Heather

It's not that we were close, it's that we were boxers. Female boxers at that. I remember seeing her at Wildcard Boxing Gym. From the moment you walk in, you can hear the ropes snapping against a wood floor, loud thuds from the heavy bag, coaching in different languages. You can smell the mix of body odor, air freshener and leather that has infiltrated the rug. Every so often, the tall bearded guy behind the desk wearing a baseball cap would yell out the make of a car. This meant you had to move it because you were blocking someone else into a spot.  This was a real boxing gym.

Heather had wild blond hair pulled into a ponytail with strands fraying out. She was thick and muscular. Like me, she was older than most of the women at the gym. Heather always wanted to spar. Being that she was forty pounds heavier than me, I wasn't eager to get in the ring with her. She also had a sharp quirky energy - unpredictable. The worst kind of energy to have across from you. After assuring me, she would not go full force, we sparred. As promised, she didn't and we both got some good work. I found out she was a chemist, which intrigued me. I actually know quite a few boxers who are scientists of some kind. (They don't call it the sweet science for nothing.) I liked how authentic she was. No pretension. We exchanged numbers. She's still in my phone as "Heather Wildcard."  Every boxing person in my contacts has their name and the name of the gym where I met them.

The next time I saw her was when I had a fight in Costa Mesa. As I was hitting mitts with my coach preparing for my fight, I recognized her in the ring. She had just knocked down her opponent.  The ref had his hand up counting to eight and Heather was in the neutral corner waiting to see if her opponent was going to resume the match. I could see the adrenaline pumping through her veins; her heart, grit, and determination. The rest of the fight was back and forth. After the last bell and the decision was made, the ref raised her opponent's hand as the winner. Pissed, Heather stormed out of the ring. I'm not even sure if she shook her opponent's hand. Mind you, these are "Master's" amateur fights which means for people over 40, so it's not like there are high stakes. In any other world, it would be considered a hobby. But, when you are the one in the ring it's all that matters. Training usurps your days for at least six weeks in addition to your job. Sparring three times a week, running daily, doing drills, hitting mitts with your coach, and strength training drains the rest of the life out of you, especially for those over 40! You can't go to parties, drink alcohol or eat like you want. Even though Master's boxers might be looked down upon by the young ones, they make the same sacrifices without the dream of going pro or to the Olympics. This is to prove something to themselves and maybe to others. Each fight in and of itself is the end game.

I thought Heather was robbed so I wanted to console her. She was still boiling with anger and didn't want to talk about it so I left her alone. For an outsider, it might seem ridiculous to get upset over a bad decision in a Master's fight, but I knew it meant more to her. A lot of us who fight, usually have had a lack of justice of some kind in our lives so when there is no justice in a decision, it is devastating. The saying "hysterical is historical" completely applies to this situation.

The next time I saw her at the gym, she was more determined than ever. She upped her training, her bag work, her sparring. She would often bring Devo, an ugly old little chihuahua that bit people. Of course, he was a rescue. I loved that she adopted the ugliest dog with the worst behavior. I think that says a lot about a person.

She also rescued cats, which she LOVED! Her nickname was "Wildcat Heather." This is another similarity a lot of boxers have. We love and want to protect animals. Rocky had Butkus. Heather had Devo. Most of us have dogs or cats that we treasure. My theory is that a lot of us were damaged in some way which makes us overly empathetic to innocent creatures who didn't ask to be here. 

On Sundays, we would make the trek to Outlaw's gym in Reseda. Brandon, the owner would host women's sparring at 10am. Women of all ages, shapes and sizes would come and work with each other. The goal was to sharpen each other's skills, not to knock each other out. When you punch and get punched by another woman, it bonds you closer than a champagne brunch. You see their insides come out, their strength, skill, strategy, pain, determination and even sometimes an intent to hurt you. But, the feelings you experience in the ring are ephemeral. Pain flashes right by, anger gets triggered and released. Satisfaction from a good shot doesn't last long. We train our nervous systems to be present while non-boxers get stuck in fight or flight. We analyze our opponents like a computer scan. Where are her hands? Her elbows? Does she move her head? Is she faster than me? More powerful? How would I beat this girl if I had to fight her?

When Heather was in the ring, you could always see her heart. Not much for strategy, it didn't matter. She was never going to back down. She had been through the meat grinder of life. For her getting punched was like having a fruit fly land on your pinky. She told me that she was a meth addict at one point and lost everything. She used boxing to take back her life.  Her meth addiction was not a secret. She's posted about it and I know she was proud of her sobriety. I believe her boxing to overcome it to be admirable. A lot of people with addictions and mental illness use it to heal, myself included. The daily routine of making yourself stronger and more skilled does wonders for your soul. There is no time or place for a hangover. I admired her resilience. 

When Heather took her own life, she was not boxing. In fact, she hadn't boxed for months because of an injury. One of her Instagram posts said, "I am lost without my boxing family." Something most people don't realize is that boxing is a community. We are all a bunch of weirdos who do this fucked up thing for fun. We're brought together by this passion and the need to physically overcome whatever Demons we are facing. We make ourselves stronger instead of tearing ourselves down with drugs or alcohol. I'm not saying every fighter is an addict or has a mental illness, but I think there's usually something going on. This passion for the ritual we practice in boxing gyms bonds us and when you see the same people every day, this ragtag group of comrades becomes your family. When you get injured and can't go to the gym, the lifeline to your "boxing family" gets cut off. 

I remember something Heather said a while ago about being bullied at work or not feeling good about it, but she couldn't leave because it was a decent-paying job doing what she was good at. There weren't many positions like it. A woman from Wildcard told me that Heather used to bring her laptop in and work there because the sounds and the smells comforted her. Still, I was stunned when I saw an Instagram post that said she took her own life because of workplace bullying.  Shocked and devastated, many of those who knew her are posting pictures and memories with her. Most are at the gym. Several people who knew her including me expressed wishing she had reached out to them. At the same time, I know that's not what I do when I'm depressed. Hitting the bag is much more satisfying.

Rest in Power Heather.