards ahead, in the gloaming, I can see The Anthem.
Just then I hear a voice call out.
Remember to Bring Your Legs
The voice yelling my name is Josh. I haven’t seen him in years, not since we worked a bunch of rounds together as I helped him prepare for a fight at the start of his boxing career. I was just a body floating through different boxing gyms then, giving rounds to whoever wanted some work. I knew Josh had turned pro several years ago, but I had no idea if he was still active.
He was here tonight to corner a fighter for the Haymakers for Hope card, a night of amateur boxing dedicated to fundraising for cancer research. Same as me. We caught up and stopped off to pick up water and snacks for our respective fighters.
I texted Yomi to ensure he’d made weight and was resting. He’d cut a significant number of pounds, and I was worried he wouldn’t have his legs.
We grabbed our trainer credentials at the door, and I began the labyrinthine walk to the fighters’ dressing rooms feeling like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas during the famous Copa Cabana scene. Through the kitchen prep area and past the security and up one back stairwell and down another. When I arrived at the dressing room, Yomi was lying on the ground, legs locked into some hyperbolic chamber–looking snow pants of some sort. He was always a high-tech guy, replete with stretching gadgets and a firm believer in all the accoutrements of modern medicine and quasi-science. He looked relaxed, listening to music and zoning out.
I sat down, pulled a peanut butter and banana sandwich from my backpack. Looking around, I wondered: “How the hell did I get here?”
Making Hay: An Introduction to the Fight Game
Jordan walked in, smiling wide. Jordan is a former pro fighter and fellow trainer at Urban Boxing. He strolled in and began unraveling Yomi’s tape and gauze, preparing to wrap his hands for the fight. Our lead trainer, Walt, arrived and we all sat quietly, watching Jordan cut strips of adhesive tape to place between the knuckles on top of the gauze wrap. The whole process felt meditative and solemn, but also like a silent bonding experience. We were all there for the same purpose, all working together for a common goal. In a sport famous for its solitude, the truth is there is always a team behind the individual.
Walt opened up his duffle bag, and walked me through all the necessary materials he’d brought for the bout: extra tape, a jar of Vaseline, an enswell (i.e., a flat cold metal tool designed to reduce swelling when pressed to the fighter’s face), swabs to stem any blood, and an array of ice packs and towels. We were fully prepared.
Fighters were now being led from their locker rooms to begin getting warm for their bouts. We were the first fight of the night, and Walt wanted to get Yomi warm, to work the mitts and produce an initial layer of sweat and increase his heart rate. There was a science, a physiology at play here that Walt was familiar with, having managed pro fighters for years. I was drinking this in, trying to catalog all the knowledge he was demonstrating.
The Haymakers production crew ushered us backstage and told us to wait until the music and video packages hit. Then we were set to make our way to the ring. We stood backstage for a bit, waiting. Yomi turned to us and asked us to gather together to pray. I have been an atheist all my life, but this felt like an affirmation of trust and community. We put our arms around each other and leaned our foreheads together, touching. Walt led us in an impromptu prayer, beseeching the Lord to keep Yomi safe in battle. I closed my eyes and emptied my mind of everything but this moment.
The Fight
Three 2-minute rounds have never gone that quickly. I’ve seen Yomi do a half dozen rounds at a time, 3-minute rounds. I’ve seen him in dogfights, I’ve seen him demonstrate his skills. But something about being under the bright lights, about the pace of an amateur bout dictates that you be more aggressive, more convincing in your efforts.
As we’d instructed him earlier, Yomi began pumping his jab out, ramping up his punch volume to a fever pitch. No time to posture or pose. He kept a high guard, eschewing the Philly shell he sometimes lapses into. Yomi is a catch-and-shoot boxer, relying on his reflexes and timing to counter his opponent with precise jabs. The first round was close, so as the second round began, Walt and I implored Yomi to press on the gas. We needed this second round.
Yomi didn’t disappoint, loading up on heavy shots, eventually forcing his opponent to take a standing 8-count (essentially, this counts as a knockdown without the boxer having to touch the canvas). The third and final round consisted mostly of clinches, with both fighters exhausted from their high output in the previous two frames of action. Yomi again landed the heavier shots and held on, securing the victory. When he was officially announced the winner, he raised his hands and I let out a huge breath.
He did it. We did it. The months of hard work, days in the garage and in the gym and doing roadwork had paid off. I hope he enjoyed it as much as I did.
Going Home
We got back to the locker room and continued icing Yomi to cool down and get his legs back under him. Then we all laughed and took pictures and rejoiced. Just being there among so many familiar faces from other gyms, from the culture of boxing, felt like a huge brotherhood. Men and women dedicating themselves to a singular pursuit, sacrificing their bodies, and honoring their own friends and family.
For Yomi, I knew this was about his uncle Joshua, who had succumbed to cancer years earlier. I wish I knew more about him, how he was, who he was, and what he meant to Yomi. But I think it’s tough to drudge up emotions that way sometimes. I’d mentioned my own father to Yomi months earlier at media day. Graciously, he referenced my father by name during a media promo interview. He talked about my father’s service as a U.S. marine, how he’d fought in Vietnam. How he’d died from cancer, too.
I’d teared up watching it. I don’t think he’ll ever realize how much that meant to me, and how much this night meant to me to honor the ghost of my father. I left the venue and walked the quiet streets home. I watched the bright lights and the inky blackness of night descend. The night was a fever dream, a night for everyone to battle his own demons—inside and outside the ring.
