By Michael Ross Lewis
The teenage years are exhilarating, confusing, and sometimes embarrassing. Most of us remember the physical awkwardness that accompanies adolescence, the lack of coordination, the weight of peer pressure. And perhaps the memorable task, at least in the fifties in the West Texas town of Wichita Falls, is the difficulty of finding oneself in a world of changing roles and parental expectations.
In 1960, I was 6 foot 4 inch 15 year old who weighed 180 pounds, most of it in hands and feet. I couldn't walk across a room without bumping my knees or knocking over a lamp. My height ensured that my clumsiness was apparent to everyone, my school friends, adults and, most of all, teenage girls. Like many young men of that age, I sought anonymity, preferring to spend my time alone, reading books and listening to the radio.
But high school doesn't give you a choice. More than any other group, teenagers quickly discover those kids who are different, and that difference attracts attention. My size and passive nature were irresistible to teenage bullies, all looking to enhance their reputations by beating up the "big kid". The "code", you know, that unwritten, ambiguous set of rules that governs masculine behavior and relationships, required that I fight back, regardless of the size or age of my opponent. But my efforts were so inept, I invariably was beaten. My sophomore year in high school was truly the most miserable year of my life.
Then I discovered boxing.
The art of pugilism was practiced by the early Greeks and has always been present in the Olympic Games, both ancient and Modern. Two men, equally matched in weight, meet in a square ring, 20 ft by 20 ft, for the sole purpose of determining which of the two is the most physically fit, the most skilled, the most determined. Muscle against muscle, skill against skill, will against will, boxing strips away pretension to reveal man at his most physical core. Its participants come face to face with their innermost qualities and defects. There are no excuses, no false humility. "You can run, but you can't hide." Boxing's rewards sacrifice and dedication. It's not the winning or losing that molds a man, but the experience of facing one's fears.
That summer, I determined to become a boxer. I spent hours in the gym, learning and practicing the various punches - the left jab (since I was right handed), the right cross, the hook, the overhand lead. I learned to slip punches by moving my head from side to side and up and down, to block punches with my forearms, and to protect my chin by tucking it beneath my left shoulder. I hit the heavy bag for strength and the speed bag for coordination. I learned when to dance to get away and when to stand flat-footed for maximum power. I practiced three and four punch combinations of jabs, crosses and hooks. And I jumped rope and ran miles and miles to build up my stamina and strength.
In February of 1961, I registered in the regional Golden Gloves as an open heavy weight. I was barely sixteen years old.
Registration was held on Monday, with bouts to be held on Wednesday through Saturday. The Open class included anyone up to the age of 26 who weighed more than 176 lbs. There were two other heavyweights, the winner from the previous year - a 20 year old who shared the same trainer and with whom I spent countless hours sparring and a fellow from Oklahoma who I didn't know. I was fortunate enough to draw a bye the first round, waiting until the Saturday night finals to fight the winner of the preliminary to be held on Thursday evening.
The Golden Gloves are a big deal in Wichita Falls, second only to the Friday night football games of the Wichita Falls Coyotes, a perennial state champion. The bouts are covered live by the local radio station, and the fights received a full page in the sports sections of the two newspapers.
As a heavyweight in the glamour division of the tournament, I received a lion's share of publicity, as did the two other fighters. My life at school changed dramatically. No one teased me or made fun of my height or complexion; strangers stopped me in the halls to wish me luck, even the teachers seem to regard me with a new respect. Unbeknownst to them, however, I had second thoughts. After all, I'd never been the ring for real, I could barely make three rounds in practice where the coach stopped the bouts before any real action could occur, and I had the bad habit of dropping my left when I threw my right leaving me defenseless to a right cross. I'd been kidding myself, thinking I was a fighter. I was just a scared little kid, tired of being separate and alone who thought winning a boxing match would suddenly make him popular and respected.
Thursday night, I had a chance to see the third heavyweight in action, the guy from Oklahoma. He was 26 and looked 40. Balding, he had a sloping, neanderthal forehead and heavy eyebrows, crisscrossed with scars from previous bouts. Only 5'10", he weighed 240 pounds, most of it in his shoulders and chest. He'd been the state Golden Gloves champion of Oklahoma for the last three years and was fighting in Texas because he worked as a roughneck in the oilfields of Burkburnett. His training consisted of bar room brawls across North Texas and southern Oklahoma. The preliminary fight lasted exactly 1 minute and forty seconds before he knocked out his opponent. We were to fight two nights later in the finals.
I was scared to death, not just of the physical pain which I knew was sure to come, but of losing and being humiliated in front of the whole town. I considered withdrawing, pretending that I was sick and even thought about wrecking my car to avoid having to face him. That Friday and Saturday were the longest and shortest days of my life. Right up until the time I had to go to the arena, I held out hope that something would happen, to me or to him, to cancel the bout. Neither of my parents would go to the tournament to avoid seeing me get hurt, and I know, if asked, either of them would have made any excuse, no matter how feeble, to keep me home and safe.
The tournament was held in a local gym which held about 5,000 people. It was standing room only, and the excitement grew as bout after bout of smaller contestants ended. Our fight was the last of the evening and was anticipated because my opponent was expected to win the state championship. I sat alone in the dressing room, listening to the screams and groans of the crowd, wondering if I could even walk to the ring without throwing up or fainting.
When the time came to enter the ring, I ran through the crowd and climbed through the ropes - I knew that if I had to walk, I'd never make it. As I climbed through the ropes, I looked out to the faces. I recognized classmates and neighbors; I saw my little brother and my uncle. And a miracle happened. I heard the crowd cheer and stamp their feet. A chant, "Mic - Key", "Mic-key" started in one corner and spread throughout the building. I'll never forget that moment, it was like coming home after being lost, all the years of being apart and alone were spent away in that chant, that expression of acceptance. I knew, no matter what happened in that ring, that I was going to be all right.
I wish I could tell you I won that night and went on to become a state champion, that would make this a real Cinderella story. I lost, but I lasted the whole three rounds and I went on to box for the next three years. I even flirted with the idea of becoming a professional boxer, but good sense ultimately prevailed. Never-the-less, I believe boxing changed my life. On that night, thirty three years ago, in a dingy, smelly gym, I learned about hard work and dreams and facing one's fears. Its a lesson I've never forgotten.
Michael Lewis is a retired senior executive living in Dallas, Texas. Growing up in a West Texas town in the late 40s and 50s, Lewis was a product of Texas myths - the stoic cowboy who fought for justice, respected women, and was loyal to his friends. His stories recall a past that has slowly faded away as the population has grown more diversified and urbanized.
Lewis can be reached by email at lewis9609@gmail.com or through his personal website Lew's Clues.
The teenage years are exhilarating, confusing, and sometimes embarrassing. Most of us remember the physical awkwardness that accompanies adolescence, the lack of coordination, the weight of peer pressure. And perhaps the memorable task, at least in the fifties in the West Texas town of Wichita Falls, is the difficulty of finding oneself in a world of changing roles and parental expectations.
In 1960, I was 6 foot 4 inch 15 year old who weighed 180 pounds, most of it in hands and feet. I couldn't walk across a room without bumping my knees or knocking over a lamp. My height ensured that my clumsiness was apparent to everyone, my school friends, adults and, most of all, teenage girls. Like many young men of that age, I sought anonymity, preferring to spend my time alone, reading books and listening to the radio.
But high school doesn't give you a choice. More than any other group, teenagers quickly discover those kids who are different, and that difference attracts attention. My size and passive nature were irresistible to teenage bullies, all looking to enhance their reputations by beating up the "big kid". The "code", you know, that unwritten, ambiguous set of rules that governs masculine behavior and relationships, required that I fight back, regardless of the size or age of my opponent. But my efforts were so inept, I invariably was beaten. My sophomore year in high school was truly the most miserable year of my life.
Then I discovered boxing.
The art of pugilism was practiced by the early Greeks and has always been present in the Olympic Games, both ancient and Modern. Two men, equally matched in weight, meet in a square ring, 20 ft by 20 ft, for the sole purpose of determining which of the two is the most physically fit, the most skilled, the most determined. Muscle against muscle, skill against skill, will against will, boxing strips away pretension to reveal man at his most physical core. Its participants come face to face with their innermost qualities and defects. There are no excuses, no false humility. "You can run, but you can't hide." Boxing's rewards sacrifice and dedication. It's not the winning or losing that molds a man, but the experience of facing one's fears.
That summer, I determined to become a boxer. I spent hours in the gym, learning and practicing the various punches - the left jab (since I was right handed), the right cross, the hook, the overhand lead. I learned to slip punches by moving my head from side to side and up and down, to block punches with my forearms, and to protect my chin by tucking it beneath my left shoulder. I hit the heavy bag for strength and the speed bag for coordination. I learned when to dance to get away and when to stand flat-footed for maximum power. I practiced three and four punch combinations of jabs, crosses and hooks. And I jumped rope and ran miles and miles to build up my stamina and strength.
In February of 1961, I registered in the regional Golden Gloves as an open heavy weight. I was barely sixteen years old.
Registration was held on Monday, with bouts to be held on Wednesday through Saturday. The Open class included anyone up to the age of 26 who weighed more than 176 lbs. There were two other heavyweights, the winner from the previous year - a 20 year old who shared the same trainer and with whom I spent countless hours sparring and a fellow from Oklahoma who I didn't know. I was fortunate enough to draw a bye the first round, waiting until the Saturday night finals to fight the winner of the preliminary to be held on Thursday evening.
The Golden Gloves are a big deal in Wichita Falls, second only to the Friday night football games of the Wichita Falls Coyotes, a perennial state champion. The bouts are covered live by the local radio station, and the fights received a full page in the sports sections of the two newspapers.
As a heavyweight in the glamour division of the tournament, I received a lion's share of publicity, as did the two other fighters. My life at school changed dramatically. No one teased me or made fun of my height or complexion; strangers stopped me in the halls to wish me luck, even the teachers seem to regard me with a new respect. Unbeknownst to them, however, I had second thoughts. After all, I'd never been the ring for real, I could barely make three rounds in practice where the coach stopped the bouts before any real action could occur, and I had the bad habit of dropping my left when I threw my right leaving me defenseless to a right cross. I'd been kidding myself, thinking I was a fighter. I was just a scared little kid, tired of being separate and alone who thought winning a boxing match would suddenly make him popular and respected.
Thursday night, I had a chance to see the third heavyweight in action, the guy from Oklahoma. He was 26 and looked 40. Balding, he had a sloping, neanderthal forehead and heavy eyebrows, crisscrossed with scars from previous bouts. Only 5'10", he weighed 240 pounds, most of it in his shoulders and chest. He'd been the state Golden Gloves champion of Oklahoma for the last three years and was fighting in Texas because he worked as a roughneck in the oilfields of Burkburnett. His training consisted of bar room brawls across North Texas and southern Oklahoma. The preliminary fight lasted exactly 1 minute and forty seconds before he knocked out his opponent. We were to fight two nights later in the finals.
I was scared to death, not just of the physical pain which I knew was sure to come, but of losing and being humiliated in front of the whole town. I considered withdrawing, pretending that I was sick and even thought about wrecking my car to avoid having to face him. That Friday and Saturday were the longest and shortest days of my life. Right up until the time I had to go to the arena, I held out hope that something would happen, to me or to him, to cancel the bout. Neither of my parents would go to the tournament to avoid seeing me get hurt, and I know, if asked, either of them would have made any excuse, no matter how feeble, to keep me home and safe.
The tournament was held in a local gym which held about 5,000 people. It was standing room only, and the excitement grew as bout after bout of smaller contestants ended. Our fight was the last of the evening and was anticipated because my opponent was expected to win the state championship. I sat alone in the dressing room, listening to the screams and groans of the crowd, wondering if I could even walk to the ring without throwing up or fainting.
When the time came to enter the ring, I ran through the crowd and climbed through the ropes - I knew that if I had to walk, I'd never make it. As I climbed through the ropes, I looked out to the faces. I recognized classmates and neighbors; I saw my little brother and my uncle. And a miracle happened. I heard the crowd cheer and stamp their feet. A chant, "Mic - Key", "Mic-key" started in one corner and spread throughout the building. I'll never forget that moment, it was like coming home after being lost, all the years of being apart and alone were spent away in that chant, that expression of acceptance. I knew, no matter what happened in that ring, that I was going to be all right.
I wish I could tell you I won that night and went on to become a state champion, that would make this a real Cinderella story. I lost, but I lasted the whole three rounds and I went on to box for the next three years. I even flirted with the idea of becoming a professional boxer, but good sense ultimately prevailed. Never-the-less, I believe boxing changed my life. On that night, thirty three years ago, in a dingy, smelly gym, I learned about hard work and dreams and facing one's fears. Its a lesson I've never forgotten.
Michael Lewis is a retired senior executive living in Dallas, Texas. Growing up in a West Texas town in the late 40s and 50s, Lewis was a product of Texas myths - the stoic cowboy who fought for justice, respected women, and was loyal to his friends. His stories recall a past that has slowly faded away as the population has grown more diversified and urbanized.
Lewis can be reached by email at lewis9609@gmail.com or through his personal website Lew's Clues.
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