To the victor go the spoils.
I'd heard the phrase before, but I didn't understand what it meant.
I was 19, young, lean, and restless. I was living on the family ranch, a few miles outside of a small Nebraska town of about three thousand souls. Now, many years later, I look back on that lifestyle, rural middle America, with some fondness. At the time, I was chaffing to get out, but had no idea where I wanted to go or what I wanted to do. I wasn't looking for a purpose, hell, I didn't even understand what that meant. Days were full of hard physical work and nights were spent in the aimless random wandering of small-town denizens everywhere. Cruise the six blocks of main street, find your friends, hang out the local park, score some beer and sit around and tell stories to each other.
On one of those aimless western summer nights my best friend John pulled into the ranch yard in his Challenger and asked me to come with him, he had something for us to do. I jumped into the passenger seat and we rolled out of the yard and turned toward town. I didn't know what he was up to, but I was down for it. We cranked up the rock and roll and headed down the highway.
We drove to the local community center, one of those multi-purpose Butler buildings that serve as a catch-all facility in small towns. The layout was simple. You came in through the lobby, with a set of two small offices on the left and a concession area on the right. From there, you walked through the main door into the general-purpose area, a basketball floor surrounded by pull-out bleachers, with a raised stage at the far end. On the left side of the stage was a small equipment room and on the right side was a stairwell down to a basement, just a single room, about a quarter of the size of the whole building.
We walked along the edge of the basketball court where a few locals were casually shooting hoops to wile away the time. John headed downstairs and I followed him. Another friend, Mike, was waiting near the bottom of the stairs. About a dozen other young men were milling about the basement area.
A pair of older gentlemen introduced themselves as Coach Anderson and Coach Smith. They'd gotten funding from some government program to form a boxing club and tonight was the kick-off. I had no interest in boxing at the time. It seemed kind of pointless to me, basically just punching other young men in the head with gloves on. But my friends were interested so I thought "what the hell, could be fun".
The coaches had a box of basic equipment, generic boxing shorts, t-shirts, shoes, gloves, and protective gear in an assortment of sizes. While we all found something that fit or came close to it, the two coaches went through the basic rules, explained the waivers we'd have to sign, and the physicals we'd have to pass.
They announced the best way to learn to box was to box. We went through some basic calisthenics to warm up. They paired us off based on weight and height. Everyone was going to go through a sparring round, three minutes, to get an idea of skill levels. The fundamental rule of boxing is to hit and hit back they explained, and not everyone can do it or wants to do it.
I was paired with Randy Wilson, a local guy I knew by name and face, but not much more. To say he lit me up is an understatement. Randy had grown up in a family of Golden Gloves boxers. He'd been a local champion. He proceeded to beat me like a redheaded stepchild. I couldn't stop him and I couldn't touch him. In the next three minutes I might have landed one punch and that's being charitable. I took a fast little beating that night, but my pride took a greater beating.
As I stood there, out of breath, half-dazed, watching the others get their introduction to the sweet science, I noticed we'd attracted a small audience. Three young women had come down and were sitting on a table against one of the walls, watching us. Two of them were the Reilly sisters and the other was a William's. Small towns are strange places. Unless someone moves in your immediate circle, you know them, you know their names and their relatives, but you don't know anything truly personal about them.
The older of the Reilly's caught my eye. She was attractive, medium height and weight, with a nice set of curves, curly brown hair, and big brown eyes. She was wearing the universal uniform of small-town denizens, a t-shirt and blue jeans. Her name popped into my mind -- Cindy. She had four sisters, and she was maybe five years older than me.
As the demonstration and try out fights continued, I watched her as she underwent a subtle change. The look in her eyes changed from curiosity to genuine interest and on into this look of pure lust. Aroused, her nipples cut a clear outline through the cotton shirt. I don't know if I was the only one who noticed it, but I was hooked, right then, right there. If this sport could generate that kind of look from a woman, well I was going to give it a try.
My friend Mike dropped out that night and never came back. John and I signed the waivers on the dotted line, were assigned our weight classes, and given a short list of equipment we'd need from the local sports store, just the basics, a mouthpiece, jock and cup, boxing shorts, t-shirts, a robe and towels. Gloves, tape, groin protector, and headgear were provided by the club. There was some kind of voucher system set up at the sporting goods store and the coaches provided us with a little signed slip of paper so we could take advantage of the grant funding for our equipment needs.
We fell into the routine of training and learning every day. Running for endurance, exercises for strength, some basic technique, and sparring in the ring with other boxers in and out of our weight classes. I rapidly learned the difference between skill and talent. Skill was the execution of all the techniques we learned. Talent was the speed at which you learned them. I didn't have talent. I was a slow learner. But I had skill. Once I learned something, whether it was foot work, slipping, combinations or the good old bob and weave, I could do it quickly and proficiently, without fail. As we developed the basic techniques, sparring became mixed with the learning opportunities and sparring with people at your own level. We focused on skill development, often sparring with certain restrictions to force us to use a particular skill and hone it against the stone of competition.
There were always spectators. They were a mix of people - people interested in joining the club, older people who were fans of the sweet science and people there supporting their friends, spouses, lovers, and family. On any given night it wasn't unusual to have a dozen or more interested spectators.
We graduated quickly into the ring itself, either in intraclub fights every Friday night, or inter-club fights with the surrounding small towns. These were informal matches intended to give the young fighters some experience in the ring, experience with space, timing, and technique. They were not considered real matches and they were heavily coached. The coaches could and would stop the match to give tips and pointers to the fighters. Sometimes they'd stop a match to swap out opponents.
I'd like to tell you I was a natural, but I wasn't. I did have one talent. I could take a punch without getting upset or rattled. I lost most of those early informal club matches on points. Gradually though, I began to tighten up as a boxer. I improved in both defense and offense. I started to win by a few points. Slowly, or what seemed slowly to me, I started winning more than losing. I was developing into a good technical boxer.
After several months of training, we were deemed ready for our first formal matches. As a club we developed enough skilled fighters that we could participate in formal events without embarrassing ourselves. These events were called "smokers". A particular club would host them in their gym or a local gym that was available. There were small cash prizes for individual fights and a general prize for the overall performance of the club. We'd spend a few days taping up fliers, ads would be taken out in any local newspapers, and the coaches would meet to schedule the individual bouts. As new fighters, without any record of winning and losing, we'd be slated into the undercards, which usually fought in the afternoon. The host club would charge a small admission fee, run a concession stand, and keep the lions share of the profits. Local businesses would sometimes donate products and services to get their advertisements in the flyers.
