Till I Collapse

Personal Statement

I chose to submit my personal narrative from my English 101 class because I felt it was an exciting representation of my writing skills, being accessible and relevant to anyone who read it, unlike some of my research essays. This is the best received essay I’ve ever written, and my first attempt at a polished nonfiction story. I worked very hard on this essay, telling the story of the first time I ever got knocked out in boxing class. I hope The Lion’s Pride enjoys reading this essay as much as I enjoyed writing it.

“Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” What a sport boxing is, the most effective and practical self-defense art, if you are willing to take a punch to the face akin to the abrupt, icy plunge into a frozen lake. The pure unfiltered focus of just you—the opponent—and the possibility of receiving a blow that leaves a resonating tinnitus through your cranium.

After ages of convincing my dwarfish friend Arseny to cash in his free class, he finally agreed and followed me through the polished, shiny doors of the newly opened Orion Sports Club, accompanied by his father. The owner and two assistants rushed to my dwarfish friend the second his shoe touched their floor, waving countless waivers at him and his father’s face, as per policy for anyone coming through their doors for the first time. Quickly glancing over it, Arseny’s father flips through the printed document and scribbles his signature with a cheap sky-blue Bic pen.

“You boys have fun now.” He blurts with a concerned stare at both of us, darting off in a hurry practically the moment the last phoneme leaves his tongue. Standing in the center of the gym with the aura of a seasoned warrior, my wide-eyed coach Vladislav Kulikov commanded attention without uttering a single word. Originating from Russia, his presence carries the cold, silent intensity of a Siberian winter. Tattoos are woven into his skin, including Cyrillic letters and a black sun clawing at you from his elbow. At first, I thought he was a neo-Nazi when I noticed that detail, but I later learned from my father that it was often used as Slavic nationalist insignia. Apart from his distinct tattoos, his lean, athletic frame, was a testament to years of disciplined training and hard-won battles, which serves as uncompromisable evidence of his views on training every time he bullies his students for not keeping up.

Countless incidents of blood spillage culminated themselves into tiny crimson spots, left forgotten like a baby by a firehouse covered the carbon black wrestling mats, where we begin with a warmup, which to most is already a daunting task of its own, breathing life into stagnant muscles. Vladislav Kulikov directed us in Russian, each exercise honing our hand-eye coordination and flexing each of my crackly joints-—the product of me bashing my hands against heavy bags with no crucial support delivered from my crimson red hand wraps. I had made a terrible habit of refusing arm and wrist wraps for about two years until I finally decided to spare my wrists from further damage, but far too late by then, my right sounds more like a senior citizen’s than an infant’s. Our training routine started promptly after the routine, chock full of drills deemed useful by the coach.

Left Jab to the face—left jab to the stomach—right cross to the face—weave left—finishing left uppercut to the jaw. Amongst a dozen other combinations, Vladislav taught the most brutally effective yet simplistic formula to defend one’s own in a fight, each movement mimicking algebraic variables on a piece of notebook paper, adding to the sum of a perfect fighting strategy. The soviet approach to self-defense relied on strengthening and repeating basic attacks and parries, to produce a machine-like response to being attacked where the boxer would default to a combination long drilled into muscle memory.

Swaying delicately in a balance of equal parts terrifying and effective in terms of teaching boxing, Kulikov assigned us a number- one or two. A typical training session would have person number one start as the aggressor, launching an armada of hooks, jabs, and straights at the defending number two, with roles switching every three or so minutes. Teenagers do not know how to control themselves, resulting in drills playing out as if our scoring system was based on how many brain cells the unlucky bastard in front of your gloves loses.

“Line up, everyone.” The coach’s energetic voice reverberated throughout the newly opened gym, his voice flowing against the boxing bags that hung like large obsidian-black bats from the ceiling. The twenty-strong group of men and women who regularly attended Kulikov’s twelve ‘o’clock boxing class, as well as Arseny, standing at a measly five foot, sticking out like a sore thumb among the experienced and athletic boxers surrounding him. Kulikov made eye contact with two parties at a time, selecting the people who would face off against one another during sparring.

Arseny was matched up with another teenager who fit his stature more closely than I. Since I was neither new nor short, Kulikov matched me with another teenager who had been coming in regularly. I lay my eyes upon the fifteen-year-old who I was going to drill with. Curly obsidian hair grew out of the top of his head like vines on an Evergreen, with a tan complexion and light blue eyes.

“Quit hitting me so fucking hard.” His plea still ricochets around my brain like an old DVD screensaver. This was the second time my fist had found its home in the pit of my opponent’s stomach. My black and white glove gave little cushioning to my adversary’s stomach as my right fist connected with the speed and power of a sniper bullet aimed with the precision of a marksman. It takes quite a lot for a prideful teenager to admit defeat, the guy continuing to face me in sparring after the first trip to vomit in the bathroom. In a chaotic dance of punches and parries where instincts often trump technique, a punch that connects in that oh-so-perfect way parts the sea of adrenaline to a gateway of pain, leading my fellow warrior to accept defeat in a nauseous haze. The adolescent placed against me wobbles like a drunk penguin to the cramped bathroom located conveniently next to our sparring area, a silent refuge for those bested in battle. A voice arises behind me, still stunned by the result of my punches.

“Where did your partner go?” Vlad bellows to me in Russian. I feel like a toddler getting caught with a hand in the cookie jar. My body twists to turn the coach. Almost simultaneously, the creaking door to the bathroom opens, with my disorientated partner stumbling out of the bathroom.

“Can I just hit the bags instead?” The curly-haired teenager inquired to the coach, his breath giving off the contagious nauseating odor of vomit. Kulikov gave off a smug smile.

“Okay. Go hit the bag. Dennis, follow me.”

Coach escorts me over to the center of the floor where the teenagers are sparring, shadowed by the large boxing ring with three pairs of adults sparring. He scolds me with his strangely intimidating yet energetic Russian voice.

“I saw that. The second time? Too much.” I stand there awkwardly. It’s awfully strange to be scolded by someone who is not your parents, yet a sense of authority floats in the air as I continue to catch my breath. After all, I do respect this man. Nobody else teaches you how to injure people as well as the lanky Russian.

“Would you like to spar with the adults?” I have a sneaking suspicion that he aims to humiliate me if I say no and teach me a lesson if I say yes.

“Well, why not?” I counter his question, awaiting further instruction. He leans on the Olympic boxing ring—pulls out his matte-black iPhone—and triggers the three-minute timer tethered to the gym’s speakers. He looks upon the even group of six in the spacious boxing ring. With unquestionable authority, he orders one of the full-grown men to jump off the elevated ring to hit a heavy bag, with the adult obliging immediately. Kulikov nonchalantly twists his neck back at me and gestures to me to climb into the ring. I stand paralyzed for a moment as if a time-traveling me from the future was trying to prevent me from entering the ring. I brush this feeling aside and vault over the elevated wall of the boxing ring, finally face-to-face with my new opponent. Vladislav announces the name of whom I will be continuing my sparring session with—Vladimir. Fighting a person who has the name Vladimir bestowed upon them is never a good idea. By attaching such a name to your child, you give them a fifteen-percent strength boost and genetically modify them to specialize in hurting others. I’ve had the pleasure of sparring a few throughout my boxing career. A highlight reel of me holding brown paper towels against my nosing gushing blood plays in my head as I pull myself up by the vein-like red rope of the boxing ring. Vladimir has one-hundred-ninety pounds of lean muscle—seventy pounds more than me. At Forty-five years old, he is a cathedral of male performance. In his shadow, I stand, a dirt hut next to the Notre Dame of combat ability. The familiar bell rings on the surround sound speakers.

“DedeEDdedEDEDEdededEDE”

We touch gloves, a recognized ritual that would be performed before the start of any round. He throws variating precise hooks that I block, I respond with a series of right crosses, landing direct hits that had me feeling cocky.

“Look at me, fighting a forty-five-year-old, landing shots on his head hard and fast, I thought to myself.” My eagerness does not please Vladimir. He stops boxing and begins to fight, throwing wide haymakers with an emphasis on power over technique. I realize at that moment that there is no chance of me walking away from even one of these massive hooks. I block every single one until my eyes shift to the clock. A sleek black plastic clock sported the holy number of one-twenty-nine in digital numbers. One minute before the hour and thirty-minute class was due to end.

If I just can keep blocking and keep my defense up, then I can walk out of here saying I bested a grown ma- without me being able to finish my thought, BAM. His fist makes a sound scarily close to that of a loud, sharp pop of a nine-millimeter Glock as it connects with my right temple, knocking me out.

Blunt trauma to the head can shake the brain in the skull, resulting in loss of consciousness and potential brain damage. But you don’t feel brain damage. You feel a sudden calm in a storm of adrenaline, muscle memory, and pain. One hundred to zero.

That was a year ago. After awakening and waddling with the assistance of my friend whom I dragged along to my grandmother’s car, we promptly drove to the emergency room, and I decided not to go back to the boxing gym. I am content with the heavy bag hung in the garage. After all, The bag does not hit back.