By Steven Shabo: The rigorous training for the past three months had delivered me to this moment. The countless rounds on the bags, hours of shadowboxing, thousands of sit-ups, and miles of roadwork were now being put to the test.
My opponent was a big white guy in his mid twenties. He had the appearance of a former linebacker, although, his faded muscles now appeared to be fueled on fast food and sodas. At the sound of the bell, my body suddenly became paralyzed with anxiety. As he moved towards me, I nervously flicked a jab that was at least two feet short of landing. A trainer shouted, “Get in closer!” Suddenly, I was nailed with a straight right square on my nose. Water instantly filled my eyes and the surrealism of the moment quickly vanished. I instinctively attempted to retaliate with my own badly missed right hand. “You gotta get in closer!” I heard again. By the middle of the round, I was completely exhausted. I realized that the months of training hadn’t mentally prepared me for the reality of actually fighting another man. I awkwardly circled my opponent and threw a couple more misguided jabs while he again connected with several more lead rights. With thirty seconds left in the round, I miraculously landed a left right combination flush on his jaw. A boxer ringside yelled, “There you go!” My opponent appeared to be angered by my brief success as he rushed toward me throwing a barrage of wild punches that all landed on my gloves. The bell sounded and the round ended. “Good, but you gotta get in closer,” the trainer said again. I exited the ring as a couple of boxers got ready to spar. As I sat in solitude, reflecting on the past nerve racking three minutes, my opponent approached me, “You did real good in there.” I humbly thanked him.
After several more rounds of sparring that week, I came to the realization that I didn’t possess a boxer’s courage. I didn’t want to hurt another person and I didn’t want to get hurt myself.
And with that, I knew I would never be a fighter.
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