A Day in the Dungeon

The brick walls do not let light escape. The ceiling fans barely keep air circulating. The ground is durable, yet in the least of ways. The corrosion on the pipes could lead one to think they do not work; no windows, no stairs, a mystery of what is inside; cracks all around desperately in need of filling. All of this, and still 20 somewhat people pile in for two hours or more throughout the night to gear up for what's ahead of them.

Weeks before fight time, people walk into the gym to get the useful material they need in order to improve. Whether that is proper training or just to use the equipment, it's up to the person. The life of a boxer far exceeds the limitations they are dealt. They can be the greatest fighter in the world or just starting out, no matter what, the gym they are at is where it starts and where it ends.

This gym in particular, not too many champions made here. Not too many names will be in the paper for wins or faces on television. They are who they are and they are fine with that. They are raw; they are hungry, but not the most talented bunch of boxers. Nothing that could lead anybody to think this is the famous Kronk Gym in Detroit or Eastside Boxing in Cincinnati. The only stories that are told are between the rounds when the boxers will find themselves chatting from time to time. No pictures on the wall, posters or frames of work throughout the years. They leave that at home, or they possibly don't have any.

Outside has limited parking as many carpool to get there. The parking lot is made up of rocks and pebbles, not enough money to pave it. Some park on grass or on the side street if there is room. The gym expands a great amount, both outside and inside.

Outside, there are boxers running miles down the streets. Inside it is much larger than it appears to be. Six boxing bags are put up in one corner. A few speed bags set up across from that. The ring is one side of the building with mirrors fastened to the walls for the boxers that are shadow boxing. Four or five trainers come in every night to help the boxers out, working pad work with them. For hours, this is home to them.

"Let’s stretch now," the trainer barks. So they stretch. They listen to their trainer. Later on, it gets more intense.

"One-two, one-two," he orders to one young boxer. The fighter is already on his third round of mitt work but that is the very least expected of him. This is just a warm up; tired and sweating profusely he does as he is told. He moves on to the bags and will work there for three rounds before stepping out into the bitter cold. He is about to run.

Perhaps the cold is a metaphor for these boxers, because they are bitter and this is a bitter sport. The more they run the more they are hurting. They want to quit, but quitting is not in their nature. They were born this way or something changed them to make them believe they are superior to everybody else. They are a cocky bunch as they talk each other up. But if one falls, they all feel the same way.

One boxer runs over to the stereo. She yells "this is my song!" She turns it up. There will be blasting music for the next several hours now. This seems to be as loud as a football stadium or if you were standing under an airplane landing. How can one think in this place? If the music isn’t distracting them, nothing will. In fact, this tends to pump the boxers up as they are working harder now. This isn’t the kind of music you will hear on the radio; no Lady Gaga, Black Eyed Peas or Justin Bieber here. This is old school rap, 2pac, DMX and NWA. The lyrics are rough and off beat. The harder the lyrics the harder they train.

No one would think a fighter would ever love a place so dark, so cold and so lonely. The exercises, the hard work that come with this sport, that is pure acceptance to love. They wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t. The only thing that could compare to the work they put in would be a person that works at a steel mill or a stock yard; that would be the equivalent to this gym.

Standing in front of the boxers, it’s like they accidentally stumbled upon this place. Why would anybody put themselves in a situation like this? It’s almost like they were born into this. The smell is awful, yet they are here every week day, sometimes on the weekends. It that makes sense, you then might ask: Why do they stay? What do they love about this old building?

The work is what they love best. The fact that only a handful of people can experience this is astonishing. The old cesspool of a place is great for one that is putting their body through the pain and suffering they get out of this place, in this sport.

The young boxer comes back from running after probably 30 minutes. He takes a sip of water. The bell rings and he grabs a jump rope. He is still training.