Fight Like a Girl

p u n c h

❝A computer once beat me at chess, but it was no match for me at kick boxing.❞

-Emo Philips

“Lane, she’s swingin’ a left hook. What do you do?”

        “Duck around, come up and get her right ribs.”

“Good. You hit her so hard she falls, but quickly gets to her knees. Next?”

“Hands on her shoulders. Knee to the chest.”

Dad takes a brief look at me, puts his arm on my shoulder.

“This girl’s got nothin’ on you, kiddo,” Dad says, his New York accent hinting at the back of his throat. He pulls up to the school. “Knock ‘er dead. I’ll be watching.”

He plants a kiss on my forehead, and I’m off.

I’ve been a boxer since day one, so they say. Dad said that Mom pushed me out kicking and screaming- but I guess that’s true with all other babies.

When I knocked some kid’s tooth out in the first grade, Dad decided that maybe I wasn’t meant for the whole “princess” and “Barbie” phase. So that’s when I started karate.

And here I am now. At the regional qualifier for girl’s boxing.

I swing open the doors to the school, and find myself in a sea of girls. If you were a “normal” person- not me- you’d probably call them tough. You’d look at the size of their arms, the bruises on their face, the occasional missing tooth, and you’d gawk. Me- I just see them as peers. We boxers have a lot in common.

I get in line for the front desk and drop my bag at my feet when it’s my turn to check in.

“Davis.”

The girl scrolls through her list.

“Lane?”

“That’d be me, ma’am.”

“Your coach is at table 6. Are you familiar with the boxing rules and regulations?”

I stifle a laugh. “Of course I am.”

“Alright. Here’s your packet. Best of luck!”

This is it. My senior year, regional qualifier. This is my turn to win. Only three girls can make it to sectionals- so I’ve got to be the best of my class. There is no making it by the skin of your teeth. One shot- that’s it. Dad tells me all the time I’ve got a real good shot. And so does my coach; in fact, I’m pretty sure I’ll do great.

It’s those other girls. Those girls, their dads tell them they’ll win, their coaches ensure victory, the ones who smirk at me, thinking they’ve got a chance to beat me.

One of us has to lose.

“Davis!” I spot Coach about 50 feet away from me. “The team’s all here now!” He chuckles.

I’ll be honest with you: Coach is a dick. A sexist, washed up wrestler crushed at his final match at state, Coach mocks me and irritates me every single moment of our time together. But he’s a damn good coach, and I still can’t figure out if I fight harder because he’s taught me well, or because I just constantly have the urge to knock him out.

“I am the team, Coach.” I glare at him and shove my packet into his beer belly.

“Calm down, sweetheart.” He grabs them, his laugh now turning into a cough. “That’s what smoking’ll do to ya, honey.”