With its weathered walls and cracked floor, the place echoed of boxers' dreams—where every punch thrown was a step toward something bigger, and every silence held the weight of unspoken aspirations.
I once worked with a young woman, mid twenties I would guess, slender, attractive, gentle and quiet. She had modeled for me on occasion. One day she casually told me she had joined the Hat City Boxing Club. She might just as well told me she was a witch, it would have made just as much sense. I had never been to a club. That trains boxers and, as far as I knew, had never met anyone who boxer or trained boxers. Never the less, I was sure this was a world controlled by organized crime and populated with felons and would be criminals. I simply could not imagine this young woman in such a world.
That conversation echoed in my brain until I decided I had to see this place. It was the only way I was going to sense of what she said. So, on a chilly November night, I walked through the door of the Hat City Boxing Club and thus began my four year journey into the world of amateur boxing where I encountered some of the most memorable and often the kindest characters I’ve ever met.