Million dollar baby

So I'm getting my @ss kicked in sparring on a very, very regular basis and it's starting to tick me off (you gotta put your waist into it, you gotta put your waist into it, poor ryan keeps saying, god bless him...) and whenever I drive to kung fu I pass this little boxing supply store and I'm thinking: focus mitts. What I need are focus mitts. (This is how my mind works: there is no problem that cannot be solved by shopping.)

So I get a pair and I get my (very patient) boyfriend to hold them up for me and I'm out in front of my house hitting them. (Alas, I have no backyard. Thus, if I wish to practice my martial arts, I am forced by circumstance to be the weirdo with the wooden sword out in the front yard.)

Let me preface this by saying that I live in not the best possible neighborhood, legally speaking. I used to count the number of people who got arrested in front of my house, but I lost count around seven and that was not very long after we moved here. (If it ain't dangerous, I can't afford it.) So there are always lots and lots of people walking up and down the street at all hours and lots and lots of people just kind of hanging around all day long, looking crafty and alert. (Dealers? How the @#$% would I know?) They sem friendly enough. When I jog past, sometimes they yell out helpful tips, like "keep those feet moving!" while I'm waiting at a light. I refer to them as my ad hoc coaching team.

So I'm out in the front lawn with the focus mitts and one of the hang-around-all-day guys who is hanging around nearby steps closer and says "Now, you gotta put your waist into it." [Slap forehead: of course the coaches know how to fight...]

So we start talking and he tells me that I really have to go to the rec center: they'll teach me how to box. Now, while we're talking, one of the other hang-around-all-day guys walks up to tell me that I really have to put my waist into it and have I considered training at the rec center? And so the two of them start chatting with each other :
"That's what I was telling her.."
"My enforcer trains there..."
"I used to be an enforcer and I trained there..."

[By this time, the tag line is running through my head: two out of two drug dealers surveyed recommend ____ Rec Center for their enforcers who box.]

I get directions.

Here is the rec center:

wood floor
portable stereo (hip hop, loud)
lots of boxing posters all
over the place
six heavy bags
a bag you can practice uppercuts on
three speed bag(all flat)
double end bag
a ring with a couple of
guys in it who are clearly very, very good
two coaches with focus mitts
a whole bunch of very sweaty, very fit guys
and me.

I love the coaches. Day one they're handing me a sign in sheet, telling me I'm perfectly welcome there over and over and over, and calling me into the ring for class, which consists of about ten to fifteen 9-year-olds and me, all holding up our hands and skipping back and forth across the ring. For the end of class, the coach calls us out, holds up his hands and calls out punches (one two! one two!) It's my turn and I'm sweating so hard and breathing so hard and I can feel the punches start to lose their force and coach starts calling out "million dollar baby! million dollar baby!" and I smile and the force comes back.