The Thrilla in San Francisca

So I boxed Friday night. It was the first time I had done so. I’ve wrestled and fought MMA, but never stood toe-to-toe and been taught lessons in the sweet science. And on Friday I learned a few. It was the culmination of a six week “boxing boot camp” where I had been on a crash course training regimen of working out every single morning at 6:00. The idea was to end the bootcamp with a fight night wherein the participants would form pugilistic pairs and perform in bouts before our friends and family. Unfortunately I was in a higher weight class than all the other boot campers and so the trainers brought in a ringer. I knew nothing about the guy going in. I didn’t know his age, weight, height, skill level or anything else. I didn’t even know who he was until it was time to step into the ring. Things went fairly well. I took some thumps, and gave him more than a few. I did get horrifically tired and by the end of the third round, it was all I could do to tiredly grab into a clinch. All the bouts were exhibition matches, and so no winner was declared although I think my opponent clearly had the better of me if it went to the judges. After it was all over we had a manly hug, and he filled me in on a fun little fact:

“I’m a professional.” he said.

So unless he moonlights as a trick hoe, this could mean only one thing. I fought a professional boxer and lived to tell the tale. Not bad for a guy with the reach of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. He must have taken it a little easy on me, but I think I acquitted myself well. But I think that will be the last time I box. Better to stick to what I’m good at

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