When I went back to the gym the next day, the other men chuckled when they saw me, but they left me alone. I set my stuff in the same corner. Okay, I thought. Let’s try this again. I did pushups and sit-ups until I was covered in sweat. I thought about skipping rope, but I didn’t know how, so rather than do something that guaranteed I would look like a fool, I decided to punch a heavy bag, which only seemed likely to make me look like a fool.
For several days, I talked with no one, beyond “Hey” and “You done with that?” and “Yeah.”
Finally, Bob Pugh—a former Southern Heavyweight Champion and the gym’s manager—came up to me as I punched at a heavy bag.
“You’re telegraphing your right.”
I figured that was one of many things I was doing wrong, but I appreciated the tip. “How do I fix that?” I asked.
“You gotta get a trainer.”
“Who’s the best trainer?”
“Earl. Earl and Derrick.”
“Are they here?” I asked, looking around.
“No, they’re training outside the gym now, but I think I got Derrick’s phone number.”
Derrick Humphrey was twenty-six years old when we met for the first time at his apartment. He stood six foot two and had a scar across the bridge of his nose that I assumed came from boxing. Later, he told me that his mother had cracked him across the face with a wooden stick for acting up as a kid.
He also told me, after I’d known him for a while, that when I first called, he thought I was crazy.
“People call at least once a week, say they want to box,” he told me. They were full of questions and interest for two or three days, and then they disappeared. “I could tell on the phone you were white,” he said. “But when you said you went to Duke University and were spending your time at the gym, I didn’t just think you were crazy—I knew you were crazy. But I like to keep my life interesting, so I told you to come on down.”
Derrick introduced me to Earl Blair, his trainer. In the army they used to call Earl Bebop, because he walked with a bounce and a smile.
“How are you, how you doin’? So you’re ready to fight?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Well, all right, then, all right.”
Earl shook my hand hard. He was sixty-six years old, stocky, and strong. His smile filled his face, and he beamed with the joy of a man who seemed truly grateful for every day of his life.
“We talk money up front,” Earl said. “Then there’s no misunderstandings. It’s twenty-five dollars a week. Paid on Monday. No excuses. Twenty-five a week, whether you train five days or none at all. Twenty-five a week.”
I nodded and thought about how many lawns that would have meant mowing when I was a kid.
“Paying for something makes a man appreciate it more,” he told me. “Learned that lesson when I used to train kids for free. Then they didn’t have nothin’ invested in it. Walk right on by the gym if they didn’t feel like trainin’. When I first told Derrick, he wasn’t sure he could pay. But have you missed one week, Derrick, in five years?”
Derrick grinned. He shook his head.
“No, sir. Prays on it. Works hard, and he gets what he needs. I always say, you might not always get what you want, but you always get what you need. I know my time is worth more than that. I’ll get paid later, maybe in other ways. But it’s important, all the same.”
We walked into the parking lot outside Derrick’s apartment. Kids on bikes weaved through the parking lot. Teenagers clustered in groups on the sidewalk. Music blared from radios, and cars honked in the street nearby. Every now and then, someone’s mother would stick her head out a window and call a kid inside.
I looked at Derrick. This was the gym?
“Okay, now, here we go. Derrick and . . . and . . .” Earl searched for my name and came up empty. “And . . . and . . . both of you all, I want you to run. Gonna get those knees high. Ready. Time.”
Derrick and I ran in place in the parking lot, lifting our knees high and punching our fists with every step.
Earl watched his stopwatch. “Time,” he said.
Derrick walked a short circle around the parking lot, and I did the same.
“Got a beautiful day for training here,” Earl said. “A beautiful day.” We rested for what felt like thirty seconds, and then we did it again, running in place and punching the air. It seemed pretty easy to me, and I started to wonder if Earl was really that great a trainer. I also questioned how in the world Derrick could train for a professional boxing match by jogging in place in a parking lot.
We did a few more rounds, and then Earl said, “Okay, warm-up’s over. Let’s do it for real.”
Derrick started pumping his knees and throwing his punches so fast that the kids on bikes stopped riding and stood watching with their mouths open. One boy got so excited, he started to imitate Derrick, throwing his fists as fast as he could.
I tried to match Derrick’s speed, and just as I started to feel the burn in my legs, Earl said, “Time.”
We stopped. Then we started again. Knees pumping, fists flying. It was exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. My body felt like it would give out any second, but somehow I kept finding energy for more. I’d never really pushed myself like this.
I started to think maybe Earl knew what he was doing.
“Time.”
We took a break, then started again.
And again. And again. And again.
Kids circled us, and when I leaned over during one break and grabbed my knees, one of them said, “That white man’s ’bout to pass out.”
“You might be right, kid,” I wanted to say, but just then Earl had us lie down on the ground, our backs against the asphalt.
I wanted to enjoy lying down for just one second, but Earl told us: “Get your heads up. Lift your feet off the ground.”
We brought our heads up and our feet six inches above the ground.
“Hold it there,” he said, and while I held my feet in the air, he walked over and punched me in the stomach.
Oof. My feet dropped to the ground, and I clutched my gut.
“Get your feet back up. You can take it. Watch Derrick.” Earl strolled over to Derrick, who still had his feet six inches off the ground, and he started punching him in the stomach: bam with the right, bam with the left, bam, bam, bam. With each blow, I heard Derrick exhale and take another quick breath in through his nose. “Time,” Earl said.
We worked out for hours that day in the parking lot. We didn’t touch a single piece of equipment, and when I scraped my body off the pavement and dragged myself back to my car, I felt more beaten than I ever had after any practice, any race, any workout.
I couldn’t wait to go back for more.