Boxing and Baseball: A Reflective Essay

School is starting up tomorrow, so I thought I would share an essay I wrote over the summer to apply for a sports writing class this fall. The prompt was to take a word or phrase in the class description to tell the professor about yourself in 3000 characters. The professor then selects the class's personality through these application essays. For mine, I chose to tell the story of my last day of freshman year at Stanford. Somehow, the events in my last day bridged together the year I was ready to end with the summer I was ready to live, which happened to be pretty full of baseball between the Irish, Padres, and Aviators. I appreciated the opportunity to reflect before I start all over again tomorrow!

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“Boxing and baseball.”

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My last day on the Farm my freshman year involved just that. After an unprecedentedly bad track season left me confused and frustrated, boxing was the only form of exercise where I could let go. While each stride relived my frustration, each punch released it. So, there I was, hours away from departing campus, trying to jam the season out of my mind and into the past—somewhere behind the punching bag, maybe. In boxing, the more tense you are, the less power behind your blow. It’s a similar principle my head coach used to encourage me halfway through my downward spiral of a season: Don’t grip the pencil. Apparently, I was trying too hard to be good that my body forgot it was already good. And I certainly felt the blow, race after race. Boxing gave me the opportunity to deliver the blow instead.

But, it would be a shame to remember my freshman year only by the times on the clock. As I left the studio and headed toward Sunken, my skin glistened with evidence that I emptied the tank that workout, just as I had that whole year. Now, the sun beams of summer would dry my sweat and offer me much-needed rest. Most summer nights of my childhood, I drifted off on the couch to the sound of Dick Enberg calling the Padres game. My dad, a Friar Faithful, would eventually carry me to bed once the Padres won or, more likely, blew the lead when our relief pitcher came in. Though it was the first thought in my mind the next morning, I never had to ask the score when I came downstairs for breakfast. If the Padres won, he already had the game on replay, fast-forwarding to all his favorite parts as if he was hosting his own highlight show. Sometimes, if there was a game-winning play, he would have it paused on the screen, eager for me to wake up and relive it with him.

Each inning of the Stanford baseball game meant I was closer to this respite. My dad was on his way to get me. Tomorrow morning on the ride home, we will relive the highlights of my freshman year of college. Tomorrow night on the couch, we will watch the Padres game. And the next night, and the next.

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As a writer, the term “don’t grip the pencil” and its literal meaning have become a daily reminder. All I have to do is reach my right thumb over to my ring finger to recall my propensity for squeezing too tight. I feel my writer’s bump and let go of the weight of the punching bag.

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