Girls Can't Hit

by T. S. Easton

  The Meninists

  ‘Oh please come to Battle with us,’ Blossom said on Monday. ‘You’ve missed the last two. Pip’s going to take part in the re-enactment rehearsal again this week.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. I still hadn’t made up my mind. On the one hand I missed my friends and wanted to go to Battle. Not to mention the money I’d earn. On the other hand I’d just got my parents to let me go to boxing. If I didn’t go, they’d just think I was lacking in commitment as usual.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going to boxing again.’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I didn’t absolutely hate it last week.’

  ‘Up to you,’ Blossom said as we went into English class. ‘But we missed you.’

  Miss Theakston was our teacher and she was encouraging us to debate stuff. She does this periodically, trying to engage us with important issues of the day, like Europe, immigration, the death penalty etc. Somehow though we always end up arguing about gender issues. This is because Blossom and Bonita are both in the class and so are William Capel and Ryan Cook. Blossom calls them the Meninists, men who think they’re downtrodden and have to fight for more rights. Like someone arguing that Brighton needs more mindfulness workshops.

  Today Ryan started telling us why women were inferior to men.

  ‘Even the very fastest woman is still half a second slower than the fastest man,’ Ryan said smugly.

  ‘And that’s important, is it?’ Blossom asked. ‘That half-second? That half-second is why men are paid forty per cent more than women? That’s why ninety-nine per cent of CEOs are men? Why seventy-five per cent of MPs and top civil servants are men? Because of that half-second advantage?’

  ‘In evolutionary terms, it’s vital that men get the choicest cuts of meat,’ William said. ‘Protein builds muscle and speed and without those, next time the wildebeest gets away and we all go hungry. Why would you want the village to starve, Blossom?’

  ‘Half a second explains why Saudi women aren’t allowed to drive, does it?’ Blossom went on. ‘That’s why Malala was shot? Because she was too slow to dodge the bullet? Half a second difference is really THAT important?’

  ‘It might make all the difference between catching a wildebeest or going home empty-handed,’ William said. ‘A lot can happen in half a second.’

  ‘I could kick you in the bollocks in half a second,’ Bonita suggested.

  ‘Bonita!’ Miss Theakston snapped. ‘And William, stop trying to deliberately inflame the debate.’

  ‘That’s the problem with women,’ Ryan sighed. ‘They just don’t get logic. They let emotion get in the way. There are some roles more suited to men than to women. That’s just a fact.’

  ‘I’ve got another fact for you,’ Blossom said. ‘It’s 2017 and girls can do whatever the hell they want. You know that there wouldn’t be nearly such a mess if women were in charge of everything,’ she went on. ‘They should ban men from holding public office.’

  ‘That might work for a bit,’ Ryan replied. ‘But eventually all the women in parliament would end up having their period at the same time. Then boom.’

  Bonita snorted with laughter.

  A Feminist Issue

  In the end I chose boxing and I was glad I did, because something strange happened at training. I got through the whole hour without once feeling like I was about to die of cardiac arrest. Don’t get me wrong, it was still incredibly difficult. But I didn’t want to throw up the whole time. Just most of the time. I managed to skip, without stopping, for nearly a whole minute. At one point the rope whirled so fast it actually made that whistling sound and I was starting to think I was quite the Joe Frazier until I mistimed it and whacked myself in the back of the head.

  We moved into warm-ups and Ricky turned up the awful music and told us to swing our hips and lift our knees.

  ‘You didn’t know it was a dance class too, did you?’ he called out over an awful groaning I thought might have been Phil Collins.

  I found the leg drills tough. Ricky noticed me struggling. ‘Come on, Fleur,’ he called. ‘Train hard, fight easy.’

  ‘I am so unfit,’ I gasped, feeling everyone’s eyes on me.

  ‘Right everyone. Drinks break. Don’t drink too much, too fast,’ Ricky shouted.

  ‘You should run more,’ Dan suggested as we went for our water bottles. ‘Put miles in your legs. As Ricky would say, there are no shortcuts, Fleur.’

  I nodded and grabbed my water, trying to just sip it, though I wanted to take the lid off and dive inside. I was grateful to Dan for coming over to chat. I’d already noticed today that the boys seemed slightly more friendly. Even so, most of them stood in little groups with their mates. Not deliberately excluding me, I don’t think. Just not making a particular effort to include me. And sometimes I got the impression, when I walked close by, that the conversation would stop, or drop. Like they were uncomfortable carrying on their banter with a girl around.

  ‘I think you’re getting fitter,’ Dan said. ‘You kept up with the burpees.’

  ‘Still sweating like a pig though,’ I said, looking down at the pool beneath my feet.

  ‘Don’t worry, that’ll get easier,’ Dan said. ‘Just keep working. Keep pushing yourself. Oh, and watch Rocky.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You want to get fit? Watch Rocky.’

  ‘The film Rocky? With Sylvester Stallone?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘How can watching a film make you fitter?’

  Dan grinned. ‘Trust me.’

  I wasn’t sure if all this exercise was doing me much good, but it was certainly making me hungrier. During English class on Monday my stomach was growling and Blossom kept looking at me in alarm. ‘It’s like sitting next to Chewbacca,’ she said. I was very grateful for the lunch bell and pretty much ran to the canteen, Blossom puffing to keep up.

  ‘What’s that song you’ve been humming all day?’ she asked.

  ‘“The Logical Song”, by Supertramp,’ I said.

  ‘The what? By the who?’

  ‘Not The Who. Supertramp,’ I said as we grabbed plates and started helping ourselves to food. ‘Ricky is a big fan of Progressive Rock. He has two playlists. One is all songs that have some connection to boxing, however tenuous, and the other is prog rock classics; they get under your skin. Yesterday I had “Moonchild” by King Crimson in my head all day.’

  ‘Is this a boxing club, or a cult?’ Blossom asked.

  We sat down and Blossom inspected my plate. I’d piled it up somewhat. I had chicken nuggets and a wiener schnitzel. Spaghetti, carrots, sweetcorn and peas. A bread roll, a chocolate mousse for dessert and a cheesecake for another dessert. I was ravenous but it still looked like a lot.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Ryan Cook said as he walked past and saw my full plate. William Capel whispered something into his ear. I heard the words ‘going straight to her arse’. They both fell about laughing.

  ‘And another example of everyday sexism,’ Blossom sighed. ‘No one would bat an eyelid if they saw a man eating a lot of food.’

  ‘Yeah but women do the cooking, so it’s sort of our fault,’ I said.

  ‘Fair point,’ Blossom said and helped herself to one of my chicken nuggets. We grinned at each other as we chewed.

  The grinning stopped on Friday night when I showed Blossom what I’d chosen for the Bluebell Road Film Club.

  ‘ROCKY?’

  ‘Yes, Rocky.’

  ‘You want me to watch a film about a stupid boxer?’

  ‘It’s a classic. Second-best sports film ever made according to the American Film Institute,’ I said, reading the back of the DVD case. ‘Three Oscars, ten nominations.’

  ‘Fine. You go ahead,’ Blossom said. ‘I’m going to do some revision.’

  ‘You’re not even going to give it a try?’

  ‘I don’t want to watch a film about oafish bullies hitting each other in the head,’ she said, grabbing her geography textbook and opening
it.

  ‘Well, I think that’s a bit closed-minded,’ I said. ‘After all, I sat through your film last week, The Concubine’s Shoes.’

  ‘The Concubine’s Choice,’ she corrected. ‘And you didn’t sit through it, you went to sleep.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, hitting play.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. She started flipping pages.

  ‘Would you mind doing that a little more quietly?’ I asked as the opening credits started to roll.

  Blossom rolled her eyes. ‘Fine,’ she said again.

  I forgot all about Blossom soon enough though. Because Rocky is just BRILLIANT. Why had I never watched this before? It’s just a great story. He’s this tough prize-fighter who ekes out a living between bouts by collecting debts. Then he’s given the chance to fight against the heavyweight champion OF THE WORLD. He’s got no hope of course, but then this little guy agrees to train him and he gives him loads of great advice. My favourite bit is where the little guy says, ‘He ain’t gonna kiss ya, Rocky, he’s gonna KILL ya.’ He reminded me a bit of Joe, the old coach at Bosford Boxing Club.

  There’s even a love interest too, and when they finally kissed I don’t mind admitting I had to wipe my eye.

  ‘What does she see in him?’ Blossom said, tutting.

  ‘I thought you were studying?’ I asked.

  ‘How can I study with him grunting like a warthog all over the place?’ she replied. ‘And another thing, how come he keeps punching meat?’

  ‘Shh,’ I said. ‘This is a good bit.’

  Blossom huffed and pretended to read her book but I could tell she was watching. Of course she was watching. Rocky is the best. He’s my new obsession. I decided then and there that I was going to watch every Rocky film. On my own if I had to.

  On the Buzzer

  Am I becoming accepted?

  Today Coach Alex raised an eyebrow at me, which I think is his way of smiling. Jordan had offered me advice on my skipping technique. Simon with the electronic tag got me some wraps from Ricky’s bag and showed me how to put them on. He told me I could pay for them next week. Probably best of all was Joe slapping me on the shoulder as he passed. It’s not that they’d been rude or dismissive before, but they’d mostly ignored me.

  I mentioned this to Sharon. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Look, a lot of people come for one or two sessions, then we never see them again. The boys don’t tend to start talking to you until they know you’re a regular.’

  Wow. Was I a regular? Maybe … At one point, we were doing timed burpees, as many as we could do in a minute. I’d just got down on to my hands and knees for one when the buzzer went. I stopped and got back up.

  ‘One more,’ Ricky said to me. I got down and did one more, my muscles protesting just when they’d thought they were getting a rest. ‘Always put one on the buzzer.’

  ‘Got it,’ I panted.

  ‘OK,’ Ricky said, when we were warmed up and I couldn’t feel my face any more. ‘So we’re going to do some punching exercises, in pairs.’ More awful music played on the stereo. The sort of thing my parents might listen to. Genesis, ELO, some band with a flute player that Jerome told me was called Jethro Tull. Ricky explained what he wanted us to do. Facing each other, we were to do three sets of three minutes, one person wearing pads, the other wearing gloves, before swapping over.

  ‘Any questions?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, unable to stop myself. ‘Who’s in charge of the playlist?’

  And everyone laughed. At me. No, not at me. At my joke. They didn’t tell me to shut my cake-hole, or shake their heads sadly at this slip of a girl who’d invaded their space. They laughed. Not a lot. I don’t want to oversell it. But I felt myself flushing with pleasure. Until Ricky replied.

  ‘I’m in charge of the bloody playlist,’ he growled. ‘It’s inspiring.’

  ‘It’s … eclectic,’ I said. No one laughed that time and I wondered if I’d overdone it. There was clearly a fine line.

  ‘You got time for fancy words, you’ve got time for six more press-ups,’ he said. ‘On the floor.’ By the time I’d finished and found a matching pair of stink bags, everyone else had paired up. Joe was the only one left.

  ‘Just jabs first. Three minutes,’ Ricky cried. ‘Hit from the face, bring your gloves back to your face after each punch.’ Joe grinned at me toothlessly and told me to keep my guard up as I started patting his pads delicately.

  ‘Hit harder,’ he growled. ‘I’ll tap in.’ I tried to do as he asked but I was already tired from the warm-up exercises. ‘Don’t go easy on me,’ Joe said. ‘I’m tougher than I look.’ That wouldn’t be difficult, I thought and redoubled my efforts. Left-right, left-right, roll under. The buzzer went off and I punched one more time. Put one on the buzzer.

  ‘And rest,’ Ricky called.

  ‘You’re doing well,’ Joe growled as I took in great lungfuls of sweet air. I nodded gratefully, unable to speak.

  ‘Switch to hooks,’ Ricky called. ‘Left, then right.’

  A hook, as I’d learned, is a slightly lower punch than the jab, one that you sort of curl in from the side, elbow out, hoping to get around your opponent’s defences. I started whacking away at Joe’s pads. ‘Harder,’ he said. ‘Keep going.’ I kept this up for about seven years before the buzzer went. Now I was starting to feel it. I was sweating and gulping deep breaths. How did boxers keep this up round after round? There is nothing harder than punching for three minutes solid.

  ‘Uppercuts next,’ Ricky shouted. ‘Get down low, bend the knees and hit up into the pads.’

  Joe held the pads high and horizontally, facing down, and as the buzzer went again, I started thumping upwards. After a few punches I felt a whole new set of muscles starting to protest. I’d never seen evidence that I had ANY muscles in my arms. Turns out there are dozens of the little fellas and they were all hating on me big-time for waking them up.

  ‘Hit harder,’ Joe said, leaning in closer until our faces were just a few inches apart. ‘Send me flying.’ Each punch was a huge effort. I had to brace myself, bend my knees, get into position and hit upwards, which doesn’t feel natural. As the time ticked down I was preparing myself for one last right when the buzzer went. ‘And rest,’ Ricky called. Remembering Ricky’s earlier admonition to put one on the buzzer I went through with the punch, giving it everything, knowing it was the last one.

  But Joe, upon hearing Ricky’s call to rest, had dropped the pads to his sides. My glove came up sharply and cracked him right on the jaw. He went down like someone had removed his bones. ‘Joe!’ Ricky yelled, and raced over to him as I stood there, shocked.

  ‘I said rest!’ Ricky said, looking up at me crossly.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I was putting one on the buzzer.’

  ‘You put one right on my buzzer,’ Joe said, without lifting his head.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Sharon asked, coming over with a medical kit. Joe waved her away and with Ricky’s help got to his feet. He stumbled over to a chair and sat down.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again, mortified.

  ‘Never mind,’ Ricky said to me. ‘It’s a contact sport and these things happen. Just be more careful next time.’ I felt a bit better after that and tried to put the incident out of my mind. As I was leaving I checked again with Joe.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  He grinned. ‘It’s a long while since a woman has made me see stars like that,’ he said. ‘And I seem to remember it being more fun last time.’ It wasn’t a joke Blossom would have approved of, but I was glad to see he seemed fine.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be the next Nicola Adams,’ I said.

  As I turned to go, he grabbed my wrist. ‘We should call you Killa. You’ve got one hell of an uppercut,’ he said. I waited for him to add ‘For a girl.’

  But he didn’t.

  Torn

  Bluebell Road Film Club had come around again and Blossom was cuing up a film on Netflix. It was a Yemeni film called The House of Thre
e Deserts and ran for nearly four hours. I sighed and went to make a cocoa, hoping it would send me off to sleep during the opening credits.

  ‘Do you think Taylor Swift and the guy will ever get back together?’ I called from the kitchen.

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘From the song. You know?’

  ‘What, the song where she says we are never ever ever getting back together? No, I don’t.’

  ‘You don’t think she’s protesting a little too much?’ I asked. ‘I mean, if she really wasn’t ever going to get back with him she wouldn’t keep going on about it.’

  ‘She doesn’t KEEP going on about it,’ Blossom said, as I handed her a cocoa. ‘The song is three and a half minutes long, and I think makes it clear she’s over him.’

  ‘But IS she?’ I asked. ‘I think there’s still something there.’

  ‘That’s how controlling relationships work,’ Blossom said.

  ‘Controlling?! How is he controlling? They hadn’t seen each other for a month when he said he needed space.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How is that controlling?’

  ‘The thing about you, Fleur,’ Blossom said, ‘is that you’re a romantic. You just want happy endings with couples resolving their differences and drinking cocoa together while the kids sleep upstairs.’

  ‘Kids? That escalated quickly,’ I said, putting my cocoa down.

  ‘You’re so binary. You always just want the guy to get the girl.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘Sometimes I want the girl to get the guy.’

  She laughed and punched me on the arm. ‘I miss you,’ she said. ‘Feel like I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘I see you at college every day,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, but not to hang out. You’re just … absent lately.’

  ‘I’m right here,’ I said. ‘We’re just about to watch a four-hour film about ennui together. Fun fun fun!’

  ‘You’ll be asleep in twenty minutes,’ Blossom complained.

  ‘So stop choosing films where nothing happens for three and a half hours then they all die in the last ten minutes.’