Stiff Jab

In high school I was studying Japanese martial arts with a fellow who gave me a very useful piece of advice. I was complaining (as sixteen-year-olds are wont to do) about the amount of material to which we’d been exposed at a seminar one weekend because it was impossible to remember everything, even when taking notes. He explained that, in his way of thinking, it’s best to learn one or two lessons very well in each training session rather than attempting to improve the whole of your skill base. I’ve had a great deal of success with this method and last night’s boxing session was no exception.

One of my pugilism partners is a gentleman named Ken who works as a hanko-ya (判子屋, a traditional craftsman who makes the wooden stamps that Japanese people use in lieu of signatures). Ken is the type of guy you might describe as “gangly.” He stands a full head taller than me and at least twenty pounds lighter. We’ve always practiced together on the multitudinous punching bags that proliferate the gym, competed in sit up contests (he always wins), and whatnot, but last night we actually boxed for the first time. It was educational.

I’d heard the phrase “stiff jab” before, but three seconds into the first round I learned on a much more tangible level what that means. I’ve spent a lot of time learning to out-box and counter punch. My tactic is usually to keep distance until my partner’s angle can be bisected (granted, I’m not especially good at it). Essentially, I don’t enjoy being hit and look to minimize it as much as possible. Part of this maneuver involves stepping backward with the other guy’s lead hand (ala the waltz), blocking, and following it back to close the distance without danger of an incoming jab. It works most of the time, but not last night.

Ken’s jab was so stiff that he would keep his hand near my face, using the length of his arms to stay safe until he could push me into a corner. We spent most of the round locked up like that because his arm was too solid to bat out of the way. If we were grappling it would be a bad move on Ichabod’s part, but in this instance it worked well. Early in the second round I experienced my “learning moment” for the day.

It’s impossible to make one’s arm strong and stiff while it’s in motion, so as he approached I realized that I needed to slip, which is a movement that hasn’t come naturally to me. In fact, this was the first time that slipping worked for me in a match. The idea is that your lower body stays more or less in place while turning the shoulders sideways (thereby becoming narrower from your partner’s perspective), covering with the hand closest to the other fighter, and sliding the upper body along a line parallel to the incoming appendage. It’s frustratingly difficult to accomplish. It’s also one of those brilliant techniques to which people refer when they call boxing “the sweet science.”

Despite my likeness to a newborn foal at the time, it worked surprisingly well. I managed to avoid tasting his glove (which was saltier than anticipated) for the most part and came to understand why my aikido instructor always initiates movements before his partners have strong grips or firm footing. The body is pliable while in motion, but can become stiff and resistant when allowed to remain still.

The moral of the story, then, is that if you’re in the dojo and your partner is doing the “stiff arm” bit, change the distance so that he has to move. This probably applies to things besides martial arts, too, but I’ll save that sort of literary waxing for something print worthy.

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