I was a poor, angry young man.
I grew up as a minority in my neighborhood, and I carried that fact everywhere I went. Everything felt personal. Every disrespect felt intentional. By the time I graduated high school, I had a chip on my shoulder so heavy it seemed to bend my posture.
I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t fast. I wasn’t the kind of athlete anyone noticed. I was a frail, skinny white boy with empty pockets and a head full of anger. Life felt unfair, and I didn’t know what to do with the anger inside me.
So I did something that made no sense.
I joined a boxing club so I could legally fight.
Not because I thought I’d be a champion. Not because I had talent. I simply needed somewhere to put the anger.
The gym wasn’t fancy at all. It was a burnt-out laundromat that smelled like sweat, old detergent, and determination. The ring was crappy. The heavy bags were mostly duct-tape. But inside that burnt out old laundromat, you learned a lot about yourself.
On my very first day, they “tested me.”
That’s what a lot of boxing clubs do. They know the glamour fades quickly the minute you can no longer call yourself “undefeated.” So they find out fast who’s willing to keep showing up after getting smashed.
I was handed gloves and sent into the ring with a guy who was bigger, stronger, and a whole lot more skilled than me.
“Let’s see what you got,” the coach said.
What I had was severely lacking and instantly obvious.
For the next few minutes, I got hammered. Every punch felt like a lesson in humility. I remember the pain of getting hit over and over, the burning in my lungs, the humiliation of realizing I was completely outmatched and outclassed.
When it was over, I sat in the corner bruised, exhausted, and fighting back tears. The coach crouched in front of me.
“What do you think?” he asked. “You wanna do this?”
I was hurting. Embarrassed. On the edge of crying like a little kid.
And REALLY pissed off.
But the chip on my shoulder was bigger than the pain.
“Teach me how to beat the hell out of that guy!” I snapped.
The coach’s face broke into the biggest grin I’d ever seen.
“ALL RIGHT,” he said. “I’ll train you. Stand up tall right now — you are more than you can imagine.”
At the time, I thought he was talking about boxing.
He wasn’t.
Over the next few years, I gained confidence as I learned deadly combinations. I learned to jab, slip, and move. I learned that courage isn’t “not being scared”; it’s standing in front of someone who can hurt you and fighting anyway. I learned that discipline and desire matters more than talent most days. I learned that respect is earned in sweat, not words.
But the greatest lesson wasn’t technical.
It was that sentence that coach told me that day.
“Stand up tall right now — you are more than you can imagine.”
I carried those words from the ring into my life.
When hard challenges came, I stood tall.
When tragedy struck and seemed impossible to survive, I stood tall.
When I felt alone, misunderstood, or outnumbered, I stood tall.
When it seemed like the whole world was against me, I stood tall.
Not because I have ever been fearless. Not because I always knew what to do. But because a coach in a broken-down gym saw something in a battered, angry kid that the kid couldn’t yet see in himself.
Years later, I realized that the ring had never been the real opponent. The real fight was against the inner voice that said I was small, weak, and destined to stay that way. The REAL opponent was me.
All too often we’re looking for opponents, enemies, someone (or thing) we can fight, or be angry at. But what if the real challenge is within… ourselves… our own self worth and how we see life?
The world likes to tell you what they think you are. Your fears will try and tell you what you aren’t. But there is often far more strength, resilience, and possibility inside you than you can see in the moment.
I’d like to tell to you what a crusty, old, boxing-coach told me way back in 1985.
“Stand up tall right now — you are more than you can imagine.”
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