Josh Rosenblatt - Why We Fight: One Man’s Search for Meaning Inside the Ring

Its nine oclock on a Saturday morning in August and Im hungover and beaten up. Lying in bed, listening to the roar in my head and tracing the painful bump on the bridge of my nose that was just starting to form last night, I remember that yesterday, in a postfighting, endorphin-fueled moment of madness, I agreed to spar again this morning. I look at the clock. Its too late to back out now. Id never hear the end of it. So, bent and bleary and very nearly broken, I drag myself out of bed.

The first thing I do is examine myself in the bathroom mirror to assess the damage I took last night, the result of a long sparring session with a strong but green partner who hasnt learned yet that enthusiasm is no substitute for technique and who throws all his punches out of hope and panic. Since wild punches thrown with great effort tend to come at you slowly, I had managed to avoid most of them, but near the end of our long session I started to tire and one of those huge punches slipped past my gloves and caught me square on the face, dazing me. My nose is now swollen and purple, the bruising spreading to the area under my left eye. I touch my upper cheek, and though its tender, I know it wont be enough to get me out of sparring again today.

After a quick breakfast devoid of any of the flavors and fats and sugars that make waking up tolerable but that I have to deny myself now that Im officially in training, I fill my gigantic gym bag, which still smells sour and sweaty from the night before, with three white T-shirts, an extra pair of gray running shorts, a pair of small mixed martial arts gloves, a pair of larger boxing gloves, a pair of kickboxing shin guards, a pair of bright red hand wraps (to make a single thumping unit of my fists and prevent my fingers and wrists from breaking upon impact with another humans skull), a state-of-the-art form-fitted mouthpiece (to protect my skull from the impact of another humans fists and shins), a jockstrap and protective cup, an enormous water bottle, and three towels. I throw the heavy bag over my sore shoulder and head out into the bright, muggy Brooklyn morning.

My walk to the subway station is long and goes entirely by way of a treeless street, and by the time I get there my shirt is soaked through. The subway car, of course, is freezing cold, sending a chill up my sweat-lined back, and after a twenty-minute ride I have another long walk, this time through a park in Greenpoint, a Polish enclave at the northwestern tip of Brooklyn long under siege from artists and musicians and other young people from neighboring Williamsburg. But no onenot Poles or hipstersis in the park as I walk through. Its too early and too hot. Only mad dogs and the obsessed are on the streets this morning.

I walk into the gym and feel a familiar despondency. The great, cavernous rooma converted three-thousand-square-foot, two-story warehouse covered in thick mats and lined with punching bagsisnt air-conditioned, and its ten degrees hotter inside than it is out. As a result, the room is nearly empty, just a few students in judo gis learning to throw each other to the ground as part of a Brazilian jiujitsu class in the far corner and one or two kickboxers punching the heavy bags that hang next to the boxing ring. Otherwise, the gym is uncharacteristically silent: no shouts from instructors, no hip-hop music blasting from the large speakers that hang in every corner. After dropping my bag from my aching shoulder with a groan, I lie down on one of the mats lining the floor and close my eyes. I can feel the residue of the whiskey and the fights from the night before overwhelming me. My nose throbs. My stomach is tentative. My head is foggy. All my muscles and joints seem tender. I could sleep right here. Maybe Anthony wont show up, I think. Maybe Im off the hook. I let myself drift off for a happy moment. No, Anthony will be here. Anthony would never back out of a sparring session.

I need to get myself together. Despite having trained for less time than I have, Anthony has already fought three amateur mixed martial arts fights, and he trains with the zeal of the newly converted: at the gym for hours every day, long runs over the Brooklyn Bridge and back, god only knows what kind of byzantine dietary regimen he follows or how rarely he allows himself to be hungover. Meanwhile Im forty years old, given to bouts of extreme physical degradation, and in training for only my first fight. Still, I have an advantage. For all his devotion, Anthony is small, probably four inches shorter and twenty pounds lighter than I am, and while its important as a fighter to have skill, tenacity, athleticism, bravery, endurance, health, and luck, in the cage, size is destiny. The fact that I routinely beat Anthony when we spar says nothing about Anthony or me and everything about the cold realities of anatomy. He can hit me all he wants, I tell myself, and I will be fine. In fighting, you cant put a price tag on that kind of unearned biological confidence.

Generally, my rounds with Anthony unfold in accordance with the laws of physics (force = mass x acceleration) and tradition. I keep him far away with my jab and my kicks while he uses his speed to try and get in close, speed being the consolation nature grants smaller fighters. I poke at him, he rushes at me: weve been doing this dance for years. Today, though, something is different. Either Anthonys gotten better or Ive gotten worse or Im just as hungover as I thought I was, but I can barely lay a hand on him. He bobs and weaves and darts in and out, chipping away at me with his kicks, little slaps to my thighs and sides that dont hurt but that, taken together, aggravate, which is worse. Shots like these get in your head and cause you to react irrationally, like an animal swatting at a swarm of bees. Before I know it, Ive abandoned technique (ten years of costly training) and Im stalking Anthony around the ring like a wounded bear, lunging at him with wild punches that hes already moving away from by the time Ive started to swing. Sensing my frustration, he starts throwing punches of his own at my face, all of which seem to land. Again, theres very little pain (even with his speed, Anthony only has so much mass to turn into force), only the rising swell of irritation and wounded pride.