As a boxer fighting under a certain weight category, specifically super bantam weight, it meant maintaining my weight had to be a daily routine. Ten pounds over the weight class was my initial goal but, as I age the skeletal structure naturally grows in size, making the fighting weight difficult to obtain. I grew an inch in height, and my wing span increased four inches.
My manager and coach had been concerned of this growth as a title shot was alined in the future. Walking around heavier would make the fight task of dropping weight difficult to meet. I fought at a hundred and twenty two pounds. My walk-around weight was one hundred and forty four pounds. Twenty-two pounds over the weight class was unacceptable by any Champion standard.
I was twenty years old and the maturing of my body had not yet been completed. I had no choice but to switch the meal plan to a plant based diet, increase the morning cardio on an empty stomach to five miles daily, and only drink water. All food products purchased were whole, green, and fresh. I could have moved up to the next weight class, but I didn't want to. To start fighting a new weight class would significantly drop my rankings. The new weight class would place a title fight one step further. I couldn't afford taking a step back in my career.
I've been recently placed on the disabled list. Injuring my hand, my devastating cross, constrained the financial asset from commission. During a sparring match one afternoon in preparation for this fight, I followed the jab with a ferocious right cross that landed atrociously. My hand was busted and I was out a paycheck. Having money owed to household and transportation and daily living, I scrounged the possibilities. Nothing ever seemed to surface through the dense thickness of my skull beside recycling bottles and cans. I was always low of financial funds, short a couple dollars because I was following my passion, my dream. My career was less than a dozen fights in and I was making a measly ten hundred dollars a fight. An aspiring prize fighter was a low revenue occupation, and I couldn't afford anything
By the grace of a concerned father, he asked me for an employment opportunity assisting his son in boxing. And he would pay good money for doing so. I gracefully abide. Taking the kid under my wing to fight, doing everything I ever done, and loved, was an easy occupation. Teaching my knowledge of boxing was the only way I could make a decent buck. Being incompetent at daily routines and tasks, and taking orders from others, had been a result of the pride, trauma and concussions my brain suffered through the sport of boxing.
At this new job I begin teaching the young boxer the basics: Jab, cross, hook, slipping and rolling his head in combat. This new financial opportunity allowed me to continuously do what I love, training for boxing full time. There, I explain to the young kid why boxers do what they do to become victorious, reacting instinctively because they trained day after day growing their experience. Accumulating more experience points to rain as alpha. I begin learning the laws of boxing.
Since my hand had been busted and constricted by a cast, I begin to utilize the left hand. Jab, jab, I plant my feet and pull the weight to my back leg exploding the energy through the left fist. Thud! Day after day of the right cross rehabilitation, my left hand had forcefully become a weapon of choice. There I discover all the ways to defeat an opponent using the left hand. All the angles that could be thrown by the jab, thrown by a variety of different styles. And there, I figure all the different hooks, uppercuts, and body shots that could be thrown by the left hand.
Despite suffering metacarpal trauma on my right hand, and the postponement of my career, I still had to maintain my lifestyle if I wanted to be anything but great. My body is the machine making my career. Feeding the machine to operate at one hundred percent output would require whole and sufficient foods. The required diet bland food's were far more worthy and expensive than the greasy, good tasting fast foods.
The day had grown dark and I had grown tired. As I finish instructing my last student, then turn off the lights to the boxing gym, I made my way to the grocery store. There I selected a few items from the bright lighted building. From the building containing every tasty edible for sale. It sold all the sweets, all the cookies, all the ice creams ever made. It sold all the delicious whole grain carbohydrates that could fill my empty stomach. All the sugars and fats that could make me feel satisfied from the devilish cravings of dropping weight and dehydrating the body cells for a scheduled weigh-in date.
The bright lighted store contained food, liquids that could replenish my muscles, my aching body that cried for matter. My cravings for nutrients come so grueling, so great, that at times, I would cry and plea with myself to fall for temptation. And sometimes I did. I would sneak a bag of deviled sugar, delicious cookies, where I would engulf the whole bag in a matter of seconds. But then, after consuming temptation the reality of failure would cause me embarrassment, cause me pain because I had no restraint, no restriction for temptation. The dedication of a boxer, the devotion of eating healthy and clean, the commitment of dropping weight for a scheduled prize fight. Proving you're worthy enough to be called a boxer, had failed. Sobbing regretfully, I try to undue the damage, reversing the consumption and vomiting all matter.But I had to be smart with my purchases. Knowing greatness comes with hard work and dedication, than that was enough of a reason. I mustn't allow temptation to seduce me. Focus.
I made my way to the check out line with a shopping basket of fresh produce and bland food. I stand before the grocery clerk awaiting her service. She was pretty, and lean, and I was attracted to her. I thought to make conversation, converse over the simple comedies of life. But I didn't know what to say. I thought to not say anything, but she showed me signs of attraction. I rummage through my brain for an opener, something to spark an interest for conversation, possibly something in me. Nothing seemed to surface. A few hours ago I was sparring with heavy opponents preparing for this next pro fight. The activity of my brain was low. After enduring fight and physical trauma the brain desired to shut off, where it can find restoration time in silence and inactivity.
The cashier clerk had mocha skin, white teeth, and with further investigation her breasts appeared to be large. Her appearance was classic, exactly my type. She seemed to be attracted to me. Her eyes were big and attentive, glancing at my lips every so often.
Right now, at this time, I had no desire for a female companion. Recently separating from a long term commitment with my high school sweet heart grew my determination for boxing. All I wanted to do was fight. My career slowly begun to blossom. A beautiful female companion now would only distract me from my goals and dreams. I couldn't possibly find time in courting her.
Observing her for any common grounds, any similarity that we might share, anything that could spark a conversation where I could use as an opener. She wore spectacles, and through my knowledge of classic attire I determined them to be Rayban's.
So I said. "I like your glasses," and smiled.
She said. "Thank you." And she too smiled, securing my confidence.
I inquired the model. "Are those the Wayfer's?"
She said. "Yes." Then smiled for I had known her likes.
"I didn't know Raybans made glasses." I said dumbfoundedly. Of course I knew they hadn't made prescription eye wear, but I played dumb just to remain in the conversation.
Her smile was pleasantly comforting, where it drew my happiness, almost as if I could stare at her all day. Who wouldn't want her company, I thought. She was a sexy dime piece. Any man to have her on his side would be treated enviously by the Southern California population.
The Rayban glasses she wore magnified her eyes, and her eyes were sharply defined by black eyeliner.
She said, "They're the frame's of the sunglasses."
The similarity I found between us was a simple like of fashion, and now I have her hooked in my conversation. I must play this game of attraction properly. This game of wanting each other so badly. I must draw her in using my conversation, for any wrong word would repel her away.
So I continue remaining naive in the conversation. "How much did it cost to switch the lenses?"
"The optometrist did it for free."
"Did you have to purchase the sunglasse then purchase the glasses."
She responded heavenly, "Yes."
With a great smile of innocence, and under a dude manner, I said, "that's awesome."
She grew with laughter then fixed my lips with her cat eyes.
In confidence, I said. "I'm going to buy those glasses, come back here and look at you."
She broke into a flirtatious laughter then dropped her jaw in awe. I smiled, fell back on my heels and walked out the store leaving my mystery at that. And I heard her desired laughter come over her.
"Oh my God!"
I made her want me. I win.