My baby girl, the champion boxer

By LINDA CROCKETT

© St. Petersburg Times, published October 8, 2000

For years, I was a single parent and work-at-home mom, writing novels and raising three kids. Each attended the Pinellas County Center for the Arts at Gibbs High School, and all stuck with the arts.

Jaisen is a senior at University of South Florida in printmaking and photography, Jaimee a senior at University of North Carolina in Asheville in sculpture. Juli graduated from New York University in theater and is in the a graduate program at CalArts, with a triple focus -- writing, directing and acting.

Given all that gentility, it came as quite the shock when one of my kids announced the intent to be a boxer. It was especially startling coming from my daughter, my baby.

The thought of my little Juli hitting anyone, much less being hit, appalled me. Knowing how apprehensive I was, Juli passed on insights and information. There were lots of e-mailed questions and answers. I read Joyce Carol Oates' book On Boxing. Grim. A couple of philosophical books about Zen and the martial arts, one by Bruce Lee. Fascinating. I watched the fights Juli recommended on TV. Ouch.

Last spring I visited Juli in Los Angeles, staying on campus the weekend of her big directing project. Easter. Strindberg. Experimental theater. Boxing was not part of those hectic four days, but clearly, Juli was walking around in a sleek, remarkably fit body, the result of running 3 miles every morning and training with former pro boxer Phil Paolina.

Between stage performances, we talked about her other career, the sweet science of bruising. The changes in my daughter were more than physical. Serene, confident, she said she was learning to push her limits and take risks in her theater work as well as in the ring. Sooner or later, I knew the day would come when I would have to see her fight.

Last month, the Blue and Gold Open Invitational Amateur Boxing Competition was held on her doorstep in Baldwin Park, Calif. I booked a flight.

Keep in mind that I'm a literature major and fan of theater, and Juli is a director and actor. She warned me that the show begins the moment any athlete steps into the host hotel. We're talking a Radisson with a blue-curtained weigh-in cubicle in the downstairs hallway and buff bodies everywhere. In the elevators, lounges and at poolside, posturing was elevated to an art form.

Juli opted for a different approach. She preferred to go inconspicuous and underestimated. She showed up with her mama for the 7 a.m. weigh-in wearing big fuzzy slippers, jammie pants, a sweat shirt and glasses, looking sleepy and scrunching her shoulders so she looked smaller than her 132 pounds.

Behind us was her opponent, bright-eyed and straight-shouldered in T-shirt and shorts, a Marine, looking like, well, like a Marine.

I videotaped the Marine's bout the day before, when she was accompanied by an entourage of large men, all from Camp Pendleton like her, all wearing Marine Boxing Club jackets. Several of them were competing in the men's weight divisions. Intimidating.

Now, just past dawn on a Sunday, as we stood inches from each other in the hotel corridor, I wondered where the Marine's mom was, and how she felt about her daughter's chosen sport.

Intellectually, I had a grip. Emotionally, I wasn't doing so well. I had heard the blows and seen the blood; both involved pain.

The finals began at noon, the gymnasium packed with several hundred spectators, waiting contenders, three television cameras, four tables of judges, scouts, promoters and a doctor.

Juli and I walked in silently, nodded to each other, then took our places, me in the grandstand with the cameras, Juli, still in her loose shirt and baggy sports pants, with her trainer Phil and his mentor Dub Huntley, on the fringe.

From my vantage point, I could see the Marine contingent circling, eyeing my daughter. Juli kept her glasses on, her gaze preoccupied, still scrunched. Theater, perhaps. I caught glimpses of my baby getting her hands taped, her headgear on, finally warmed up and in the zone. It was time.

Juli strode through the crowd, led by her corner man. Music pulsed on the sound system. Juli mounted the steps, turned to face the crowd and flashed her back at the opposite corner. More theater.

The Marine was shaking her shoulders and bouncing, typical look-tough boxer stuff. My "job" was to videotape, so I watched through a black-and-white viewfinder, which made the scene more like documentary footage than the real thing. Thankfully.

The first round, Juli stunned her opponent, putting her to a standing eight count. The bout continued, Juli landing more blows just before the bell sent them to their corners.

The Marine was slow to come out for the second round, and the referee had the ringside doctor examine her. With no blood and no visible sign of injury, the boxing resumed. When Juli put her to another standing eight-count, the referee stopped the fight.

Juli hugged everybody, including the Marine. She made eye contact with me, arched her eyebrows as if to say, "Whew, it's over," and waved. In the typical center-ring ceremony, they awarded Juli Crockett the title, National Women's Champion, and a very large belt.

Classmates from CalArts started chanting the chorus of Davy, Davy Crockett. Spectators joined in. I kept right on videotaping.

I doubt if I will ever watch my daughter fight without having that strangely insulating camera to buffer the impact. But I wasn't completely detached. I play back the tape now and hear myself screaming, not for her to kill or maim, just to go for it.

What Juli has chosen is hardly my choice for her, or for anyone, man or woman. But it is her choice. When I see her plays or enjoy her bass playing or even her cooking, I am awed, inspired and proud. How do I feel when she fights? Awed, inspired and very proud.

We saw the Marine later, recovered and watching the remaining fights with her trainer and teammates. No mom in sight.

Linda Crockett is an adjunct instructor in the Communications Department at the Gibbs campus of St. Petersburg Junior College. She is looking forward, sort of, to Juli's next bout.

Do you have a story to tell?

We welcome freelance submissions for Sunday Journal, a forum for narrative storytelling. A lot happens in a Sunday Journal piece; someone might describe a driving tour of colleges with her reluctant 18-year-old daughter, or an encounter on a scary street at night.

We want stories that take us someplace and make us laugh or cry or just raise our eyebrows.

The stories must be true, not previously published and 700 to 900 words. Send submissions to the St. Petersburg Times, Floridian/Sunday Journal, P.O. Box 1121, St. Petersburg, FL 33731, or by e-mail to bockman@sptimes.com. Please include "Sunday Journal" in the subject line.

© St. Petersburg Times. All rights reserved.