The Boxing Gym – Part 2: The Sparring Round

Cathal's first sparring round was a Friday in January.

The gym was crowded, a rough half-circle of men and women in sweatshirts, sitting on benches, leaning on ropes. Rain hammered on the roof. The ring was lit by a single hard light. Across from Cathal, a heavy young man named Dara bounced on his toes, grinning, with a mouthguard.

"I'm going to be sick," said Cathal.

"You are going to be brilliant," said Ravi, in his corner. "Remember. Chin down. Breathe out."

"What if I flinch?"

"Then you flinch. And you throw the jab."

The bell rang. Cathal stepped forward. Dara swung, a big, slow right, and Cathal ducked it, a neat little slip that surprised even him, and countered with a clean, crisp jab to the chin. The crowd roared. For three rounds, they circled and traded: Dara heavy, Cathal quick. In the final minute, Cathal caught him with a short left hook that rocked him onto his heels. Dara laughed through his mouthguard and tapped gloves.

The bell rang. Cathal stood in the middle of the ring, breathing hard, bruised, shaking, with a slow, astonished smile.

"You did it," said Ravi, in the corner, undoing his gloves.

"I hit somebody."

"You hit him nicely."

"I didn't flinch."

"Not once."

When the crowd had gone and the lights were low, they sat on the edge of the ring in the dimness, wrapped in towels, with a flask of tea. The gym was quiet but for the ticking of the radiator and the murmur of rain. Cathal's knuckles were sore. His eye was swelling. He had never felt better.

"I'm not afraid any more," he said.

"I know."

"Of anything."

"Not of anything?"

"Maybe of one thing." He turned. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Ravi?"

Ravi's eyes shone in the low light. "Yes. And if you say stop, you must spar me."

"That would be a very short fight."

"I'd go easy."

"I wouldn't," said Cathal, and kissed him.

It was gentle, salty and warm, a gloved-free hand rising to the shaved head. Ravi kissed him back with a deep, slow tenderness, tasting of tea and sweat. The radiator ticked. The rain drummed. The heavy bag swayed gently on its chain.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Ravi.

"Green," said Cathal. "Very green."

He still flinches, a little, at loud noises. Ravi, standing beside him, puts a hand on his back. The flinch becomes a breath.

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