Looking for a Fight: A Memoir

GLEASON'S there's a gritty smell of old cement in Gleason's gym, of stained leather and ancient vinyl, the greasy reek of the small on-site snack bar and the ordered-in meals of rice and beans--the staple, I would later learn, of a trainer's diet. I can detect sweat, old sneakers, and the oily tang of metal weights, of gym bags that are never emptied or aired, of mildew and something else, something that I came to understand was the adrenaline scent of fear. Fear postponed, fear arriving, fear diverted. Then there's the noise: the thudding of fists on vinyl, the staccato beat of punching bags, the thwacking of jump ropes, the bellowing and barking of fighters and trainers, and the brutish finality of gloves landing hard on skin. Suddenly, there is a short, nearly cheerful-sounding bzzzz, a sound much like the front-door buzzer in a prewar building. This signals the two-and-a-half-minute mark in a three-minute round, the time for a final, heroic burst of effort. The noise level reaches a new crescendo until the sound of a prolonged flat alarm. The signal of a thirty-second break. Without the noise of physical exertion, the instruction, the yelling, the exhorting, a chorus of voices in English and Spanish suddenly bursts forth like a previously overpowered section in an orchestra. Trainers mop foreheads, dispense water, reprimands, and advice until the flat buzzer sounds again. This is the start of a new round. It is a routine as predictable and time-driven as any factory work floor. Gleason's consists of one very large room and at its center are four rings--three for boxing, one for wrestling. The heavy bags are hung in a large square near the main office. The paint is peeling off in flaky patches on the walls, and a few boxing posters (Sly Stallone as Rocky) break the monotony of neglect. The concrete floor is painted in spots and, in others, covered with shabby remnants of low-pile carpeting. There is no elevator, no handicapped access, no climate control, no classes, and no locker-room attendants. The minute it takes me to cross the room toward my new trainer's office is enough to attract the attention of everyone in the place. At least twenty men are here working out, and about seven trainers and their assistants are milling around, plus assorted friends. Parked on some of the benches against the wall are old men who like to live vicariously through thick brutish bodies, and young toughs with no place else to hang out; both camps sometimes shout advice to boxers in the ring closest to them. I had just successfully completed the New York Marathon, but here, at Gleason's, I'm not a fellow athlete, I'm a visitor. Or worse, a girl. In the fourth ring, the one for wrestling, two men are working on their routines. Theirs is not Olympic Greco-Roman-style combat, but the "professional" kind seen on television: blue-haired, leotard-wearing competitors with lightning bolts painted on their faces. In this ring, the ropes will stretch for slingshot antics, and the corners are padded. Until I went to Gleason's, I didn't realize professional wrestlers practiced their pratfalls. These men have a beer-brawler's build, broad and stocky, but no muscular definition. They ignore the bells and rest between falls, going at each other with a kind of impersonal, resigned determination, like football players in a practice scrimmage. They are, without question, the loudest individuals in the room, and the most completely ignored by all present. Wrestlers are boxing's ugly stepchildren. I arrived at this place because I was looking for a fight--though I didn't know it at the time. I came into Gleason's the week before to buy boxing gear. My trainer, Mark Tenore, was not a serious boxing coach, so he knew that once I saw the gym, I would immediately crave its authenticity and would dare myself to come back. Gleason's may be the most famous boxing gym in the world. Founded in 1937, it was origiPicket, Lynn Snowden is the author of 'Looking for a Fight: A Memoir' with ISBN 9780385315845 and ISBN 0385315848.