The squeezette and I finally made our way to
boxing training. I say finally because we have been intending to get down there
for several months, but put it off on the grounds that we needed to get fit and
lose some weight before we actually went to boxing training to get fit and lose
some weight.
Our boxing gym of choice was an ancient
community hall hidden under an overpass in the back streets of Oakleigh. How
did we find it? As you drove up the overpass, if you were quick enough and
glanced to your left you were met with an ancient sign full of detail: Boxing
Gym. Naturally, this example of marketing expertise was enough to force us to
turn left then turn left again, then almost give up - where was this damn hall?
We parked the car and went walking. We found what seemed to be the hall, but our
21st century need for signage made us doubt ourselves. Fortunately, an old guy (76)
who hung outside on the off chance that at any moment a potential new member
was going to walk around the corner came to our rescue. Come in, take a look
around. We did. It was indeed an old community hall with a couple of rings,
ancient speed bags, heavy backs, a couple of bikes, weights up the far corner.
Scanning this suburban homage to Rocky, we knew we had found the place. No
lycra! The Burgess Meredith look alike kept selling. Not only was there all of
the equipment as we could see, there was also the availability of separate male
and female dressing rooms. This may have worked on the squeezette; it was
vaguely disappointing to me. We left promising to return the next day and free
our inner Rocky. Reality stepped in. It took six months, but we got there.
I love the mythology of boxing. The fact that
Joyce Carol Oates can take time out from publishing her seven million books and
teaching wanna be writers to write a small book titled, originally enough: On
Boxing, Norman Mailer, Ernest Hemingway, Marlon Brando giving it to Rod Steiger
in the back of the car: You were supposed to be looking after me Charlie... It
wasn't my time?... It was my time Charlie. Paul Newman, Somebody up there likes
me... Rocky Balboa, Stacey Keach in Fat City. Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction... I
could go on.
As an aside, I should mention that when
writing about boxing it's only fair that I assist myself by listening to Miles
Davis: The Complete Jack Johnson Sessions. and now is a good time to express my
regret that they have not yet created a volume setting of 20.
And then there's reality. One of my earliest
childhood memories, crammed around a radio listening to the Rose Gatellari
fight. Lionel Rose versus Rocky
Gatellari. What a fight. Lionel Rose is (a) built - take a look
at those arms and (b) like an attack dog. He just keeps coming in, safe in the
knowledge that Gatellari cannot hurt him. That's not taking anything away from
Gatellari. Gatelarri spends 13 rounds doing his best not to get bit, but some
there he must have realised that sooner or later it's going to come. That's 39
plus minutes those guys go at each other. The Squeezette and I spent a couple
of hours punching into pads and I have to tell you, when you hit that pad
square you hear a very pleasant whacking sound that for want of a better
phrase: turns me on.
Four weeks in two nights a week the old guy
comes up to me and says, we didn't think we'd see you two back here, but you
stuck. You got that right buddy, old halls are hard to find.
Kid, this ain't your night. You could create
an entire civilization around those words.
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