Working Out the Past

Sensitive content warning: Potential triggers re: Violence, Mental health

Working Out the Past

by

MJ Markoff

The YMCA gym’s pretty quiet. The piped-in music is set low enough for Charles to hear the clacking of equipment, the hush of the air conditioning, and the grunts and hisses of the few other members. They’re too engaged in their various routines to be aware of the ‘old-guy’ in the corner, who’s donning hand-wraps and sixteen-ounce blood red boxing gloves. Charles is glad that the heavy bag was in a corner; Once he got in ‘the zone’, he’d have no need for distraction of an audience, obvious or covert. It isn’t a time for self-consciousness; just time for him and his eternal opponent.

He's not the type to hunch himself in front of the bag flat-footed, and throw leather. Starting out nice and slow, establishing an easy rhythm; jab-jab, right, he feels stiff muscles and sore joints gradually surrender their protests and complaints. Over the years, he’s noticed that the warm-up takes longer; there’s a few air-hungry minutes before his breathing catches up with his exertion. Oh, how the great have fallen, he thinks with a bittersweet smile, pining for the old days, when his body was always ready for action. His mind flashes back to those days more than a half-century ago.

He was twelve-years-old at summer camp in the mountains of New York State. ‘Chucky’ and his little brother were the only kids there from New Jersey; all the other kids were from New York, mostly Long Island, and most of them knew each other either from back home or from sharing their summers at the camp ever since they were just out of diapers. The ‘Jerseys’ were outsiders and they were reminded of that at every opportunity. The boyish teasing matured into full-on abuse which culminated in Chucky being attacked at night in the bunk. He was flipped judo-style and slammed to the floor by a large brat named Mark. Chucky survived the remainder of the summer, though it was awful.

On Halloween of that year, he decided to go trick-or-treating for the last time. He fashioned ear-points out of Silly Putty, arched his eyebrows with the help of his mom, and was ready to go as Mr. Spock. His mother had insisted that he wear a sweater in the cold and damp weather. Being pretty much a loner, he left to gather candy on his own. That proved to be a fateful decision when a neighborhood bully, at least a head taller than him, fast-pitched a raw egg which skidded across his shoulder and exploded against his exposed neck. Chucky trudged home red-faced and crying.

When he got home, Chucky tearfully explained to his father what had happened. With a tight jaw, his dad turned him around and said, “Don’t come home crying that someone picked on you. You get back out there and kick his ass!” Chucky looked stunned until Dad began putting on his own coat, adding, “I’ll shadow you, just in case he pulls a knife or something.” If the boy wasn’t scared before, he sure as hell was now, but they stalked the neighborhood until Chucky spotted the bully. His dad gave him a nod and the boy tore after his tormentor like a Pitbull. The big kid noticed him at the last second and froze as Chucky flew at him, teeth clenched with rage, windmilling punch after punch at him, and landing enough blows on the bully’s face that his mouth was bloodied. Chucky continued his attack forcing the larger kid to cower shouting, “HEY, MAN! STOP!” in surrender. Chucky’s dad restrained his son gently. The boy ceased his charge, grateful for the interruption since all adrenaline was depleted as was his strength. Father and son walked home, where Chucky washed blood off his knuckles, and they had dinner.

 A few days later, his dad offered to drive him to a tiny boxing gym in the basement of a local firehouse run by the Police Athletic League. The trainer was Joe Louis Parham, a former pro-boxer. The man was kind and, in retrospect, a little ‘punch-drunk’, but taught Chucky the basics. He excelled, and as he improved so did his physical conditioning, self-confidence, and his attitude. In short, he ceased to present a good target for bullies. After some serious sparring with a few of the tougher local kids, word must’ve spread that ‘Chuck’ wasn’t to be messed with. He continued with boxing over the next few years, cutting back when he took up track and cross-country in high school.

Charles is finally breaking a sweat; jab-jab, right cross, left hook, moving side-to-side, throwing occasional fakes and lead rights; moves strung together instinctively like the words of a sentence. The bag itself starts to resemble a ‘Tomato Can’; an easy opponent that plods forward and backward predictably. He fires off a flurry of punches that makes him thankful for the end-of-round bell from his phone’s boxing timer app, giving him a one-minute rest. He stretches and catches his breath, eyes still on the opponent, while his mind runs through the past. Chuck as the sheep-dog protecting his cross-country teammates from hazing by the football jocks; The impromptu bare-knuckle sparring with his dad, who at six feet and 185 pounds was no slouch. He once dropped the man with a right to the solar plexus; it wasn’t intentional and scared the daylights out of him that even his father was vulnerable.

“Round Two”, announces the phone app, and Charles enters the fray on an angle. Fake, double-jab, right, jab, a crunching right to the jaw. Disengage. Repeat. He remembers returning to the summer camp as a strapping sixteen-year-old working as a camp waiter. His little brother let slip that Chuck was now a boxer, and who approached him was none other than his old nemesis, Mark, no longer towering over him. Mark wanted to spar, so they donned the lumpy, old, smelly, beat-up sixteen-ounce gloves. Mark said “DING!” and Chuck threw a leaping left hook to his jaw. Mark was out before his head hit the ground. Frightened that he might’ve caused serious harm, Chuck knelt down to help him, silently praying that Mark would come-to. When he opened his eyes, Mark glanced around and noticed his girlfriend approaching. He actually had the nerve to ask if they could go again, but this time Chuck should let him land a few shots just to impress her. They resumed, but Chuck never let him land a punch. That was revenge so sweet, that the thought brings a satisfied grin even now.

The rest bell rings and Charles steps back from his opponent, sweating with chest heaving. He remembers intramural boxing in college. In his first match, he sent a senior flying from his feet bouncing off the ring corner and sprawling on the canvas from a body shot. Chuck turned and removed his gloves, confident that no one was getting up from that. After a few minutes he turned back; the kid was still on the mat! Chuck joined the ref in helping the kid to his feet. His next bout was against a damned lefty, a ‘southpaw’, and strangely Chuck had no experience with one before. Not only was it awkward, but the boy was fast; too fast. He beat Chuck by decision, the bout earning him ‘Fighter-of-the-year’. The next year Chuck fought another southpaw; this one’s father had been a pro-boxer. That was bad enough; adding to that was Chuck’s recent hospitalization for mono, and he was lucky to finish on his feet.

“DING! Final Round,” announces the app. Charles is now faced with a southpaw adversary, fighting the way he’d learned subsequent to those two defeats. Keep the right high, throw frequent lead rights, and pivot to the right fast enough to crowd any overhand left. His arms and shoulders ache from fatigue. “Good,” his inner coach says. He throws punches-in-bunches from every angle, sticking and moving; firing off over a hundred twenty punches in two minutes of fury as he recalls sparring with pro-boxers in a Camden, New Jersey gym. They thought the educated kid was going to be just another tomato can. Nope. Sorry. He dodged side-to-side like Sugar Ray Leonard, then tied them up a’ la Muhammad Ali when they caught up with him. Chuck frustrated them so much that one loaded-up trying to take his head off. That caused a bruise under the jaw, which prompted his wife’s warning that maybe he should quit boxing while he still had some brain cells left.

As the ten-second warning clacks, Charles becomes a blur of angles and punches, attempting to steal the round and outpoint his imaginary opponent. “CLANG!” signals the end of the bout, and he instinctively raises his arms in victory, only to suddenly become self-conscious of appearing uncool. If only others had ringside seats for the battles throughout his life, it would be worth the price of admission.