“Naw . . . don’t worry about size. It’s all in the training, and I know you got some skills. Besides, Carl wouldn’t have brought you here if he didn’t think you could handle it.”
She made me feel a little better.
During weigh-in, Lorraine came in at ten pounds heavier than me. You can shed a few pounds or put on a few pounds thirty minutes before a fight, but you can’t gain or lose ten.
“She came in over over over!” I said to Papi and Carl. “But I really want to fight her. She’s come all the way from Ireland. Please?”
“Jess, it looks like we’ll have to forfeit the fight,” Papi said.
“No! I want to do this. Carl, is there anything we can do?”
“You can fight as an exhibition, but it won’t count as a sanctioned fight,” he said. That was okay with me, and it was fine with her.
People have said that each boxing match tells its own story. I thought of that every time I entered the ring. It’s a story told through body language. What was my story going to be that day? The day I met Lorraine, I didn’t know what to expect. I could hear her club members huddled around each other with their thick Irish accents, and I thought of my immigrant grandparents with their thick accents. I thought about their stories and their fights.
Well, as the saying goes, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Lorraine might have been much older and much bigger, but the fight only went two rounds. Her size didn’t matter: I dominated her. The additional footwork training from Carl really helped. In the first round, I knocked her around pretty hard and she started to cry. In the second round she lost in a technical knockout. We didn’t bother going a third round. That was the end of it. I was happy it went only two rounds—the girl didn’t have that much experience, and it was no fun beating up someone who didn’t have the right kind of training. She was pretty cool, though. Afterward we talked about boxing and Ireland and then got a candy bar.
Coach and me after the match at Gleason’s
* * *
SOMETHING CHANGED IN me after the boxing match that night at Gleason’s. Maybe because it was an easy win, or maybe it was because all my hard work was paying off. Maybe because of the inspiring words of Virgil I felt like I was now carrying “a strong and collected spirit” in myself. I didn’t know, but I began to approach boxing a little differently, more passionately than ever. I was now in fifth grade and in a few months I would turn eleven and move up to the 11–12 Bantam boxing division. This would be a more competitive division. The girls participating would be more experienced, and it had the potential to draw in more female opponents . . . at least that’s what I hoped. So I made a promise to myself that I would train harder and focus on my craft. I was in the gym five or six days a week, two to three hours a day. I sparred boy after boy and once in a blue moon I would spar a girl. I even got another sanctioned match with a girl from New York—I defeated her easily in three rounds, which got me one match closer to the five sanctioned matches needed for the Junior Olympics. But there was something else I started to notice as I got older. Even though I was still laser focused on making it to the Junior Olympics, I thought less about needing to take on sanctioned fights with girls to get my numbers up and more on sparring with people, usually boys, who were more experienced than I was. I figured if I really wanted to compete at a higher level, I couldn’t just sit around and wait for sanctioned fights to happen—I needed to spar tougher competitors, and a lot of them. I thought less about my wins and losses, and more on my development. I began to notice my entire self changing. I don’t mean just the normal “developing” stuff that adults always want to “discuss” (eww!). My body was getting stronger. Muscles that most kids my age didn’t even have were becoming more defined. My hand speed increased, my power punches were much harder, and my footwork was quicker. Boxing not only helped my body’s reflexes, but somehow, if there is such a thing, also helped my mind’s reflexes and timing. Hitting and ducking came more naturally now, and I wasn’t trying so hard to get the moves down. I just boxed. In boxing they call that having rhythm—when your timing happens and things start to click. It’s also when you’ve gained the skills needed to survive in the ring. I had learned how to have patience to set something up before a punch. Most people don’t know it, but boxing really is a thinking sport. And I had learned to think like a fighter. Why? How? I guess because when you get so many hands laid on you, you learn to fend. It became automatic, like being on cruise control. Don once said that boxers are like drummers the way their arms use their sticks to get the rhythm down through muscle memory, and that to get the actions down in your brain, you have to start young. This was no spare-time sport—it required memory, like learning another language. It was constant repetition of movement. Get the specific skill down and then repeat it over and over and over again until your body becomes so familiar with the action that you don’t think about it anymore; it just happens.
I remember the scene in the Muhammad Ali documentary where his brother tells the story of when Ali was just a young kid and asked his brother to help train him by throwing rocks at him. At first the rocks pelted Ali and he got bruised, but after a while he was able to dodge all the rocks without even thinking. That’s what I was learning to do.
As my skills improved, I wanted more fights. I craved them. Don could tell I was getting frustrated watching the boys on my team fight in match after match while all I did was train. It was still a struggle to find female opponents in my bracket. “What do we do?” I asked him one day.
“Keep training. Train for the next match. Always be training for the next match.” So I upped my routine and kept close track of my workouts in a journal. A training session looked something like this:
Warm up with some jump rope, 3 rounds
Stretch for 10 minutes—legs/arms
1½ miles on treadmill (or track, depending on weather) . . . (which I hate!)
Light stretching of legs
Solo boxing drills
3 rounds of shadowboxing
Put gloves on—6 rounds of bag work (work on something different each round)
3 rounds of mitt work with Don
After boxing, work on conditioning
Another 1½ miles of running . . . (which I hate even more!!)
10 sets of 8 push-ups
4 sets of 25 sit-ups
6 sets of 4 pull-ups
4 sets of 20 leg raises
Proper hydration . . .
I had come a long way since the first time I curiously put on those smelly boxing gloves at age seven and felt a bit tougher. Now I felt fierce.
* * *
WHEN I FIRST started boxing in sanctioned matches at age nine, I got noticed by a local newspaper reporter who was covering one of my teammate’s matches and ended up interviewing me. My boxing story and my goal to one day fight in the Junior Olympics got me a front-page story in the newspaper—with my picture in it and everything. A few kids were even talking about it at school. That’s when I started to get a reputation as a fighter, and maybe that made me a little too confident.
One afternoon in the fall of sixth grade, Papi picked me up at school. I got in the car and jokingly said to my father that I wanted to beat some boy up for mouthing off in class all the time. “Jess, I want to talk with you about something,” he said. He had a look of concern on his face. I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was about to say.
“Training to box is a skill you’re building. It’s not meant to be used anywhere but inside the ring. But if anyone puts their hands on you, you’ve got to be able to defend yourself. As long as you’re not initiating it.”
“I know, Papi. I was just kidding . . .”
“Do you understand what I’m saying? I don’t want to see you throwing any punches but those between the ropes unprovoked. You got that?”
“Yeah.”
I knew what he
was talking about. He had told me stories about when he was a kid and got into fights, and how one bad decision and hanging out with the wrong people can lead to other, bigger bad decisions. “Stay in your lane,” he often said. I made a promise to him and to myself that I would never, ever use my boxing skills outside the gym.
But I broke that promise.
At recess one day a few weeks after the conversation I had in the car with Papi, a bunch of us sixth graders were playing football. It was mostly boys—not too many other girls liked to play football, but I did. The quarterback threw me a long pass to win the game, and I caught it for a touchdown. This kid went to grab my legs and missed me. I danced around and did a little cheer; maybe I celebrated a bit too much. Then one of the boys on the other team tried to push me down. But as he lunged toward me, I dodged, and he fell to the ground. Everyone started to laugh at him. Even I laughed at him, and then I even stuck out my tongue and said, “Nice try.”
He was clearly embarrassed . . . and furious. “Why do you always have to act so tough?” he said.
“Because I am tough.” I was feeling smug.
Later, in the classroom, the same boy approached me and said, “You think you’re better than everyone else just because you box and because you got some articles written about you . . . Why can’t you act like a normal girl.”
I am a normal girl, I thought. Then I was angry.
He egged me on. “I bet you’re not as tough as you think you are.” I should have known better than to take the bait, but without even thinking, I pushed him in the chest. And I guess I pushed him really hard, because he fell backward into the bookshelf with a loud crash and all the books fell on top of him.
“Kids, kids!” Our teacher rushed over. “This is completely unacceptable behavior! Jess, I’m very surprised by this. Both of you, down to the principal’s office immediately.”
We both got detention for a week.
I told my father the news when he picked me up from school that day and he was upset.
“Detention?!” he said when he had me alone in the car. “This means you’re missing training at the gym today. And you will miss training all week.”
“I’m sor—”
“This doesn’t sound like something you’d do, Jess. I’m really surprised.”
“I didn’t mean to . . .”
“You keep going down this path and you might as well forget about boxing altogether.” My father never lost his temper, but he was angry. “I’m not going to waste my time and your brother’s time getting you to the gym if you’re going to use your boxing skills to be a troublemaker,” he continued.
“Papi, please! I’m sorry. He just said some things that really upset me.”
“I’ve told you a million times, don’t give negativity any energy. That was a test of your mental strength, and you failed. You need to be tougher next time—not physically, mentally. I don’t want you to walk around like a tough guy just because you know some boxing moves. You hear me?”
“Yes. I hear you.”
I had failed. I knew I had failed. But what I didn’t tell Papi was that “toughness” is a weird thing for girls. Boys can be tough all they want—the tougher the better—but girls can only be so tough before people think they’re just trying to “act better than everyone else” or they’re “weird” and it’s no longer acceptable. It was really confusing, this girl power thing.
Papi ended up grounding me for several days. I sat at home, in my bedroom, staring at my dream calendar, and was completely miserable. Three days felt like an eternity. Being away from the gym was torture. But as luck would have it, Don called to tell us he had finally arranged a fight against a twelve-year-old girl from Rhode Island. Papi accepted the match.
“Papi, you need to let me train! I can’t go into a fight without training.”
He knew this was important to me. “Fine. But no more fighting at school.”
When I saw Don at the gym three days later, I was ready to get back to work. It might sound crazy, but when I didn’t train, even just for a few days, I felt awful.
“Listen,” Don said to me. “Sometimes when people know you’re a boxer, they’re gonna want to get at you . . . you know . . . try to see what you’ve got. Turn the other cheek and don’t be easily provoked. You read me?”
“Yes, totally,” I said.
“Good. We’ve missed you at the gym . . .” I looked down at the gym floor I loved and knew so well. I felt a little silly thinking about pushing the boy at school.
“Hey—we’ve all been there,” Don said. “And let me tell you something many of us have learned the hard way. When your feet stop moving, trouble happens. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“So let’s get back to it. You have a fight to win.”
Don had warned me that the girl I was going to fight was really good and I needed to be prepared for a tough match. I was definitely more concerned than I had been about other opponents, yet, with all the training I’d done with Carl and Don, maybe I had a shot.
The sanctioned match was another PAL fight, so I was on my home turf. Even so, the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew this wasn’t going to be an easy match. Her name was Lindsay, and she was a year older than me. She was also bigger, taller, more experienced, and physically stronger. Papi looked nervous. “Man,” he said, “you can see her muscles . . . they’re so defined.” It was true. The girl was cut. But I liked that about her. She had been working hard at her craft and took the sport seriously.
Before the fight, a professional photographer came over to us and said, “Hey, can I get a photograph of you two?”
“Sure!” Lindsay said, smiling. We put our arms around each other and posed like we were best friends. The photographer looked through his camera, scratched his chin and said, “No, not like that . . . Maybe a little tougher.” So we posed tougher. “No . . . not that either. Why don’t you two face each other and do a face-off photo.” So we turned to each other. I stared her straight in the eye like I meant business. Then we laughed.
After that, we focused on the match.
Right before the fight, Papi went over to the DJ, who was playing songs the boxers could walk in to, and handed him a CD.
“Can you play this for my daughter Jesselyn Silva’s entrance?” he asked.
“Does it have swears in it?”
“Nope, it’s all positive.”
“Sure, man.”
Jesiah decided to join the fun and asked if he could walk me to the ring. “Of course!” I was surprised and delighted. The music that introduced me started to play. It was one of my uncle’s songs that he had written and composed called “It’s My Job.” Papi’s brother was an incredible musician and had been creating inspirational music for a long time. This particular song was very special to me.
Go hard, go hard
I’m gonna go hard
Gonna go hard
Like it’s my job
Like it’s my job
I’m gonna go hard
Gonna go hard
Like it’s my job
Like it’s my job
We family, can’t you see
The resemblance, we all made from God
We all made from God!
And to have Jesiah walking me to the ring, and my coach behind me rubbing my shoulders and supporting me with encouraging words . . . it just blew me away. I put my hands on my little brother’s shoulders and started to strut. It was Jesszilla time! If I was going to fight Lindsay from Rhode Island, at least I would do it with flair!
* * *
I COULD TELL the minute the first bell rang that I was in trouble, because she came out with speed, balance, and strong punches. But I was committed to working hard for that fight.
“Jess, inside work, inside work,” I heard Don yelling.
Then he started to call out the names of punches and combos he wanted me to throw.
“Lunchtime!” he said, so I threw a straight left to her stomach.
Every coach has their own special names for punches. It’s like a code coaches use to tell their boxers which punches to throw when they’re in the ring so the opponent doesn’t know what’s coming next—kind of like when a catcher signals to the pitcher in baseball.
“Half-step Diego,” he would call out, and I’d throw an uppercut. This punch was named in memory of the famous boxer Diego Corrales, who was a multi-time world champion fighter in two divisions. He was honored with the Fight of the Year in 2005 for his bout with José Castillo, in which Corrales was knocked down in the tenth round. The Fight of the Year award is voted on by a number of boxing organizations and institutions for the very best, most exciting fight that year. It was given to Corrales in 2005 because somehow Corrales beat the count and got back to his feet with one black eye. Seconds later, Castillo knocked down Corrales again, but he got back up with two black eyes. Barely able to see, Corrales managed to connect the perfect left-hand hook and pushed Castillo against the ropes. Without mercy, Corrales finished him by landing several punches in a row, knocking Castillo out and causing the ref to stop the fight. It was the best fight of the year and one for the books. But exactly two years later, Corrales was killed in a motorcycle accident, pronounced dead at the scene. His legacy lives on. And I think of his amazing comeback fight every time Don calls for a “half-step Diego.”
We have a number of other code names. My favorite: “puppy ears.”
I will say that many code words were used during this fight as we each tried to get the upper hand. And we were switching moves around on the fly to get any advantage, because when you’re fighting a bigger girl, you gotta adjust. It’s never comfortable getting closer to something that could really hurt you, but the only way to score points in these situations is to become an inside fighter. Apparently I wasn’t doing that very well. But I was working very hard that round.
My Corner of the Ring Page 10