Sasha, the hardbody


For several years, I harbored an insuperable desire to become a professional boxer. This was the time after the collapse of my first marriage, which had ended due to my ex-wife’s wanderlust. She had taken off to the Himalayas and left me, at 20, with a 2-bedroom house in the valley and her pit bull-lab mix, Unlucky.

To make my mortgage, I worked 3 days a week as an office supplies salesman in North Hollywood, selling my heart out. The rest of my time, I trained. It was all I ever thought about. Ran every day. Sparred four times a week. Lifted constantly. Watched boxing videos any time I sat still, which wasn’t often. Got myself down to super welterweight and mastered a mean left cross. Love was the furthest thing from my mind. Until I met Sasha.

I was doing a ten-mile loop in the canyons with Unlucky when I literally ran into Sasha. I apologized quickly, but was losing time, so carried on. When I saw her the next day at the gym, I was struck by her fierce beauty and went over to formally introduce myself. She was charmed and asked me to dine with her that evening.

She became my personal trainer and pushed me harder than I could push myself. Her dad had been an aficionado and she knew boxing like it was her second language. The months leading up to my first amateur fight, she was with me everyday, building up my confidence, putting her faith in my ability to realize my dream.

In the end, I was beaten badly, cracked a rib and had my nose broken in two places. She stuck by my side, but I could sense that her confidence in our relationship was shaken. In Sasha’s mind, she was supposed to wind up with a champ. After I lost my second fight, 2 months later she was gone and I was defeated. I never fought again.

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