//boroughing//
Spring 2019
Spring 2019
Growing with the Punches
Temima Grossman
Boxing at Gleason’s
My alarm goes off at 6:30 AM. I dress quickly in the clothing I left out the night before. I brush my teeth in the empty communal bathroom. My floor is silent except for my steps as I make my way to the stairs.
I exit the quad and step outside; the streetlights are still on. “Good morning New York!” I ironically sing to myself and the quiet city. I catch a glimpse of the moon still hanging in the sky before descending the stairs to the subway.
The subway platform is deserted at 6:55AM. I take the 1 train to 96th Street and then transfer to the 2 or 3 train which I take to Clark Street. I arrive at around 7:30AM. Walking through Brooklyn Heights, I watch New York begin to rise and ready itself for the day. All around me, men and women clad in professional attire clutch coffee cups, joggers whiz by, dogs sniff the sidewalk as their owners tug at their leashes, and children hold their parents’ hands on their way to school.
The Freedom Tower glows copper as the sun begins to rise.
Nearing my destination, I pass the cobblestone street directly under the Manhattan Bridge. At this hour, there aren’t any tourists or brides standing in the middle of the street blocking traffic for a photoshoot.
I turn right, take the stairs by twos, open the door, kiss the mezuzah on the doorpost, and enter Gleason’s Boxing Gym.
Gleason’s is a world-renowned boxing gym based in Brooklyn, NY. Gleason’s is not a boxing chain. It is not similar to Rumble, the “Soul Cycle of boxing.” Gleason’s is Rumble’s wiser, more humble, more accomplished distant-cousin-by-marriage. It does not have a wardrobe collaboration with Lululemon, nor does it blast “Dear Evan Hansen” or “The Chainsmokers.”
Opened in 1937, Gleason’s “is the oldest active boxing gym in the USA.” Peter Robert Gagliardi was the creator and original owner of the gym. He changed his name to Bobby Gleason in order to sound more Irish, hoping to attract Irish boxers (who made up the heart of the boxing scene at the time). The gym has changed locations four times, beginning in the Bronx, making its way to lower Manhattan, to its first Brooklyn spot, and then finally to its DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) location, where it is visited by devout trainers and trainees everyday.
A large banner hangs from the ceiling in the center of the gym with a quote from Virgil, the ancient Roman poet: “Now, whoever has courage and a strong and collected spirit in his breast, let him come forward, lace on the gloves and put up his hands (5.363-364).”
So how did I end up at Gleason’s, two whole train lines away from campus? In October, I entered the Barnard Speaking Fellows’ Cicero public speaking contest. I happened to win, which was nice, but even nicer was my surprise victory in a raffle I entered at the contest. My raffle prize was a six month free membership to Gleason’s.
But there’s a longer story. You see, I began boxing for the first time during the summer before my senior year of high school, taking classes in my home borough, the Bronx. I was mainly interested in learning how to beat up the misogynistic boys in my grade.
In November of my senior year of high school, Donald Trump became president of the United States. Instead of being repulsed by the vile man that now sits in the Oval Office, like I was, a large chunk of my male peers decided to follow his example. If the president could make lewd comments about women, why couldn’t they? Thus, clad in ugly, oversized red “Make America Great Again” hats, the boys would gather in the senior common area and pump their fists, stomp their feet and chant the following words taken from Jewish morning prayer recited by men: “Shelo Asani Isha!” Translated: “[Blessed are you G-d] for not making me a woman.” Really sweet.
So imagine my reaction, as a seventeen-year-old girl, born a feminist into a family with feminist values, watching boys that I grew up with proudly use religion to be blatantly misogynistic. As the world became a more hateful place, so did my formerly peaceful high school, yet no one bothered to stop these boys. Engaging in conversation with those dogs was not a viable option, so I curled my fists and hit punching bags instead. During my tired moments at the gym, I still picture some of those boys’ smug faces and their stupid hats, and immediately I hit the bag harder.
My trainer’s name is Darryl. Over the past five months, Darryl and I have developed a friendship. While he wraps my hands at the beginning of each session, I take advantage of the quiet time to ask him questions about himself. One time I asked him how he came to work at Gleason’s. “I worked in maintenance. I would go to the gym after work. But then that gym closed down so I stopped. I thought ‘Okay. That’s it with boxing.’ Then one of my clients found out where I lived and asked me to come train him at Gleason’s. So I went. I’m 62 years old; I retired early. I collect social security. Do I need to do this? No. But people like you come in and want to learn, so I want to do this. How can I stop?”
After a few rounds in the ring, Darryl says, “So, good job. But you’re not that good yet.”
“Thanks, Darryl.”
“I said yet.”
It’s refreshing to have someone be honest with me about how much improvement I have yet to achieve.
I continue the rest of my day with few interruptions. Before bed, I brush my teeth and set out my clothing for the next day. I place my gloves on top and crawl under the covers.
My alarm goes off at 6:30AM.
My alarm goes off at 6:30 AM. I dress quickly in the clothing I left out the night before. I brush my teeth in the empty communal bathroom. My floor is silent except for my steps as I make my way to the stairs.
I exit the quad and step outside; the streetlights are still on. “Good morning New York!” I ironically sing to myself and the quiet city. I catch a glimpse of the moon still hanging in the sky before descending the stairs to the subway.
The subway platform is deserted at 6:55AM. I take the 1 train to 96th Street and then transfer to the 2 or 3 train which I take to Clark Street. I arrive at around 7:30AM. Walking through Brooklyn Heights, I watch New York begin to rise and ready itself for the day. All around me, men and women clad in professional attire clutch coffee cups, joggers whiz by, dogs sniff the sidewalk as their owners tug at their leashes, and children hold their parents’ hands on their way to school.
The Freedom Tower glows copper as the sun begins to rise.
Nearing my destination, I pass the cobblestone street directly under the Manhattan Bridge. At this hour, there aren’t any tourists or brides standing in the middle of the street blocking traffic for a photoshoot.
I turn right, take the stairs by twos, open the door, kiss the mezuzah on the doorpost, and enter Gleason’s Boxing Gym.
Gleason’s is a world-renowned boxing gym based in Brooklyn, NY. Gleason’s is not a boxing chain. It is not similar to Rumble, the “Soul Cycle of boxing.” Gleason’s is Rumble’s wiser, more humble, more accomplished distant-cousin-by-marriage. It does not have a wardrobe collaboration with Lululemon, nor does it blast “Dear Evan Hansen” or “The Chainsmokers.”
Opened in 1937, Gleason’s “is the oldest active boxing gym in the USA.” Peter Robert Gagliardi was the creator and original owner of the gym. He changed his name to Bobby Gleason in order to sound more Irish, hoping to attract Irish boxers (who made up the heart of the boxing scene at the time). The gym has changed locations four times, beginning in the Bronx, making its way to lower Manhattan, to its first Brooklyn spot, and then finally to its DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass) location, where it is visited by devout trainers and trainees everyday.
A large banner hangs from the ceiling in the center of the gym with a quote from Virgil, the ancient Roman poet: “Now, whoever has courage and a strong and collected spirit in his breast, let him come forward, lace on the gloves and put up his hands (5.363-364).”
So how did I end up at Gleason’s, two whole train lines away from campus? In October, I entered the Barnard Speaking Fellows’ Cicero public speaking contest. I happened to win, which was nice, but even nicer was my surprise victory in a raffle I entered at the contest. My raffle prize was a six month free membership to Gleason’s.
But there’s a longer story. You see, I began boxing for the first time during the summer before my senior year of high school, taking classes in my home borough, the Bronx. I was mainly interested in learning how to beat up the misogynistic boys in my grade.
In November of my senior year of high school, Donald Trump became president of the United States. Instead of being repulsed by the vile man that now sits in the Oval Office, like I was, a large chunk of my male peers decided to follow his example. If the president could make lewd comments about women, why couldn’t they? Thus, clad in ugly, oversized red “Make America Great Again” hats, the boys would gather in the senior common area and pump their fists, stomp their feet and chant the following words taken from Jewish morning prayer recited by men: “Shelo Asani Isha!” Translated: “[Blessed are you G-d] for not making me a woman.” Really sweet.
So imagine my reaction, as a seventeen-year-old girl, born a feminist into a family with feminist values, watching boys that I grew up with proudly use religion to be blatantly misogynistic. As the world became a more hateful place, so did my formerly peaceful high school, yet no one bothered to stop these boys. Engaging in conversation with those dogs was not a viable option, so I curled my fists and hit punching bags instead. During my tired moments at the gym, I still picture some of those boys’ smug faces and their stupid hats, and immediately I hit the bag harder.
My trainer’s name is Darryl. Over the past five months, Darryl and I have developed a friendship. While he wraps my hands at the beginning of each session, I take advantage of the quiet time to ask him questions about himself. One time I asked him how he came to work at Gleason’s. “I worked in maintenance. I would go to the gym after work. But then that gym closed down so I stopped. I thought ‘Okay. That’s it with boxing.’ Then one of my clients found out where I lived and asked me to come train him at Gleason’s. So I went. I’m 62 years old; I retired early. I collect social security. Do I need to do this? No. But people like you come in and want to learn, so I want to do this. How can I stop?”
After a few rounds in the ring, Darryl says, “So, good job. But you’re not that good yet.”
“Thanks, Darryl.”
“I said yet.”
It’s refreshing to have someone be honest with me about how much improvement I have yet to achieve.
I continue the rest of my day with few interruptions. Before bed, I brush my teeth and set out my clothing for the next day. I place my gloves on top and crawl under the covers.
My alarm goes off at 6:30AM.
//TEMIMA GROSSMAN is a freshman in Barnard College. She can be reached at [email protected].
Photo courtesy of https://www.pinterest.com/pin/394276142362206622/.
Photo courtesy of https://www.pinterest.com/pin/394276142362206622/.