F.B.C. 1981

A Boys Club Legend and My First Win

I was twelve and I kept finding myself in the Principal’s office.

Sometimes it was something dumb. Sometimes it was a fight. Sometimes it was both. Fighting lived inside of me. I carried it like a second heartbeat. The more scraps there were, the more my hands wanted the work. I liked it.

One afternoon after school, before I could clear the blacktop, three kids stepped in front of me. Larry, Eddie, and Julie Tyson. Everybody knew them. A trio of scrappers with reputations.

Julie looked at me and asked if I wanted to fight somewhere I would be celebrated for it, instead of getting into trouble.

Mama was working, so getting home late was easy. I said yes and we headed out with passes to a world most kids in my neighborhood never saw.

A mile later, we were there.

The door opened to The Boys Club.

Pool table. Bumper pool. Ping pong. Craft center. Gym. Boys everywhere. Noise. Movement. A place built for kids with energy. A place where you could be a kid and still be taken seriously.

We walked toward the gym.

The air hit different there. Sweat. Leather. Mats. Hard effort. Gloves against the bag. Boys learning control.

I loved it straight away.

They introduced me to Dan Maze, the center director. 

Then … they introduced me to Coach Keith.

Coach Keith was a boxer on his way up. You could feel it on him. Earned confidence. The kind that comes from rounds and discipline and knowing the difference between a tough kid and a trained kid.

He looked at me and said, “Let’s get some gloves on you. See what you got.”

Gloves went on.

It happened fast.

We touched gloves. He popped me hard. My Celtic blood burned. I threw everything I had. Seconds later … My opponent hit the mat.

Coach Keith nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “I want you on the team.”

School treated my fighting like a problem. Here … it felt raw; like something I could make into a skill.

Then came the investment.

My Grandma and Grandpa bought me a mouthpiece and my first pair of Everlast gloves. Sixteen ounces. Brown with that purplish color. Heavy in the hands. All mine.

I wore those gloves proudly.

Training started.

Jump rope. Bag work. Footwork. Shadowboxing. Coach Keith correcting everything.

Hands up. Chin down. Breathe. Exhale hard when landing a jab or punch.

Again. Again. Again.

I fought hard. I trained hard. My mind still lived in scrapper mode. I thought boxing meant throwing down hard. Whoever walks out, won.

The coach kept saying something I missed at first.

“You’re a fighter. I’m going to teach you how to be a boxer.”

A year later … I understood.

A fighter throws.

A boxer builds.

A boxer thinks

A boxer takes his time to set up the moment.

A boxer makes the fight happen where he wants it.

Fight night was approaching.

We all sold as many tickets as we could. It was a community event. Families. Boys Club people. Neighbors.

Real fights bring a different electricity.

We drove all over the Bay matching opponents. Hayward. San Leandro. Newark. Oakland. San Jose. The whole map started opening.

My Grandpa loved it most.

He was undefeated his whole life, in the ways that mattered to me. Golden Gloves. Navy. Pacific Theater. My Dad called him Brand X bad. I believed it. I believed if he fought Marciano, he would have won.

That is how a boy believes in the man who raised his Mom.

Grandpa was proud I was becoming a fighter. Even more proud I was on a boxing team. Still more proud I asked him to help me train for my first real fight.

Training with Grandpa carried pressure. No softness. No babying. No letting me slide.

One night I got carried away. Instinct grabbed the wheel. I punched my Grandpa in the mouth and split it open.

He touched his lip.

He saw blood.

The chase was on.

My Grandma, a feisty Scottish woman, stepped between us and told him to stop. Grandpa was furious. Grandpa wanted to teach a lesson the old way.

Then he started talking and I heard it clearly. Oklahoma, southern accent.

I looked up at my Grandpa and I saw him. I heard him.

Foghorn Leghorn.

“Now, boy, you got to pay attention. Pay attention, now, boy. You got to pay attention. Use that head for something besides growing hair on.”

Let’s just say … lesson two of the evening came harder. That’s another story for another time.

Fight night came.

I was matched with a kid from Hayward. I wanted it to end in the first round like most of my Grandpa’s stories, but that was his story, not mine.

Mine … went all three rounds.

I hated how well matched I was. I didn’t like how close the fight was. I resented that my arms got heavy, and my lungs started burning, I had to keep working hard anyway.

I learned something in those rounds.

A real fight makes seconds count.

Three minutes feels like an hour.

A real fight demands your mind.

A real fight punishes lack of concentration.

A real fight is only rewarded when earned.

I won.

The medal came unceremoniously. They ran out.

Dan looked me in the eye and said I earned it. He promised as soon as he received it, he would give it to me.

He kept his word.

To this day my first medal hangs on the wall behind me in the studio. A boxer carved on the front. On the back: F.B.C. 1981.

I was on my way to something big, but I did not know what. Perfect adventure for me. The not knowing fed my curiosity. It made me hungrier.

And that, right there, is hard East Bay truth.