I first ran this column about boxing in 2011. A lot has changed then. Today, I am on the road with Princess the Elder as she pursues a World Championship in Independence, Missouri. This is an “old” moment, but not much has changed about my feelings for the sport. Enjoy:

The U.S. Olympic Boxing Trials were last week in Mobile. I took the Princesses. The Admiral doesn’t like seeing people hit people. I do, but I had forgotten why. As the night progressed, I remembered, and my love for the Sweet Science renewed.

The first memory was to be able to use the line my dad used with me as a kid. “O.K., this is how it works. We each pick a corner, and at the end of the night, the corner with the most wins, gets five bucks from the others.”

“But I don’t have five dollars,” the Princesses chimed.

“That’s O.K., I know where you live.” We laughed. It was just as I remembered.

When I was a boy of six or so, my dad was the Boxing Commissioner for a west Texas county. We would spend Saturdays at boxing gyms as he did whatever a commissioner does. What I did was fall in love with boxing.

The gyms were all different, but the same. The smells are the first thing you notice. The odors of greasy food, stale coffee, tobacco smoke, along with the leather of the gloves and the sweat of the fighters. They are potpourri to those who love the game. 

Next is the noise. The grunts as fighters throw gloved punches, slaps when they miss, and solid whacks when one lands. There are squeaks of the boxing shoes as fighters spar, the rhythmic tap as a rope is jumped, punches on the heavy bag, and another rhythm as the speed bag gets worked. Sometimes you hear a heavy, hard, thud as a body hits the canvas.  All is quiet until the downed fighter is up, then the cacophony resumes. It’s music to me.

There is constant chatter. In Spanish, and English, I learned the language of boxing. At the fights, when I heard, “Lo golpeó, lo golpeó, I was yelling, “Hit him, hit him”, along with them.

I loved the fighters. In the ring, they are opponents. I was awed as they pounded each other. When it was over, they were brothers. They congratulated each other, the seconds in the corners, and everyone shook hands. It is all about respect.

The best was when they took the time to lace the big gloves on me, and would get on their knees and teach me to box. I remember the smiles as they blocked my weak punches, and I remember the fire in their eyes when I landed a good one. I learned by a harder hit to my head that this was a blood sport, and I may be a little boy, but with the gloves on, I was an opponent. 

As I explained to the Princesses the science of pummeling your opponent, I remembered sitting with my dad at Golden Gloves tournaments and he doing the same for me. The fans around us joined in to aid with my learning and now, my teaching. We became part of the community.

A boxing crowd is like no other. Everyone interacts, and before the night is over, you’ve made friends that you look for at the next fight.

We were walking to our seats when a man pointed to a name on the fight card and said with pride, “That’s my son.” That fighter’s story is how boxing took him from a migrant farm worker background to the Olympics, and gave him the drive to be high school valedictorian.

That’s what the Sweet Science is about, determination to be better, and being willing to fight for it; lessons we should all learn.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted, at www.starchasers.us or david@starchasers.us.