How hard could it be? To learn to box

Because is there anything better than feeling bionic?

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Matt Cancellare instructs Holly Nadler on her boxing moves. — Photo by Michael Cummo

Ask any woman of any age what she thinks of boxing and, nine times out of 10, “Eeeeew!” is her initial response, followed by a heated objection, “Why would anybody want to punch anybody — or be punched; and why would anybody want to watch it?”

Then wait a few moments as she goes deep within. Suddenly she might recall fleeting instances of empowerment. Maybe it was that time she marched up to the playground bully and demanded, “Put down that little kid now!” And when he said, “Oh yeah?” she said, “Damn right oh yeah. Do it.” And he did.

My own first brush with feeling, well, bionic, happened in a 10th grade theater class in the San Fernando Valley, when I was cast in one of two nonspeaking roles as an Amazon warrior. Remember those mythological she-fighters who lopped off their right breasts, the better to pull back bows and arrows? I can’t recall what the play was called, or what it was about, because as far as I was concerned, it revolved around me and the other nonspeaking Amazon, even though our sole contribution to the story was a brief skirmish outside the queen’s palace.

The director taught us how to throw fake punches, blammo!, right at the other girl’s kisser. You purposefully miss, although the audience can’t see this; she jerks back her head as if she’s been hit, while at the same time smacking her thigh for the sound FX. Then she hauls back her fist to faux-wallop you.

My thought at the time was “Why aren’t girls taught to fight this way?” Not the pretend way, but with the stout sockeroo to the jaw, just in case it’s ever required to set someone straight. Instead we’re left to our own devices with a bunch of “eeeks” and silly slaps. If we knew how to haul off with a genuine punch, pow! with whatever is our strong fist, following it up with a trained uppercut from the other fist, not only would we be able to defend ourselves, we’d carry around a self-confidence that would assuredly deflect random potshots.

Matt Cancellare, 33, who trains budding boxers of all ages in his home gym in Vineyard Haven, is living proof of this formula. Born in Maryland, his dad crewed for the Coast Guard, so the family moved around a lot, settling for a few years in Puerto Rico. By the age of 12, Matt was exposed to tough urban youth with the customary nasty brawls. One day a cop on the beat took Matt aside and said, “Listen, you little putz [or the Spanish equivalent], you’re headed down a dark road from which there’s no return. How’d you like to turn your life around?” The officer delivered him to a gym and introduced him to the boxing coach.

“I’ve always been on the small side,” Matt says today, although his body language screams, I’m 6’2”! “But after I started training, I carried myself differently. Before, I’d been picked on a lot. After the training began, it just stopped. You learn technique, discipline. You eat right, you stop hanging out with knuckleheads. Boxing teaches you to stay calm, relaxed in the heat of battle. Anyone can benefit from it.”

After Puerto Rico, Matt’s family moved to Staten Island. He continued to train as a boxer, but also took up football, and was awesome enough at it that after high school he played professionally with a Florida team. Still, one thing led to another — funny how that happens. He met his wife Nicole, who, by bizarre coincidence, worked for the Coast Guard. Now the family of four — with 10-year-old son T.J., and 2-year-old Cruz — live on Martha’s Vineyard as a result of Nicole’s Menemsha posting. Meanwhile, Matt has established a sizable following of boys and girls, and men and women, who flock to him to learn that “sweet science” — yes, boxing is called that — of strength blended with grace.

My curiosity was sparked. I booked a private session on a recent rainy, blustery Friday. As I approached his house in a quiet neighborhood leading down to the Lagoon, I spied a man and a tiny tot standing out front of an attractive single-story home. “Are you the boxers?” I called. “Yes!” replied the man. A high piping toddler’s voice echoed, “Yes!”

I suspected 20 or so minutes of warm-up would be called for — jumping jacks, pushups — but, quite honestly, after a prohibitively long winter on this aging lady’s bones, when getting up after a too-long sit at the computer requires hydraulics and a St. Bernard with a cask of brandy, I knew a cardio drill would preclude any follow-up with boxing gloves.

Accordingly, I convinced Matt to proceed to the Main Event: to tape up my knuckles and rig me up with a pair of gloves. (This is why I’ve personally never needed martial arts training. In the popular parlance, I “use my words”; I’m persistent, and I smile and kid around a lot; I’m a grown-up female Bart Simpson).

I took some shots at the big bag. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am! That felt great! Matt piled on his coaching punch-mitts, instructing me to hit with quick jabs of my left hand into his right, followed up by a big bruiser with my right. “Keep your gloves up to protect your face!” he said repeatedly. I never remembered this part; in a real fight I’d have black and purple contusions like splotches from a Jackson Pollock canvas.

I asked Matt how he liked my piddly punches. He chuckled. “You throw punches like someone who’s never thrown punches, but we could build up your strength and mindset.”

Funny thing was, crummy throws or not, it felt fantastic! Liberating! The best part of the session was watching 2-year-old Cruz take part in every bit of the workout. When Matt displayed the classic stance, “Stand sideways, left heel aligned with right heel, fists raised,” little Cruz was right in there with us.

I challenged the Baby Weight to a bout. Daddy Matt tricked him out in miniature red-and-white gloves. I squatted down on the mat and bibbity bang! Bang! Cruz drummed away at my own mitts with a toddler intensity that could take down the Large Hadron Collider. What are the chances that this little guy will grow up to be the next Manny Pacquiao?

Matt told me with a grin, “You’re never gonna be a pro fighter.” Oh ouch. And here I was starting to hum the Rocky score. But clearly there’s more to boxing than training to be a contender. “Boxing and life go hand in hand,” said Matt and, after an hour spent with the gloves on, and getting TKO’d by a 2-year-old, I can certifiably see what he means.