Southpaw

Mary Beth had never set foot in a boxing gym. She wasn’t out of shape — she jogged a few miles a week, went to a yoga class every other Sunday — but boxing? That felt like something other people did. People with calloused knuckles and anger issues. Not thirty-four-year-old copywriters who lived alone in quiet condos and got nervous about calling customer service.

But here she was on a Tuesday night, standing awkwardly in the corner of Merlino’s Boxing Club, her hands stuffed in brand-new hand wraps that smelled like polyester and poor decisions.

“First time?” the guy behind the desk had asked when she signed in. His name tag said Lance, and he had cauliflower ears, thick forearms, and a gap-toothed grin that made him look perpetually amused.

“Yeah,” she said.

“Try not to die,” he replied. Then added, “Kidding. Mostly.”

The gym smelled like sweat and rubber matting, and the air was humid with effort. A radio blasted old-school hip-hop over the thud of gloves on bags. The room buzzed with motion- jump ropes whipping, shoes squeaking, leather snapping.

Ten minutes into the warm-up, Mary Beth was already questioning her life choices. Jumping rope seemed like something out of elementary school, but three minutes in and her lungs were burning. Her shins hurt. Across the room, a teenage boy with a blur for a jump rope was floating like it was nothing. She tried not to stare.

“Eyes up,” barked a voice. It belonged to a woman with a tank top that said HIT FIRST and a no-nonsense expression. She looked tough, but not unkind.

Mary Beth looked up. The woman gave her a small nod and moved on.

The whole thing had started with a list. One quiet Thursday night, after half a bottle of red wine and a full day of emails and small talk, Mary Beth sat in bed and opened her notes app. She titled the file Things I’ve Never Done. Underneath it, she wrote-

Run a marathon

Eat snails

Learn to box

She didn’t know why she wrote that last one. It just appeared, like a dare to herself. Something about boxing appealed to her. Maybe the directness. The fact that you couldn’t overthink a punch. You had to act.

She was always overthinking. At work. In relationships. At 2 a.m. when sleep was a distant idea and her brain was replaying old conversations, rewording things she should’ve said differently. She wanted something that would shut all that off. Boxing sounded like it might.

Back in the gym, the class moved into shadowboxing. Jab. Cross. Slip. Mary Beth tried to copy what the others were doing. Her punches were slow and tentative. She kept forgetting her feet. The mirror showed her a flailing, unsure version of herself.

Then came the bags.

“Two-minute rounds, light combos,” the coach — Erica, as it turned out — called out. “Don’t try to kill it. Just touch and move.”

Mary Beth stepped up to a heavy bag. It swung gently from the last person’s momentum. She touched it with a jab. Then a cross. The bag barely noticed.

“Don’t baby it,” Erica said, suddenly at her side. “Get your stance right. Left foot forward. Turn your hips.”

Mary Beth adjusted. Tried again. The bag gave a soft whump this time. The sound was surprisingly satisfying.

“There you go.”

The next 30 minutes were a blur of effort. Jab-cross-slip. Jab-jab-hook. Her arms burned. Her shoulders ached. But when the final bell rang, Mary Beth was soaked in sweat, shaking from exhaustion — and grinning like a fool.

“You survived,” Lance called from the desk as she walked out.

“Barely,” she said, and meant it. But something in her had clicked.

She came back the next week. Then the week after that. Once a week turned into twice.

She bought better wraps, then gloves. She learned how to wrap her hands without YouTube tutorials. She started watching fights online, studying footwork. She caught herself throwing air jabs in the elevator.

People noticed. Her co-worker Lori raised an eyebrow one day. “You’ve been glowing lately. Are you dating someone?”

Mary Beth just smiled. “Something like that.”

It wasn’t that she was suddenly amazing at boxing — she still missed punches and flinched too often — but she liked how it made her feel. Like she belonged in her own body. Like she could take up space. There was no room to overthink a jab.

Erica started giving her tips mid-class. “Lead with your shoulder.” “Stay off your heels.” “Breathe when you punch.” Each time, Mary Beth absorbed it. She liked Erica's style — tough, clear, no fluff.

There was a sparring class on Fridays. Many Beth wasn’t sure she was ready. The idea of getting hit, actually hit, was a whole different thing.

“You thinking about sparring?” Erica asked after class one night.

Mary Beth shrugged. “Eventually.”

“You’re better than you think,” Erica said. And then she walked away.

It was such a simple thing to say, but it stuck with her all the way home.

Her first sparring session was humbling. She signed up, gloves shaking slightly as she laced them, the synthetic leather squeaking faintly under her fingers. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach buzzed. Her partner, a compact woman named Barbara, grinned wide and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy. First round’s always rough.”

It was.

Mary Beth forgot half her footwork. Her guard dropped. The first time Barbara clipped her with a jab, it felt like someone had flicked her nose with a brick. Then came the hook to the ribs — sharp and low — and the air whooshed out of her lungs with a noise she hadn’t meant to make. She staggered back, breath caught high in her chest.

“You good?” Barbara asked, gloves still up, breathing evenly.

Mary Beth nodded, barely. “Yeah.”

They kept going.

The gym noises dulled to a hum. The pop of leather on leather. Erica’s voice somewhere distant. The pounding in her ears. She flinched too often. Her arms moved on delay. But she started seeing things — small things. Openings. Tells. The way Barbara’s shoulder twitched right before a jab. And somewhere in round three, she planted her feet just right, threw a jab, and connected. Clean. Snapped Barbara’s head back a hair.

It didn’t rock her — but it landed. Solid and real. Mary Beth’s heart did a little flip. She felt the jolt of it all the way down to her toes.

That night, she sat in her car, hands still taped, forearms humming like live wires, and laughed out loud. A wild, breathless laugh.

She hadn’t won. But she’d stood in the ring — and she’d thrown back.

Life outside the gym didn’t change overnight. Her job was still deadlines and passive-aggressive feedback. Her ex still texted her every few months to “check in.” Her mother still asked when she’d settle down.

But Mary Beth changed. Bit by bit. She said “no” more easily. She slept deeper. Her apartment was a little messier, but her eyes were brighter.

Friday sparring became a ritual. She took bruises. Gave a few. Once, she got a bloody nose. Erica handed her a tissue and said, “Now you’re officially a boxer.”

She made friends. Barbara, who taught third grade and swore like a sailor. James, a quiet guy who trained like he was chasing something only he could see. Even Lance started giving her real respect.

“Gettin’ sharp,” he said one night after she worked the bag. “Look at you.”

Mary Beth grinned. “Takes time.”

He nodded. “It always does.”

Three months in, Erica asked again. “You ever think about competing?”

Mary Beth snorted. “Me? Please.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m not exactly Olympic material.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about testing yourself. About showing up.”

Mary Beth didn’t answer right away. But she thought about it on the drive home. Thought about it all weekend.

And the next Tuesday, she stayed after class.

“Okay,” she told Erica. “Let’s try.”

The smokers were low-stakes bouts — three rounds, headgear, no knockouts. Mostly for experience. No cameras. No audience beyond gym regulars.

Still, Mary Beth felt like her whole body was vibrating as she laced up.

Her opponent was a woman about her age, slightly taller, with sharp cheekbones and a stoic expression. They touched gloves. The bell rang.

The first round was chaos. Mary Beth's heart was thudding like a drum. She got hit early and forgot everything — her stance, her jab, her breathing. Then she remembered Erica's voice- Breathe when you punch. And she found her rhythm.

Second round, she landed a combo that made her opponent stumble back a step. That single moment was electric. She didn’t win, not on paper. But she finished the fight standing.

Afterward, her hands shook as Erica pulled off her gloves.

“You did good,” she said. “You kept going. You stayed in it.”

Lance gave her a crooked grin from the corner. “Told you not to die.”

Mary Beth laughed. Then she cried, just a little. Not from pain. From everything else.

She still had bad days. Still questioned herself. Still forgot to answer texts. But she wasn’t the same woman who’d walked into Merlino’s that first night, trying to disappear into a wall.

Now, she stood taller. She made eye contact. She threw punches that landed.

And every Tuesday night, she returned to the gym. Not because she had something to prove.

But because she liked who she was when she was there.