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A BLOODY MOUTHGUARD FLOATS IN A BUCKET THAT I AM HOLDING under a young Hispanic man's face. It is a frantic moment between rounds, and I am working his corner, reaching through the ropes of the boxing ring and mopping his dark, kinky hair with a torn white towel. Inside the ring, kneeling at Manuel's feet and urging him to stay alert, is his coach, John, a former middleweight champion. I am a 55-year-old Jewish psychotherapist and spend my days in a leather recliner, quietly tuning myself to the complex themes of other people's melodies, and each day begins with someone else's song. But not this night; this night I am edgy, tough, ageless, and loud. A young black disc jockey in the back of the gym cues up the seductive riff of a Spanish dance tune, interweaving it with pounding hip-hop. Three police officers stand near the door, arms folded, keeping an eye on things.
This is Manuel's first fight, and tending him is a task so free of psychological ambiguity and nuance, it is refreshingly different from my daily work. I'm in the physical dimension. Until this decade, I've lived my life so much in the cerebral realm. I'm like the woman in the postmodern cartoon who is musing, “Oh, dear, I forgot to get married!” My thought balloon would read: “Oh, dear, I forgot about my body!” I'm most in the world of the physical body when I myself spar with John, “The Punisher,” who is also my coach.
I have found boxing late in life, and I've never been athletic, so I won't be entering a ring competitively the way Manuel is on this night that John has called me in to assist. Yet even to safely spar with John in the