Boxers at South Broadway Athletic Center
I should have been a boxer.
I went to see the Golden Gloves boxing tournament at the South Broadway Athletic Center last weekend. I wanted to support SBAC, because apparently the economic downturn has hit them hard and if an infusion of Mixed Martial Arts money doesn’t save them, they may have to shut down after 75 years in St. Louis. They take kids off the street who really can’t afford professional boxing instruction and train them at little or no cost. I have a soft spot for them because, years ago I wrote a screenplay with a boxing scene in it, with little or no regard for the fact that I had no access to a boxing ring. The folks at SBAC let me and my crew shoot at their facility and didn’t charge us a dime.
So, to show some love I went to the Golden Gloves tournament on Friday and lots of memories from my childhood came flooding back. Both my parents were huge boxing fans. My mom loved Muhammad Ali and Sugar Ray Leonard. She would get into the fights so much; I think I enjoyed watching her more than watching the actual boxers. When Mike Tyson unified the heavyweight title, I watched every single bout. My parents were divorced and my dad didn’t have HBO, so I would tape the fights and we’d watch them together on the weekends. I think my dad was a frustrated boxing trainer or commentator. He would give a blow-by-blow account while we watched the fight and he’d pick up on things about the fighters in round 2 or 3 the that TV announcers wouldn’t mention until round 5 or 6. Both of my parents were very tough people and I think they were both a little taken aback to have a son who wrote poetry, preferred comic books to sports and got picked on by bullies.
My older brother was an amateur kick-boxer and the only live bout I’d ever seen before last Friday was one of his when I was five years old. He broke his opponent’s nose, and I remember being really disturbed by all the blood. He was particularly embarrassed when his little brother started getting beaten up at school. His attempts to toughen me up (teaching me to fight, pick up girls and shoot guns) seem kind of comical now. At one point he just gave up and said, “Dave, you’re an actor. Act tough. Act crazy and people will be afraid of you. They’ll leave you alone.”
And so I did. I acted like I was out of my fucking mind and apparently, people believed it. I remember in high school, this tough kid cut in front of a line I was standing in. I didn’t want to fight him, so I pretended not to notice. Other kids in line complained and when he challenged them, they backed down. Then he saw me standing behind him and said, “Dave, my bad, I didn’t see you there.” Then he took me by the arm, “here, you go ahead of me.” This was a kid who could have kicked my ass with one arm in traction. It was surreal.
Problem is, as most bad undercover cop movies will attest, what we are is what we pretend to be. I was in my early twenties before I dropped the “crazy act,” which was becoming less and less of an act. I’m 36 now and as recently as last week I was apologizing to people for things I did back then. Looking at these kids at SBAC Friday night, their confidence, their discipline, the sheer ability to step in the ring and go toe-to-toe with another fighter, really made me wonder how my life could have been different if I had been a boxer.