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Hidden behind the location of a quiet strip mall along Vine street here in Los Angeles, Wild Card Boxing Gym is a storm brewing under an unassuming eye. But once you enter, you know that this is where limits are pushed, boundaries are broken, and goals are exceeded. This is where legends are made.
Some may think Wild Card is a cacophony of discordance. But if you listen closely, it’s a symphony.
The steady rhythm of the speed bags that can be heard from outside of the gym mimics a heartbeat and it makes the place come alive. There’s the constant thwip-ing of someone’s jump rope as they skip, creating a sound similar to an eerie breeze of wind or Spider-Man swinging webs. The impact of gloves hitting mitts and coordinated breathing harmonize along with the dull-sounding thumps of the heavy bags.
It’s almost like a song.
There is not a single idle body at Wild Card. Everyone is glistening with sweat, the product of hard work and the mark of dedication. When breaks are taken, which they rarely are, it’s to discuss technique or to practice a certain maneuver. Like buoys in a tumultuous sea, even the punching bags cannot keep to a standstill. They sway along to the blasting audio of the speakers coming from the corners of the gym. The ground trembles from the unending footwork of those in the two rings and the ceaseless hitting of speed bags.
In the center of the gym, acting as a beacon of sorts, is an alarm that blares periodically, signaling the time in between rounds. It’s a traffic light. Green indicates that the round has begun. The boxers of the gym frequently stare at this glowing reminder of the challenge they have signed themselves up for and trudge on. The gym’s iconic slogan, “It Ain’t Easy”, emblazoned on a banner worn down by the passage of time only taunts them now.
One of boxing’s greatest maestro, Freddie Roach is often found hovering over the gym, keeping a watchful eye and frequently interacting with the regulars.
(The author with hall of fame boxing trainer Freddie Roach)
I have heard many tales and stories about Roach and the rise of Manny Pacquiao from my titos; they all speak with a passionate awe and near reverence of the dynamic duo.
The first time I met Roach at Wild Card was through an extremely casual encounter. I spotted him at the front desk, sipping on a cup of orange Fanta to cool off from the sweltering heat of the gym. I waved goodbye and spoke without taking a breath.
“ThankYouAndGoodByeMrRoach!”
He took no break from the Fanta cup. He nodded to let me know he heard and waved bye as well.
I was awestruck.
Mr. Roach is always friendly every time our paths cross, acknowledging my presence and unknowingly raising my ego just a tiny bit every time he offers me a fist bump. Roach’s congeniality is echoed across the boxers of the gym. I have been met with nothing but warm welcomes and eager greetings every time I have walked into Wild Card.
Rodel Mayol is one of those warm welcomes.
Rodel stands only an inch taller than me at 5’4, but he is filled with the most spunk and energy I have ever seen in a man of his height.
I am not the most talented boxer. I think that’s pretty clear. My skill is limited to four or five rounds of mitts and heavy bags. I cannot even last halfway through the twelve grueling three-minute rounds. Despite these inadequacies, Rodel excels at coaching and making me look good. His work with the mitts is not to be underestimated. It takes true talent to make a novice as clumsy and awkward as me look like a professional in their prime, a true Ali or Sugar Ray Robinson if you will.
Rodel makes the claim that “Boxing will give you a new sense of confidence.” When I first started, the statement seemed baseless.
Every step taken and punch thrown is calculated instinct and submission to complete trust in yourself.
He wasn’t wrong.
After my rounds with Rodel, I usually retreat to dejectedly trying my hand at the speed bag and failing once again. Severely lacking a sense of rhythm and a bit of sad sight to behold, my attempts at the speed bag are quite pitiful. My efforts are so painfully obvious as the work of an amateur.
That’s where Mr. Bird comes in.
“They never should’ve changed it. Twelve rounds is too easy!”
Mr. Bird is another character I’ve had the pleasure of meeting during my visits to Wild Card. Bouncing around from student to student, keeping track
“As long as you’re learning.”
Here’s what I’ve learned so far, Mr. Bird.
Consistency, consistency, consistency.
Speaking metaphorically, boxing is one of the easier sports to relate to the real world.
When I got home I looked him up as he had instructed me to do so. Several videos popped up and a website that kept track of boxing matches appeared.
“Full Name: Willie ‘Birdlegs’ Johnson.”
A lightbulb went off in my head. That’s where “Bird” came from.
He wasn’t joking about the misspelling of his name. Any article I came across spelled it differently. Johnson. Jensen. Jenson. Anything else that came up under the search bar was about Larry Bird. Not the Bird I was looking for.
Old school is truly the new cool.
