Reporter’s Notebook

Lolita Harper

If he makes me do one more set of “mountain climbers,” I’m going to

pass out.

Not only am I tired and thirsty, but I’m in a weird, uncomfortable

position, with sweat dripping from my temple onto the floor. Imagine a

push-up position but instead of pushing your chest off the ground, you

must hold your upper body up about a foot from the floor and bring your

knees to your chest in a running motion. I’m told that Marines know this

exercise well.

“Keep your butt down,” my trainer Jeff reminds me.

Sound like fun?

After a 20-minute warmup and six, three-minute rounds on the heavy bag

-- with squats and lunges during the one-minute breaks between rounds --

I can hardly bear any more physical activity. I desperately want to curl

up in a little ball, watch some TV and pop open a half-gallon of ice

cream. Mmmmm . . . ice cream.

Not likely. I still have 100 crunches, two minutes of bicycles (fancy

sit-ups), 50 push-ups, 25 leg lifts, 50 kick-outs (more fancy sit-ups)

and 50 side kick-outs to do before we call it a night.

As I contract my aching stomach muscles and bring my right elbow to my

left knee, I think of Saturday night.

It’s all about Saturday night and six heart-pounding minutes in the

ring. My first fight.

I am on the fight card for “Fight Club, LA Boxing Style.” An evening

of exhibition matches, hosted by the owners of the LA Boxing gym on

Newport Boulevard, which features trained members in various fighting

styles. Nine fights total, starting at 7 p.m., and mine is the fifth.

Danni Rascon and I will face off for three, two-minute rounds in the

ring. We are the only female fighters on the card and part of an

impressive lineup. Our fight follows two matches between “no holds

barred” fighters -- who can do anything except eye gouge, bite and strike

to the groin -- and one match of “submission wrestling.” (I’m not even

sure what that is, but I know it’s physical.) The rest of the matches

feature boxers.

This past week of intense training with Jeff pushing me to my limits

will all be worth it when I get in that ring. Hours of throwing simulated

punches into 10-inch hand pads will pay off as my one-two combinations

flow naturally and -- I hope -- connect with the head of my opponent.

I will forget the countless welts from the leather jump-rope when I

still have enough wind in the third and final round to deliver a dazzling

array of hooks and uppercuts.

It’s only an exhibition match, so there’s no winner or loser --

officially. It’s touted as a friendly match, and I hold no ill feeling or

animosity toward Danni, whom I see at the gym all the time. Technically,

she is more my teammate than anything because we are both members of LA

Boxing.

But when you get two trained athletes in a ring, it’s hard to quell

instinctual competitive drive that prompted us both to start boxing in

the first place. My boxing skills -- and hers -- will be on display for

about 300 people to judge and dissect. And I don’t want to look like a

fool.

I remember this fact as Jeff hovers over me, placing a foot on my

outstretched legs, wavering 6 inches from the ground.

“Remember, if you drop your legs, you owe me 50 push-ups,” he says,

stepping down a little harder.

Saturday night, I think to myself. Saturday night.

It will all be over Saturday night.

* Lolita Harper covers Costa Mesa. She may be reached at (949)

574-4275 or by e-mail at o7 [email protected] .