I make the mistake of telling Dante that I want to get into boxing, so the next thing I know he’s calling me up to come over because he found me gloves and a punching bag, which is already hanging from his basement ceiling like a side of beef in a meat locker.
I immediately start hitting that sucker again and again and it feels so good that I keep on going.
“If you want to kill your hands, Gia, keep going.”
He makes me take off the gloves and he wraps my hands with tape like the pros do, which is probably ridiculous at this point, and then he shows me the moves. “Face the bag with one foot in front and one behind,” he says, “and jab with the first two knuckles.” He jabs, jabs, jabs, punching straight out, and then so do I and then cross hook with my left hand, and it’s like, jab, stun ’em, and cross, hurt ’em, and I get a rhythm going and I’m starting to sweat.
“Okay, Gia, let’s take a break and I’ll show you the uppercuts,” Dante says.
But I’m jabbing, jabbing, jabbing hard and thinking of Wentworth and Christy and Brandy and jabbing, jabbing, jabbing, and cross hooking, and—whoa—this boxing stuff is very, very good for totally getting rid of the stress, and I keep going and going and going and…
“GIA, ARE YOU DEAF? STOP!” Dante yells.
I look at him. And stop. And if that bag was a person, we’d need a priest.
The next day we train again and I’m dancing around the bag keeping my elbows in close to protect myself and learning to uppercut to the rib cage and then do the head-on kicks to the stomach and the side kicks and the roundhouse kicks and finally the kicks from the back of the body that you save for when you want to seriously do damage like break ribs, and then two hours or so have gone by.
“You wanna go out for dinner?” Dante asks.
I catch my breath and realize I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been and never mind food, the only thing I need is sleep because tomorrow I have to be up at the crack of dawn.
To visit my dad.
In prison.