I need to get my ass beat.
It’s a thought that would trouble my therapist, but these are just the words that come when my body is craving competition; when my heart is tired of emotional turmoil; when my mind wants to shut off. It seems like I’m looking for pain or maybe trading one pain for another. But no, I just want the crucible.
Crucibles mean growth.
There was this little MMA gym in the plaza around the corner from my house. It was situated between a family diner and a Chinese place that changes hands every eighteen months or so. I knew the gym had big heavy bags in there because I’d peer into the huge windows when I’d gone to pick up food from one of the other places. I’d seen kids in gis hitting them while guys in black t-shirts offered instruction.
I wanted to spar someone, but knew I’d have a backup plan if that wasn’t going to be an option. I packed up my wraps and boxing gloves and headed over one night. I was greeted by a redwood sapling of a man, Sensei Dave.
“I’m looking for a sparring buddy. Or maybe 30 minutes with one of those bags. Do I need an appointment?” I half expected to get turned away. It looked like the six or seven people there were about to do some kind of class. They sat in a circle in white gis, stretching and bantering.
“You into BJJ? We’re about to train if you wanna jump in….” Dave hooked a thumb over at his students. I wasn’t really looking for Brazillian Jiu Jitsu; I was fond of traditional boxing. Maybe Muay Thai. “Yeah you can hit a bag over there. I can work with ya if you wanna come back in- wait, hang on.” He looked over my shoulder.
The door swung open. “Hey Kace, you up to spar? This guy wants a partner.”
The woman’s eyes ran from the top of my head to my toes. She shrugged. “Yeah I’ll fight him.”
I immediately regretted coming here. Not because I was against fighting a woman, but because some instinct told me this woman could rip my spine out and use it as a jump rope. I laughed nervously. “I really don’t know what I’m doing. You might be better off fighting a sandbag.”
She shrugged again and offered a variation of the famous martial arts adage: “Sandbags don’t hit back.” She glanced at my bag. “Got your stuff? C’mon.”
“Just a sec,” Dave said, grabbing a clipboard. I had to sign a waiver agreeing to not sue in the event Kacey that killed me, among other such promises. I’m fighting at my own risk etc etc etc. “On the house,” Dave said when I asked him again what I owed him. “We’ll figure it out if you wanna come back. Kacey’s good. Just listen to her alright?”
Sure. I met her in our corner of the gym. “Kacey,” she said and extended her arm. A cobra tattoo coiled around her forearm, its head on the back of her palm, its tail stopping just short of her elbow. “What’s your name Sandbag?”
It didn’t matter that I told her the truth. From then on I’d be nothing but Sandbag to her. “I have a confession,” I said as I began wrapping up my hands. “I’ve never sparred before. I’ve worked on strike pads and heavy bags but I haven’t boxed an actual person.”
“‘Salright,” she said, shrugging a third time. “Ya gotta start somewhere, yeah? We start gentle, right? Just communicate if I’m hitting ya too hard. Don’t be a stupid man about it either. This ain’t a dick measurin’ dealie. Safety first.”
I liked her straightforward demeanor. She looked a little like Neve Campbell with blonde hair. Her body was wiry and graceful and for some reason my mind associated her with a fencing foil. Her toughness was accentuated by her light New Jersey accent. I probably would have found her attractive if she wasn’t preparing to beat the crap out of me; if I wasn’t already in love with someone else.
She guided me through some stretches and light calisthenics to get our hearts ready. She had three or four inches on me, but I probably had sixty pounds on her. It was a difference that would be ludicrously dangerous in competitive circumstances, but she made up for most of her lack of mass with experience, training, and actual competition.
She held up her gloves. “Punch,” she instructed. “Harder. Little harder. No, not that hard. There. Again. Again. Good. Go for that. Got it?” Sure. She set up a timer on her phone and pantomimed ringing a bell like Apollo Creed in one of the Rocky Movies.
By the end of it, I felt bad. Not because I’d been decimated by a woman; nah, she was an amateur fighter and I was a barely in-shape nerd whose boxing prowess could be summed up easier with a reading list (Jack Dempsey’s book is pretty good) than a punch count. No, I felt bad because I felt like I hadn’t challenged her in the slightest. What could she have taken from our bout besides wasted time?
“You got a few good ones in,” she insisted. I’m soaked in sweat, but she glistened. Amusement danced in her eyes. “What you lack in skill, you make up for with enthusiasm. It was fun.”
I took a quick shower and caught my breath. I was gonna be sore later if not bruised. She got me pretty good in the abs in round five. It was a good pain though. The pain of growth and strength. Oof. Yeah I was gonna be bruised.
“Ay Sandbag, see ya next Tuesday?”
I feigned shock. “What’d you call me?”
Her face screwed up in confusion and Dave laughed. He murmured an explanation in her ear. “Ah, fuck you, Sandbag, that’s not what I meant.” She frowned but her eyes laughed.
“Teach him,” Dave barked. Kacey’s fist appeared in my vision 400 milliseconds later. My brain spent too long comprehending the white shape for my body to do anything about it. My neck snapped back from the impact. It was an appalling sensation, not from pain—headgear and gloves and sparring speed all but mitigated that—but from the shock.
“Hands up, Sandbag,” Kacey muttered. Her mouthguard made it sound like “hamm uh thanbad.” I was too chagrined to be amused by the silliness.
“You good?” Dave asked.
I nodded. Just a hit to my pride. A round or two later he said it again. “Teach ‘im, Kace.” I was ready this time and slipped to my right and offered a counter shovel hook with my left fist. Kacey nodded approvingly. It was the first time I’d felt competent when fighting her.
In our last round of the night, Dave said it again. “Teach him!” I slipped right…and her own left hook clipped my cheek. Mostly painless. I locked eyes with her she winked. If I didn’t have a woman in my life I’d have fallen for her from that mischievous expression alone.
“Sandbag,” Dave had started calling me that too because he knew it didn’t offend me. “She’d have laid your ass out in a real fight. Keep that right glove up by your chin.”
It was something I knew academically but it was a whole different thing to remember when you have fists flying at you stomach as well as your face. I pledged to remember. Kacey’s jabs were unforgiving. Dave called time and she patted my head and it somehow wasn’t condescending. If you’ve ever been patted on the head by a boxing glove, you know what I mean.
After our sessions ended, Dave gave us advice. Habits he wanted us to break, combinations we should try, stuff like that. Kace and I, meanwhile, became friends. We chitchatted for twenty minutes or so after sparring about normal stuff. I asked her what her sign was as a sort of joke. She rolled her eyes. She didn’t subscribe to that astrology bullshit. She was born in late March, so she was an Aries—a fact that makes sense if you do subscribe to that astrology bullshit.
“You gotta girl, Sandbag?” she asked one night as she stuffed her gloves into her bag.
“There’s one, yeah.” I told her about a friend I had grown to love. A lady who lived a few states away. “I’m not sure if it’s mutual.”
Kacey nodded. “Distance things suck.”
“Is there a Mister Kacey?”
She glared. “I was engaged. Fucker cheated on me. Can you believe that?” I couldn’t. I knew how hard she hit when she was being nice. How hard must she hit when she’s furious? He was in the Navy and ended up stationed at the nearby naval base. She’d followed him up here.
I expressed my condolences and she sneered. “His loss, right? Fuckin’ men.” Yeah. She changed the subject. “I’m sure your sweetie will see the light. You seem okay, Sandbag.” I grinned at her, flattered. She wasn’t gonna let me bask long though. “It’s the polite ones like you that turn out to be serial killers though, ya know.”
I laughed. “All part of my master plan.”
Her eyes shone the way they do when she was teasing, but they shifted slightly too and I felt like there was more she wanted to say. “See ya next Tuesday, right?”
It had become our end of session call-and-response sign off. “See you next Tuesday, Kace.”
“What cute shit are you up to now?”
I gave Kacey a bewildered look.
“You’re wearing cologne,” she said. “What’s that smell?”
Crap. I explained to her that I had written a love letter to my romantic interest and had sprayed it with my cologne. “So she would know what I smell like when I hug her.”
“Oh my god,” Kacey said. “You’re disgustin’.” I wanted to believe she was secretly impressed but if she was she’d hidden it well.
“What, I thought it was supposed to be sweet?”
Kacey shook her head. “It’s psychotic. I have to smell it all night fighting you now.”
“My pheromones are all the edge I need, got it.” I knew I’d pay for this mild taunt.
“What is it, Axe? What are you, four-fuckin-teen? Fuckin’ Sandbag.”
“It’s actually Febreeze,” I lied.
“I’ll Febreeze you,” she said. “Go put your gloves on.”
Our pre-fight banter was something I’d begun to treasure. A bit of mirth before we slipped into silent violence. We’d touch gloves, square up, and spend a half hour or so clobbering each other. Well, she mostly clobbered me, but you get it.
Looking back now, Kacey and I had a closeness that I’ve shared only with lovers. Boxing is a rather intimate sport, a fact we’re prone to forgetting because, when we watch it, the point seems to be two people trying to kill each other. But look a little closer.
The initial movements are a lot like foreplay; you test and tease and figure out your opponent’s movements. You dance together, learn what works, what doesn’t. Look for the opening, seize it, fixate for a while. Slow down the tempo to maintain stamina, ramp it up when you sense your opponent is ready to fold. You have a better time when you know your opponent almost as well as you know yourself. Yes, it’s a blood sport; but also let me invite you to think about the best sex you’ve ever had. Didn’t you think, at some point, you were going to die? Or maybe even felt like you had, in fact, died? If you haven’t, I have good news: the best sex of your life is yet to come.
If we had been keeping score, Kacey would have beaten me again. But we don’t keep score so I remained undefeated after all. This night, she’d waited for me outside the showers.
“My roommate and I are gonna go out for a drink. You wanna come with us, Sandbag?”
It was kind of her to offer. However. “I don’t drink,” I explained.
“You’re kiddin’. You get high at least?”
I shook my head.
“Oh my god. No wonder your girl hasn’t committed yet, you’re fuckin’ borin’!” She used her Marisa-Tomei-in-My-Cousin-Vinny voice to indicate this was a joke. But maybe she was on to something. She sobered when I didn’t laugh. “That goin’ okay?”
I shrugged. “I think so. We’ll see. Just friends until we meet in person. Then know.”
Whatever she was thinking, she kept to herself. Kacey had an exceptional poker face. “I’m sure it’ll work out.” She hefted her bag up on her shoulder. “You can still come hang out with us, if you want. We won’t make you take any questionable substances.” Her smile faltered again.
Our relationship shifted here. Here was where she decided to trust me. “Sandbag look. This boxing shit? I do this because…because I had a stalker, all right?”
I got to see a different version of Kacey in this moment. An actually vulnerable Kacey. It was strange. But I knew it was significant.
“He used send me crazy texts. Follow me home from work. I had to move. Change phone numbers. I started doing this boxin’ thing so I’d feel strong. In case….” She gestured. She didn’t want to say the words to give them any power. I got the picture.
“Your sweetie girl? Way you talk about her…she’s got somethin like that. Somethin that makes her scared to like you. In case….” The same gesture. “She ain’t tellin’ you to give her space, right? That’s somethin’. Okay?” She smiled warmly.
She ribbed me a lot, sure, but Kacey always followed it up with, “Ah, I’m just bustin’ ya balls,” and then offer words of advice or encouragement. It was strange to be treated with her sensitivity without also being inflicted by a micro-aggression.
I thanked her, sheepishly. She stared at me a moment longer. “All right, Sandbag. See you next Tuesday?”
“You bet, Kacey. See you next Tuesday.”
“Sandbag.” Kacey looked at me as we did butterfly stretches together. “I’m goin’ back to Jersey. My lease is up at the end of July and I’m gonna go stay with my sistah for a while.”
I had kind of seen this coming. “You can’t leave me, Kacey. There aren’t any other girls here to beat me up.” I said it as a joke but the truth was, I was gonna miss her. She’d become a bizarre sort of friend. I didn’t know her favorite color, or what kind of music she listened to or how she felt about pineapple on pizza. I wasn’t even sure Kacey was actually her name. But I’d memorized the sound of her breath when she threw a right cross. I knew she always tied her left shoe first but put on her left glove second. I’d literally bled because of this woman.
Kacey sneered at my sentimentality. “Don’t cry, Sandbag. Ya oughta be thrilled to fight someone you have a shot against.”
“I’m gonna make you eat those words.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Yeah fuckin’ right. Come do it.”
I didn’t. And never would.
The night Kacey left, we leaned against the front bumper of her beat up silver RAV4, our gym bags at our feet. The stretched W of Cassiopeia hung in the northwest sky, and I started to point it out to Kacey. Did she know the myth about narcissistic queen? About Andromeda and Perseus and the sea monster? I stopped myself. She didn’t care about that star shit.
She bumped my hip with hers. “Ya gonna be alright, Sandbag. Once ya done cryin’ over me.” She winked. “Make sure I get an invitation to the weddin’ alright?” She patted me on the head. “You’ll do alright, kid,” she repeated. It amused her to no end to call me ‘kid’ because I was six years older than her. But Kacey’s big-sister energy wasn’t exactly deniable.
I chuckled. My long distance quasi-relationship was still in a frustrating holding pattern but I appreciated Kacey’s unerring confidence in me.
A thought struck me. “You know, I oughta thank your ex.”
Her eyes flashed, dangerous as the cobra tattooed on her hand. I soldiered on.
“If he hadn’t dragged you up here, we probably never would’ve met.” Her expression softened fractionally. “But fuck em, though, yeah?”
She burst into laughter, real laughter, and I think I saw her actually smile for the first time. She was a woman who was stronger than she looked, but her armor slipped and I saw a woman far softer than she wanted anyone to believe. I thought I should probably kiss her because I was never going to see her again, and thought that I shouldn’t…because I was never going to see her again.
“C’mere,” she said and pulled me into a fierce hug. She smelled a little like unscented deodorant and coconut. “Alright, go home and call your sweetie. I’ll look ya up if I come back to town, yeah?”
Maybe I should have given her my number. I hesitated because I felt like Kacey wanted a barrier between us. That was a convenient thing to tell myself, because the real reason I hesitated is it felt like a betrayal to the girl I’d been talking to.
Kacey opened the door and turned the ignition. “Hey, Sandbag, do you—“ she paused. Met eyes with me and stared for a long heartbeat. She treated me with that beautiful smile one more time. “See you next Tuesday.”
She slammed the door before I could reply. I was laughing too hard to say anything anyway. I stood next to my car and watched her pull out of the lot and into a fond memory.
See you next Tuesday, Kace.
Love, Sandbag