Ring of truth

"I found your blog, Kayo Kid," Raul said to me a few weeks ago in the locker room. A grin spread across his face. "I read all about this Luis guy...Why didn't you say something?" he asked. "I know you, like, two years now."

"It's not normally the sort of thing that comes up in a boxing gym," I said, smiling.

If Raul were gay, he would be considered an oso, a Latin bear. He's a regular at the gym, one of the guys I talk to all the time. Raul and my sparring partner Angel are the guys I joke around with most. We're all about the same age and feeling its effects. Now that I've let out my deep, dark secret, we're tighter than ever.

Oh no, it's not the gay thing. It's that I'm fluent in Spanish.

"¿Por qué no me dijiste que hablas español?" Raul asked. (Why didn't you tell me you speak Spanish?)

"Jamás se me ocurrió," I said. (It didn't occur to me.)

"You came out of the closet about one thing. Why not the other thing?" Raul joked.

"You mean, you didn't figure it all out from the blog? The Latino boyfriend didn't give it away?"

Raul is not the first person at the gym who knows I'm gay. In fact I don't recall ever having said the word, but everyone gets it when I mention Luis. Big John, a straight African-American guy from the Bronx, caught on when I mentioned that my partner and I had bought a place. "What's his name?" he asked. "How long you been together?" he asked sheepishly. Almost 7 years, I said. "You dog! I don't think I've ever been with someone that long." Then he laughed a deep, belly-shaking laugh. This kind of unpretentious conversation at a boxing gym reminds me that it could only take place in New York City.

Over the years I've met some truly wonderful people at Waterfront/Trinity--Micah, who's become my massage therapist; Pete, an architect who loves talking about our new building; Mike, an engineer who looked at our property before we bought it and whose wedding we went to last year. And there are countless others who have come and gone or who are just starting or who have been coming for quite some time. There's a certain mutual respect between boxers, no matter how hard you've hit each other.

In the locker room after my workout tonight, all the other guys my age were commiserating about our various aches and pains. "This is a tough sport," said Howard, who's about 46, gray, lean, and boyish, the father of two grown kids.

"I know," I said, "and that's outside the ring."

"Angel just knocked me around," he said. "I just can't figure him out."

"No one can," I said. "But listen, he spars every day with at least six or seven other guys, so he knows everyone's style. You just have to try something different."

"I tried to fight lefty today," Howard said dejectedly, "but he clobbered me."

Angel walked into the locker room with his 13-year-old son, Jacob, a miniature version of Angel. His dad's been bringing him to the gym for the past few months to teach him how to box.

"I wanted to spar with you today, Angel," I said, "but now both my shoulders are messed up." I really do miss sparring, but I need to recover first. "How did you work through your shoulder injury?"

"Forget about it," he said. "I did nothing. I didn't work out at all."

"But you didn't gain any weight," I said bitterly.

"That's because I starved myself," he said. "I was down to, like, one meal a day. When I start getting a belly, forget about it. But then i got the flu because I ran myself down."

"I wish I could stop eating," I said. "That's my problem. My metabolism is getting slower than my jab."

Howard laughed. "Tell me about it. But it's only here at the gym I feel it. When I play in my softball league, I feel, I don't know, more aggressive. My game is better because of boxing. Oh, yesterday, I ran after this fly ball, and in my mind I could see myself catching it, but I couldn't get my body to cooperate." We all laughed in recognition.

"Yeah," Angel said, "you can complain, but try to find guys our age who are in this kind of shape." I had to admit he was right. Most of the 40-year-olds I know are not fit.

"Give me an 18-year-old," Angel said, as a guy whom Angel had just sparred with came into the room, "and I'll kick his ass." The 18-year-old grinned at Angel, shooting him a look of respect. The kid acknowledged he'd been outmuscled by a guy more than twice his age. Experience trumps exuberance.

"If nothing else," I said, "boxing is very humbling." The older guys nodded.

"You're right," said Howard. "You really learn humility." Humility, rather than humiliation, is what you learn, though the line separating them blurs.

This month I celebrated my fifth anniversary at Waterfront/Trinity. Only one or two guys have been members as long as or longer than I have. In New York years--maybe even in health club years--5 years must be like a diamond jubilee or something.

The people are what keeps me going back to Trinity. It's not my job, it's not my home--it's somewhere in between. It's somewhere I can really be a part of myself I've always wanted to be. It's not just a place to work out. It's where I clean out my head and my soul and renew myself. It's my sanctuary, my place of worship, and I thank God for it.