When long-time boxing fan Mario Mungia decided to lace up the gloves he got more than he bargained for …
I’ve found that boxing fans share one major similarity above all else, namely a fondness for their majestic introduction to the sport. I think we all have those associations as fans because boxing is so transcendent and eternal compared to other spectator sports. It’s easy to buy in to a fighter’s story and get caught up in the poetic nature of his journey. A fighter can become immortalized by an entire group of people and the passion shared gets passed down to sons, daughters, grandkids, etc. It’s the same kind of thing that happens with religion or political affiliations – the influence becomes as powerful as the bond it creates.
My background is no different, you see; my father was a proud Hispanic man and he made sure that the culture wasn’t lost on his sons. The problem was my brother and I were professional wrestling fans and we preferred the talents of Shawn Michaels and Bret Hart to those of Aaron Pryor and Alexis Argüello. But before we watched wrestling on Sundays and Mondays we had to watch boxing on Saturdays. My dad wanted us to learn the value of something real before we were subjected to the theatrics of wrestling.
And it worked. After some resentment early on, I learned to appreciate boxing, specifically the fighters. I fell in love with the poetic nature of the sport and the complexities that surround it. I was fascinated by how something could be so violent and brutal while simultaneously so methodical and beautiful. Over the years though, I’ve learned that my philosophies on boxing aren’t generally reciprocated by those who’ve actually participated in the sport. Most practitioners take offense when I describe the sport as a “majestic manifestation of man’s basic instincts,” and liken the brutal onslaught suffered by each fighter to the “upsetting but necessary laws of nature where the law of survival of the fittest predominates”.
I won’t say that I’ve never winced at the sight of a large haematoma or grimaced during the replay of a devastating knockdown, but I know that those two men wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, right? They are gladiators and a knockdown is a rite of passage, a reincarnation of nature’s most primal impulses, nostalgia at the highest level and, dare I say, a badge of honor.
I grew up with friends who began boxing at an early age and they gave everything they had to the sport, I respected them on a different level in comparison to my other peers. But it was an unrequited respect and they were often offended by my take on the sport. For example, we usually differed over fighters like Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Pernell Whitaker because I preferred the all-action style of fights while they had more respect for the craftsmen of the sport. They were also very defensive about my criticism towards fighters that failed to make weight. My attitude towards it was that it was inexcusable and unprofessional, while they argued that making weight is a task that can’t be fully condemned unless it’s fully understood.
As the years have passed I’ve immersed myself in specific literature and particular authors who have allowed me to further articulate my own feelings on boxing and better romanticize my viewpoints. I’ve used my education as a means of authenticity because the one thing I share with fighters is the competitive factor. Indeed, one could make the argument that in outlook and personality I’m a down right ‘know-it-all’.
Therefore, after years of pent-up curiosity and upon the suggestion of a colleague – a fellow boxing scribe – I recently decided to adopt the method used by some of the greatest writers in history and enroll myself in the subject itself, become my own comparison. So, for the last two months – 64 days to be exact – I’ve committed myself to training and learning the sweet science. I’ve documented my experiences and analyzed my findings to better comprehend the root of my discretions as they relate to the sport of boxing and its competitors, while simultaneously testing the average person’s threshold. I’m not an athlete, not in the slightest, and I felt it was imperative to go through the rigors of at least a modest training camp because I think we sometimes forget that, as talented as these athletes are, they are still human.
I walked into the gym that day as nervous as I’ve ever been for anything in my life; I had no idea what to expect and I was worried that my modest physical shape wouldn’t suffice. I learned that there is something very wrong with me because the moment I saw rows of heavy bags, speed bags, and other various boxing related equipment I became enthused. It may be a cliché but I’m not articulate enough to describe it any better than the overwhelming feeling of a kid in a toy store.
I signed a quick waiver and was designated to the novice class. I was relieved to see the fitness levels of some of my new teammates. One guy named Steve, who everyone called ‘Mellow,’ had nearly 100lbs on me but he was only a couple of inches taller, while another teammate we called ‘Dusty’ was 54 years old. Needless to say, I felt confident about the possibilities of surviving the day and my reasoning was based on the assumption that if they could do it, so could I.
We began with running and jogging for 15 minutes, which should have equated to just under two miles, but I couldn’t keep a brisk enough pace and was forced to walk for at least half that time. Then, we did rounds of stretching and shadow boxing. That was essentially the warm-up we used every day.
We were then expected to complete three rounds of heavy bag, three rounds of speed bag, and then three rounds of the double-end bag. After the boxing orientated part of our workout we would do a ten-minute circuit filled with push-ups, sit-ups, and jump rope, followed by three rounds of target mitts with a partner and our coach. The last part of the day was spent sparring.
I felt completely out of my element and I got the feeling that I was an unwelcome guest, like they all knew I wasn’t ‘one of them’. The other guys had a rapport with one another and I was the odd man out, a factor that made it extremely difficult to get through the tough moments in a particular round, and by ‘particular round’ I mean everything after the warm-up. My coach was little help as well; it seemed as though he was picking on me. I had really expected some consideration on my first day. Instead, I was frequently mocked and scowled at. I was miserable and started to feel like I was in way over my head.
There’s a feeling you get when you reach complete exhaustion, it’s a feeling in the pit of your stomach, it’s despair and unbridled misery combined with a realization of hopelessness. Couple that with my awareness of the fact that I wasn’t even halfway through the workout and you can start to understand the severe situation I was in. I tried to convince myself that the solution to my dilemma was merely mind over matter, but in this instance it wasn’t. Suddenly, I had to make a dash for the exit and the moment I crossed the threshold that was the doorway it happened, I lost my lunch, along with my dinner for the last two nights, all over the sidewalk. As I positioned myself on all fours the first thought that came to my mind was: “why couldn’t I aim for the grass?” I picked myself up, eventually, and looked at my coach; without a word being spoken we both knew that my day was over.
I skipped the second day and contemplated missing the third as well, but I was committed to the experience. That second day at the gym was much better from a moral standpoint. I entered the gym and was met with lighthearted condolences. My coach even made a joke during warm-ups to lighten the mood: “Guys, make sure you’re using the spit bucket, I don’t want anyone getting cramps. It’s the bucket on the left, the one on the right is Mario’s puke bucket.” I gave a nervous laugh, mostly because I wasn’t sure if he was actually being serious.
The Timothy Bradley-Juan Manuel Márquez fight was coming up and I desperately wanted someone to strike up a conversation about it, for no other reason than to have an opportunity to validate my knowledge of the sport. I never got the opportunity. Instead, I made it to the halfway point of the circuit before having to relieve myself and my stomach. My only consolation was I made it to the men’s room toilet. My day was once again prematurely ended.
I vomited.
I took a couple of days off after the weekend, a reward for the progress I had been making. I was disappointed that I hadn’t yet made any strides in the technical department, based purely on the fact that I was still unable to get through the physical part of the workout.
That Thursday my coach sat down with me and asked me why I was trying so hard at age 27 to learn a craft that he’d been teaching for 20 years. My coach boxed at an early age but never went pro. Instead, he trained kids and prepared them for Golden Gloves and other amateur tournaments. He commended me for attending the gym more than any other person in the novice class. I didn’t want to tell him that I was a writer and I wasn’t going to explain my stance on boxing and the perceived wonderments I had towards the fight game. I gave him a vague excuse about wanting to reach my “peak physical condition” and learn “self-defense”.
I wouldn’t describe my coach as punch-drunk, but he has an unbothered outlook on life. He’s a lifetime gym rat and his main concerns were ‘big picture’ issues involving his fighters and life in general, although often times they coincided. Coach Chavarria was a lifer that had paid his dues with blood and sweat as currency. He wasn’t a friend, a father figure, or a role model, but he was the only person in the gym you could trust and honesty is a virtue not lost on a struggling fighter.
I played baseball in high school and a bit in college, and in both institutions my coaches were either distant or rigid and they only cared about winning. Coach Chavarria really cared, but he cared about the craft he was teaching most of all. It wasn’t about getting your hand raised; to Coach, it was all about respecting the fight game and the craft itself. But most of all he expected us to apply the lessons learned in the gym to our lives. In his mind, that was the only way to be a successful fighter.
Of all the lessons I’ve learned thus far, this is the one I hope to forget one day. I had already lost 12lbs, and keep in mind my diet hadn’t changed much at all, plus I was struggling less and less with the workout. This was the first day I made it all the way to the sparring session. I felt so prepared and I had been putting in great work on the pads for the previous seven days. I was progressing so well that I got a rare compliment from Coach the day before.
I now had grandiose visions of channeling my inner Floyd Mayweather Jr., with my shoulder tucked and ready to fire a counter on whichever unsuspecting sparring partner I was matched with. I thought about sticking my chin out like Roy Jones Jr. in the first round because I was sure my reflexes were up to the challenge. I wondered what fighter Coach would compare me to, I thought of myself as a slightly less flat-footed Danny Garcia, but I’d wait for the admirations to come pouring in before making any claims aloud.
The nerves began to consume me but I enjoyed it, like the anxious feeling you get at the end of a first date when you’re unsure of whether or not to kiss the girl goodnight. I was paired with the youngest kid in the gym, Hector. He was really talented, especially for his age. I stand 5’5” and he was the closest to my height, although I had about 25lbs on him. I found out pretty quickly that it is extremely difficult to hit somebody … all of the combinations I had been working on with Coach on the mitts weren’t landing, not a single punch. I never felt comfortable against a moving target that was throwing back, but I stayed working. He was so much faster than I could’ve predicted, I later contemplated with awe how much faster guys like Manny Pacquiao and Nonito Donaire must be compared to Hector.
He was barely landing clean shots on me, mostly hitting my gloves, but then I was hit with something that changed my opinion of boxing forever – a body-shot to the gut, a liver shot to be exact. I hit the floor hard and I’m not exaggerating when I say I thought I might die. It was hands down the most excruciating pain I’ve ever experienced in a single instance, and I’ve broken my nose twice. We were sparring outside of the ring and when my knees hit they hit concrete coated with the thinnest layer of tile in existence.
I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t talk, but sadly I mustered up enough energy to cry.
Yes. I cried.
I wasn’t sobbing, but my eyes got watery and I’m sure it was noticed. It was only as I began to bounce back that I noticed the most embarrassing aspect of the situation; a cold feeling that radiated down the entire lower half of my waist, much like the liver shot.
I had soiled myself. Yes. I soiled myself. I wanted to cry all over again. Immediately I began scheming about how I could excuse myself without being detected. It was the kind of situation that makes you question your faith, but I didn’t. I knew that someone was looking out for me because that day South Texas had suffered its first cold front of the year, much earlier than normal. And because it was so cold I was wearing my Under Armour pants (thanks again, universe).
What happened next made me emotional all over again once I got home. The teenager who caused it all noticed what I was trying so desperately to hide and claimed it was a low blow he hit me with. He said it loud enough so that the entire gym could hear, even those who hadn’t stopped to check on my condition. Then, he quickly conspired a plan to get me out of the gym and into the parking lot by telling me he had an extra protective cup in his car that I could have. I left the gym on his shoulder and he swore to me he would never utter a word about what happened to anyone.
Hector grew up very poor and lived in a local city housing project near the gym. His education was basic and unnurtured. He later disclosed to me that his father had been deported back to Mexico when he was nine-years-old and his mother worked three jobs to support him and his four siblings. Here is a kid that could greatly benefit from a support system in his life and instead he was helping a grown man save face. Hector was my savior that day, but he later became my hero for everything else that he’s been through outside of the gym.
I decided I was too immature and inexperienced for sparring after that humbling day, but a week later Coach told me I had to. His specific words were: “Mario, either you spar today or get the hell out the gym. This ain’t a place for scary asses.” So, what choice did I have?
I was matched with a less experienced teammate this time around, but I was still very nervous. He was 32-years-old and went by the name Carlo. Carlo hadn’t been training all that much longer than myself, but he was in far superior shape to me. Carlo was present on the day I was gutted, but he was part of the group that didn’t let my knockdown affect his workout, in fact, I don’t think he gave the situation anything more than a glance. He was covered with tattoos and responsible for me leaving my phone and wallet at home after the first week.
He didn’t push the action much in the first round, instead he let me get comfortable and seemed content with just going through the motions, although I could feel his power, even through my tight guard. He picked up the intensity in the second round and for the first time since beginning my journey I was hit in the face, hard. I can remember my teeth hurting quite a bit, but I didn’t let it detour me from defending myself at all cost.
Then, I caught the attention of El Capitan. Coach yelled across the gym, “Mario, what the [expletive] are you doing! If you’re not going to try then get the [expletive] out of here! I got kids and women in this gym with more balls than you!” By this time he had made his way over to me and grabbed me by the bottom of my headgear. He belittled me in front of everyone, and it had to be on the day that we joined classes with the youth group so that the parents could hear. I was mad, livid even. I was determined to take my aggression out on Carlo.
Just then, Coach stopped the entire gym and yelled the scariest statement I’d ever heard: “Everyone stop! Mario and Carlo get your asses in the ring, everyone watch these guys.” Carlo looked just as upset as I was, and he was staring at me with a look that suggested he blamed me.
“Yawl are gonna go two solid rounds and if I’m not satisfied with the effort the entire gym will pay for it,” Coach said. I knew then that Carlo regretted showing me compassion in the first two rounds of sparring and he wasn’t going to make the mistake again. Two thoughts entered my mind almost simultaneously. The first idea I had was to run, just quit in front of everyone, but I knew that there was a good chance I had already exhausted my sympathy the week before. Plus, this is what I signed up for and I thought about all of the fighters in the history of the sport, specifically the ones that couldn’t quit because it was their only way of earning for their families.
My second thought was to go down after the first solid shot. Perhaps then I’d save myself from an onslaught and maybe even turn Coach into the bad guy, then he’d have my blood on his hands and lose respect from those he’d previously set an example for – that’d show him!
In the end, I went through with the two rounds and it was the longest six minutes of my life, coupled with the shortest minute’s rest in the history of the sport. I was tagged coming right out the gate, Carlo didn’t pull any punches either. I was told he hit me with a four-punch combo within the first minute of sparring, but it felt like one big punch that landed on every inch of my face, like the comedic frying pan across a cartoon character’s face. I hurled the most uncoordinated punches ever thrown, and to no avail, although I did hit Carlo in the shoulder with an overhand left (I’m southpaw). That last round was brutal, I was dead tired and realised that all of the hard work I had put in over the last few weeks had barely made a dent in the stamina department. I was being tagged at will, but I kept throwing. I could hear the leather slap against my sweaty cheeks and a combination of mucous and saliva fly through the air. The only other thing my ears could pick up was the sound of Coach yelling: “dig deep, Mungia, dig deep!” Even though I was the one being made an example of, I was simultaneously a fighter – Coach was urging me on and I could hear my teammates rooting for me.
“Round’s almost up, finish strong, kid,” Coach screamed. I decided then I had it in me to at least stay on my feet fighting. It was my Gatti-Ward moment and I squared up to let my hands fly. I landed two consecutive shots and I could tell that Carlo felt it. I heard the cry of “ten seconds!” and I was determined to put Carlo against the ropes. Instead, he landed a straight right hand flush on my nose and I could instantly taste blood. I had always thought the term ‘prize-fighter’ came from the fact that fighters fight for a prize, but I know now it’s because blood tastes like money, the metallic residue of coins in your mouth is how I’d describe it and it stays with you for days.
The round was over and my knees buckled as I walked to my corner for water, mostly to get the taste of blood out of my mouth. Everyone was clapping and Coach looked at me and said, “Isn’t this what you really came here for?” I realised I had underestimated both his intelligence and compassion.
* * *
We end each day at the gym with cone drills, a sort of wind-down type of exercise. Coach let me skip it. I was sitting amongst the parents and one of the moms looked at me and said, “You did a good job in there.” And despite my physical condition, I felt good. The woman told me a story about her oldest son and how he was knocked out in one of his fights. She described it as one of the worst moments of her life. She told me that Coach Chavarria visited her son every day in the hospital and was responsible for getting her son back in the ring.
I doubt any of my teammates have figured out why I started training and why I continue to train, but I’m sure they’re aware of my newfound respect for the sport of boxing and its competitors. I feel foolish about the way I romanticized the sport prior to my experiences in the gym. Boxing is a science, but it is also a brutal, painstaking wretchedness of the body and soul. There is nothing poetic about enduring it, the beauty comes in the aftermath. Like a butterfly that sheds its cocoon, a fighter is built through layers and fashioned into the ultimate of individuals.
You can never learn everything about a subject as complex as boxing, you can only hope that your journey leaves you in one piece. I’ve learned more than any average person ever should and I will always regret the way I trivialized the sport in the past. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be satisfied with my pursuit of boxing comprehension, but perhaps an amateur fight would offer depths previously unattainable?