 MICHAEL
OLESKER.
Formidable
heat no match for boxers' determination
Published on June 27, 2002
© 2002- The Baltimore Sun
MOE
RITES, the bantam manager and head trainer at
the Baltimore Boxing Club,
506 1/2 Broadway, puts half a dozen fighters
through paces that could cause cardiac arrest
in a gazelle. One guy's turning a speed bag
into a blur, while another punishes a heavy
bag. A skinny kid skips rope in front of a mirror,
and a fellow built like an industrial fire hydrant
moves briskly around a ring, getting his rhythm
down.
Combined,
they unleash a Niagara of sweat on an afternoon
when the temperature hits the mid-90s on the
street, and the street cannot compare with this
airless gym where all molecules bearing even
a trace of coolness go to die. "This ain't
the Holiday Spa," Rites says, watching
a kid with a shaved skull named Brandon Cofield
go through his paces. "This is a man's
gym, right?"
He
nods in Cofield's direction. Cofield, 147 pounds
when he started the workout but about 84 pounds
afterward, is losing weight before our eyes.
It's coming off him in pure perspiration, which
whips off him with each punch he throws. He
whips a sneaky left jab now and nods assent.
"Keep
your head moving," Rites calls to Cofield.
He watches him for a few seconds, then tells
a bystander who's shvitzing through his shirt
from the tremendous strain of merely watching
so much activity, "After what I used to
do, this is nothing."
"What
did you used to do?"
"Asphalt
work," he says.
Fair
enough. But, for all those who never worked
with asphalt, the week has been a killer. Mid-90s,
steady. Humidity that creeps into your pores
and sets up permanent residence. And, at the
Baltimore Boxing Club, Broadway
and Eastern Avenue, picturesquely located directly
above the Love Zone Lingerie shop, it is worse.
To
chug up the narrow stairway is to feel the thumping
inside your chest. To stand there, surrounded
by dozens of old fight posters decorating every
inch of available wall space, and merely to
watch the young boxers at work, is to witness
mankind refusing to capitulate to the elements.
"Yeah,"
Brandon Cofield says a few minutes later, during
a brief lull in his workout, "when you
first work out in this kind of heat, you feel
like you can't breathe. But boxing's supposed
to be about hard working. You don't want plush.
When you get in that ring, let the other guy
pass out, 'cause maybe he worked out in air
conditioning and ain't used to tough conditions."
Cofield,
24, is 5-3 in his amateur career. He has a little
background in heat, too. He cooks for a catering
company. "You got your hot times in the
kitchen," he says.
But,
for a boxer, beating the heat's psychological
as well as physical. Rites knows this. He and
Jake Smith, the owner of the gym and former
state super-middleweight champ when he fought
as Jake "The Snake" Smith, have signs
all around the place as motivations.
"The
more you sweat, the less you bleed," one
says.
"Champions
never take the easy way out," says another.
"No
crybabies," says a third.
These
are young people here, most of them moving their
way through the amateur fight ranks in hopes
of a pro career. To see them work out, each
monitoring his own moves in a mirror, is to
see individuals floating in their own little
worlds, oblivious to the others around them.
Rites
says there are about 50 men who train here,
and "eight or nine women. They want to
be boxers. They like hitting people." They
pay $45 a month for the privilege, and arrive
expecting a Spartan atmosphere.
"You
got hand wraps?" Rites asks a newcomer.
The
new kid, named Johnny Adkins, shakes his head
no. At 20, he's never had a fight, never worked
out under anybody's professional tutelage. He
runs early each morning at Patterson Park, and
got the notion to box professionally owing to
a now-and-then unpaid career as a street fighter.
"Unbeaten,"
he says, "in 12 street fights."
"Three
times around the wrist," says Rites, unimpressed,
pointing to tape being wrapped around Adkins'
hands, "and one time around the knuckles."
Adkins
goes off to hit a heavy bag. Around him, the
other fighters go through their own paces, the
combined activity seeming to shake the very
floor of the gym. And raising the temperature
a few more degrees.
"It's
good for you," says Victor Baez, 24, flashing
away at a speed bag. He's another one who makes
his living as a cook, so his words are offered
in context.
"Long
as you keep yourself hydrated, you can get through
it," says Hannibal Otey, 23, an ex-Marine
studying at Morgan State University, throwing
a quick jab.
"Not
so bad," says Luis Orlando, 23, a laborer,
pausing between punches at a heavy bag. "Of
course, I come from Mexico."
For
the rest of us, it's plenty bad. Until you leave
the airless gym, head back down the steps, and
hit the midday street. The temperature is 94.
After an hour in the gym, it feels like absolute
October.
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