I’m in this photo. Look closely.
In my mind, I am an undefeated 165-pound professional boxer. I’m capable of throwing myself into drive or reverse for full impact within two or more weight classes. My body is a broad-shouldered triangle and the bottoms of my drawstring shorts graze knees that hover a couple of feet off the ground. Each day, I duck under ropes and step into a square ring to work towards being faster, sharper. My opponents study me on tape to crack my strategy and style, but shortly after our gloves meet, their eyes fall suddenly to my tightly laced shoes and darkness comes without knowing exactly how.
In reality, I clock into the devastating-sounding flyweight class, and the only notable force I exert is that which is sometimes necessary to get into my favorite pair of jeans. Each day, I elbow my way through midtown crowds and step into a white-walled square to work towards being faster, sharper only in the mental sense. And I do so with my feet resting on a little riser because, when my office chair is at full height, I can’t reach the ground. My adversaries measure me by the prestige of the schools on my online bio, and when we first meet, I do my best to bring their notice to distinctly fabulous shoes, one size above children’s.
This unfortunate gap between perception and truth is not so absurd from where I sit, legs swinging and tiny hands folded together. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have the quintessential boxer build because I have the quintessential boxer backbone.
Like every professional boxer, I can’t help but think myself fully capable of doing things I may or may not have any business attempting. The most frequently recurring fight I have with my husband is over my ability to carry heavy things to our fifth floor walkup. “I CAN DO IT,” I say, and sometimes he lets me prove it. I will drag, push, pull, and heave a box or bag of laundry or suitcase up each stair, and negotiate the tight curve towards the next set, carefully balancing my pride and—well, balance. When I reach the final landing in front of our apartment door, my heart is hammering loudly, my arms are floppy tubes of jelly, and my lungs are ever-stretching circus balloons that take more air, more. I smile and triumphantly shake my freakishly small fists over my head in victory. My husband smiles too as he is relieved of his duty to catch me if I fall back.
Much the same, on May 7, Amir Khan will fight Saul “Canelo” Alvarez. Khan does not have the ability to win this fight by any stretch of the imagination, except his own. He’s a popular fighter, but some outlets estimate that Canelo will outweigh him by 20 pounds on the night in question. Khan admitted in an interview that Canelo is a bigger, stronger fighter, but added, “It’s a huge, massive opportunity for me to show how good I am . . . I’m going to prove how good Amir Khan is.” If this statement is not the functional equivalent of “I CAN DO IT,” I know nothing. That night, Khan will step away from his corner to come nose to nose with a man who is programmed in every sense to crush his brain, and despite what you and I know about basic math, biology, physics, logic, miracles, movie moments, astronomy, astrology, taxidermy, etc., Khan will deeply, truly believe he will shake his fists in victory.
And though Canelo has agreed to fight a less than worthy opponent this time, he is no less subject to these inescapable delusions of grandeur. His record’s single blemish is a loss to Floyd Mayweather in September 2013. He could not have reasonably believed he stood a chance as a 23-year-old rising star against the most successful name in boxing at the height of his experienced career, a man who had been winning since Canelo was six years old. But Canelo chased Mayweather that night because he couldn’t help chasing a truth he made up himself.
Given my own distorted predilections, I understand why Khan is fighting Canelo. Why Canelo fought Mayweather. I understand because, if given the chance, I would fight Canelo. I would fight Mayweather. I’d do it tomorrow, and the thought that I’m somehow incapable will not register in my thinly skulled head.
Moreover, like every professional boxer, I hate, hate to lose. Losing comes in many forms. Losing could mean walking slower than some other person on the sidewalk, or not getting a seat on a crowded train, or getting outdrunk. That is not to say that any of these things have actually happened to me. I can’t think of any losses I’ve actually suffered, and even if I could I would not detail them here (or anywhere). Losing is my worst enemy.
This is why I understand Khan’s explanation after a devastating knock out defeat at the hands of Danny Garcia a few years ago. It was “one of them fluke shots.” Of course it was. Khan got himself up off the ground three times over the course of that fight, and if it wasn’t for that fluke, he would have gotten up again—and won. Of course he would have.
With this level of zest uniform among us boxers, it seems necessary that the Technical Knock Out exist. It is the boxing world’s sanctioned way of saving these maniacs from themselves. But every Technical Knock Outtee I’ve ever seen has faulted the referee for ending the fight on the grounds that it was not safe to continue. The boxer adamantly protests the conclusion that he lost the fight but didn’t know it because he’s succumbed blindly to the illusion that he is safe, strong, unhurt.
It’s hard to watch a man whose head and eye is swelling to deformity with every flip of his tongue, his own face betraying him even as he speaks. Despite what he says, he is not OK, the referee did not overreact, and he was in immediate danger of serious injury or death. It’s hard to watch, but I understand. I understand because I know how desperate he is to be greater than that last hit, to be unfazed, to be the same before and after it. It’s a desperation that prohibits resignation and demands more of next time, hopelessly, urgently.
In my special case, the audacity to accept challenges beyond my means coupled with the outright refusal to lose adds up to well over 165 pounds of pride and tenacity, and sometimes a hit of heartbreak and disappointment will nearly bring me to my knees—nearly. This is what makes me a professional boxer. Try and tell me otherwise.