Boxing has been trying to wipe the blood from its eyes and stagger back to its feet for the past half-century. The legendary New Yorker writer A. J. Liebling, who loved what he called "the sweet science of bruising," noted the first crippling blow to the sport in 1955: television. It's a shame to imagine what Liebling would think of today's welterweight champion, Floyd Mayweather — the most talented fighter of his generation and at the peak of his abilities — making a mockery of his 39-0 record by "fighting" a 440-pound seven-footer at the latest WrestleMania. Liebling, writing back then, perfectly summed up the state of Boxiana: It used to be better.
But a simple, elemental fact remains, mirroring the simple, elemental beauty of the sport that refuses to stay down: Boxers are still the best-conditioned athletes. If you're looking for a lean, cut, and fast physique, there is no better training method. If you want a heart that scoffs at treadmills and elliptical machines, pick up a jump rope. Everything else is just an excuse not to get in the ring.
The ring at Aerospace, a sleek 7,000-square-foot fitness center in downtown Manhattan, is small and covered in worn black canvas. There are no 45-pound plates or weight machines to be found, and not a single spit bucket. The adrenaline-driving music is classic hip-hop (Rob Base's "It Takes Two") and always loud. I meet Michael Olajide Jr., the former No. 1 middleweight in the world, at my first one-on-one training session. (Olajide, pronounced "Ola-jeed," founded the gym a few years ago with Leila Fazel, a former ballerina who looks a decade younger than she is.) Most boxers' hands are so badly damaged following their careers they can't form a firm grip, but he greets me with a big smile and a smooth handshake combo that includes a fist pound and back slap. In the mid-eighties, the press called him the Michael Jackson of boxing — he rocked a Jheri curl, tassels on his Adidas, expressive footwork, and an iridescent robe. Today, at 45, the man-perm has been replaced by braids, but his rifle-quick instincts, hands, and feet (his fighting handle was "Silk") are still absurdly intact. Olajide's chest and legs are so cut it's as if his muscles were carved with a sushi knife. He wears a gold eye patch over his right eye, which is legally blind following the shots he weathered during a 10-year professional career that included just four losses.
We start with some light stretching and jumping jacks to get my heart rate going and, as we move on to jump rope, Olajide explains his training philosophy: "The one thing you have control over in the ring is your fitness. Why would you put your body in jeopardy by not being as fit as you possibly can?" Ten minutes of jump rope equals 30 minutes of running, and it beats the hell out of plodding along in front of CNN on the treadmill. Olajide is the Baryshnikov of jump rope — the routines he puts together (incorporating triple turns, squats, heel-to-butt kicks) are dizzying. Then we begin working the abs, a boxer's body armor. Standing in the orthodox fighting stance — left foot forward, left shoulder angled toward the opponent, hands protecting the face but not blocking the line of vision — Olajide swings a white towel at my head as I bob and weave away. After a few minutes, I lie down and Olajide stands above my waist facing my feet. As soon as I lift my legs up to his waist, he pushes them back down as hard as he can. My job is to make sure my heels never touch the ground. Two sets of 20 hurt more than any haymaker I've ever taken to the breadbasket.
