In 2002 I took kickboxing lessons for about six months. I was excited about the lessons. I thought the sport was going to be a lot of fun.
I like to punch things.
The ladies, it was explained to me, were more interested in working on their legs and butts than their shoulders and biceps.
But I stuck with the class anyway, learning to take pleasure in kicking the hell out of things almost as much as punching, until the day that we were allowed to finally spar with an opponent.
Since the class was all-female, I was forced to spar against a male instructor. After donning head gear and gloves, we met in the middle of the room.
About ten seconds later, the instructor was removing his head gear, informing me that he would no longer be sparring against me.
“You don’t understand the definition of sparring,” he said. “You’re not supposed to try to kill me.”
I had landed a couple jabs and an uppercut before he knew what had hit him.
In fairness, I don’t think he ever expected the vicious assault that I launched upon him. He had his gloves up, but had lifted them a second before my first jab.
That was my last kickboxing class.