Untangling Fear in Lawyering by Heidi K. Brown

Author:Heidi K. Brown
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: LCSH: Practice of law—United States. | Attorney and client—United States. | Lawyers—United States. | Fear—United States.
Publisher: American Bar Association
Published: 2019-02-27T16:00:00+00:00

I’m Not Afraid . . . to Climb into the Boxing Ring

I’m not afraid to walk into Trinity Boxing Club and box. Well, I admit I was a tad nervous the first day I opened those vintage doors, walked past a boulder-sized tangle of colorful just-washed boxing wraps, and signed in as a “fighter” for the first time. But that initial trepidation had vanished by the end of the first training session.

Trinity is an old-school boxing training club on Duane Street in the Tribeca neighborhood of Lower Manhattan. An imposing red-and-black ring occupies the rear of the space, surrounded by punching bags of different sizes and shapes—cylindrical, teardrop, round—hanging from beams. Vintage boxing gloves and photos of champions line the walls. Banners with inspirational messages like Babe Ruth’s “Never let the fear of striking out get in your way” wave in the breeze generated by movement of bodies in multiple directions. At any given time, 5 to 15 boxers of all ages and levels—recreational to professional—punch the bags, engage in one-on-one “mitt work” with trainers, or spar in the ring. It’s noisy, hot, sometimes muggy, and chaotic—four adjectives that normally would send me running in the opposite direction. Yet I’m obsessed with it.

Twice a week, I enter the gym, my silver-camouflaged Athleta sports bag slung over one shoulder; it contains yellow Everlast wraps, gold/black gloves, and my super-cool official Nike boxing shoes. I slide two dollars (the charge for a bottle of water) across the desk to Martin, the owner, who greets me with a friendly fist-bump. His freckled, pink-nosed, pit bull puppy, Jack Dempsey, leaps up to see who’s there. I grab a water bottle from the fridge and weave through a maze of guys and gals jumping rope, punching the bags, sparring each other, ribbing each other with fight stories. Rap music ricochets off the brick walls. My trainer, former Olympic boxer Raymond Montalvo, waves a well-worn golden mitt from the ring as he finishes a session with another client, often a fierce female, ponytail flying from her headgear, throwing lightning-fast punches. For a second, I wonder how slow I look by comparison. I shelve the negative self-talk, and avoid getting slapped by a razor-sharp jump rope on my way to the women’s locker room. (You only make that mistake once).

I knock on the door of the ladies’ changing area, an 8 × 8 space containing lockers, a shower, and walls covered with vintage boxing magazine articles. I change into my red and white high-top boxing shoes. I grab my wraps and gloves, a SoulCycle skull-and-crossbones bandana, and the water bottle and head back out. Ray greets me with a smile. He’s quiet yet full of presence. Muscular arms covered in sleeve tattoos. A T-shirt bearing a silhouette of Tyson, or Ali, or another boxing champion I’ve never heard of but will learn about shortly. If the other guys aren’t paying attention to the music, Ray will murmur into the Amazon speaker, “Play U2 radio.” I grin. Rap fades away and the drums of Larry Mullen Jr.

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