HOLLADAY — My stomach was churning so hard, I was convinced that if I wore the mouthpiece the way it was designed, my nerves would send it flying across the ring, riding a Tsunami of vomit.
As I stood on the stage of the Draper Amphitheater Saturday night, I peered out of the small opening my headgear allowed and tried to soak in the scene. I wanted to remember this night in as much detail as possible, and for me, fear has both a muting and a magnifying effect.
So I stared at them, laughing and talking, worrying about whether they should eat chicken or pizza, and I was suddenly acutely aware of how public my humiliation would be. I turned to look at my uncle, Ray Johnson, desperate for some kind of comfort.
He smiled his big, wide grin that I’ve loved all of my life. His sparkling blue eyes, however, sent me an unsettling message that was some mixture of amusement and concern.
Normally, I am acutely aware of my limitations.
As a 49-year old with a training regimen that’s driven more by desire or desperation than strategy, I find myself in over my abilities on a regular basis. Most of the time, it makes for some great stories and hard lessons.
Occasionally, however, my adventures send me smashing through anything and everything that I find comforting and familiar into the kind of unpredictability and fear that is both paralyzing and liberating.
This was my experience in the boxing ring.
I do not know why I said yes when my friend and former boss, Chuck Gates, called and asked me to participate in a boxing exhibition aimed at raising money for the National Crittenton Foundation, a group that has been helping women overcome violence and other childhood adversities since 1883. Yeah, I’d do just about anything for Chuck, and yes, I’m always game for new experiences.
But boxing?
Listen, I love the sport. I’ve loved it since I was a kid enjoying it with my dad. But if I had any abilities in this universe, they withered long ago and if I’d thought about that reality when Chuck asked, I would have offered support from the safety of my computer screen.
Eddie “Flash” Newman has long been one of my favorite people. I met him when I went to interview one of the boxers he was training for a title fight. He is my favorite kind of person because he doesn’t change or put on an act for anybody or any reason. He is who he is and that is an expert in his field with a heart of gold and great taste in music.
His gift to me for agreeing to box in Draper Rising: Boxing in Solidarity was free training at his Holladay gym, Flash Academy. I abandoned my usual weights and early morning runs to subject myself to various types of exercises that I believe were meant to remind me how unathletic I am.
Amy "The Nasty Woman" Donaldson and her corner crew - Uncle Ray (Johnson), Sophie Hughes and A.K. | Rachel Gitlin
There was bouncing a rubber ball with my gloves, which resulted in me hitting myself in the stomach-ish area with the ball about a thousand times. There was holding my gloves above my head for three minutes, which revealed just how weak in body and mind I really am. There was bobbing and weaving around a rope Flash tied between two poles that resulted in me clotheslining myself more than once.
But the worst aspect of the month-long celebration of my inadequacies was how every workout started – three three-minute rounds of jump rope.
If you are over the age of 30 and haven’t jumped rope since you were a kid, let me save you the demoralizing experience of being completely inept at something you mastered as a first grader.
My vision of hell now includes jumping rope as a middle-aged woman. I could write a whole column on the plethora of problems this activity presents for someone like me. Let’s just leave it at this – after four weeks of jumping rope, I am lucky to make it through 30 seconds without jumping on the rope, hitting myself in the head or stopping to run to the restroom.
The silver lining was the company.
In addition to Flash being a capable and delightful instructor, who mixes humor with humbling realities, I enjoyed advice from Kelly McCleve, who took on Speaker of the House Greg Hughes in the headline fight; A.K., who graciously agreed to work my corner alongside my Uncle Ray and Sophie Hughes; Wes Smith and Rex Macey, who together were the Fighting Bishop and the Unrepentant Sinner; and Alex Austin, who not only volunteered his assistant Cindy “Twinkle Toes” Jensen to fight me, but kept me laughing and helped me realize that I cannot keep my face covered to save my life.
Amy Donaldson (left) and Cindy Jensen training for their fight that was part of a charity exhibition raising money for the National Crittenton Foundation. | Flash Newman
I don’t remember hearing anything when Cindy and I were fighting. We had discussed how nervous we were as the demands of work and family left us little time to do any real ‘training.’ Still, we wanted to give a good effort in the ring.
And I think we did.
In fact, more than one person told me that ours was among the most entertaining fight of the night.
Among the highlights, me getting a bloody nose, which I admit happens even in my non-contact adventures; me turning and running from Cindy so I could catch my breath, and both of us doubling over with laughter because, for some reason, the ridiculousness of two past-our-prime moms wailing on each other struck me like one of her right hooks in the middle of round two.
I loved every second of it.
I was terrified of being hit. I thought it would send me into some state of shock that would make it difficult for me to do anything but cry, panic or puke. But, remarkably, I didn’t feel any pain in the ring.
Cindy was the perfect challenger because she was tough, funny and capable. She pushed me to do more than goof off, and my reward was learning more about myself, as well as, the complexities of competition.
It is easy to be me. Sometimes I forget that. It was nice, although remarkably uncomfortable, to be reminded that when I offer my opinion of someone else’s effort, I should understand that there is likely so much more going on than whether or not someone has talent or training.
I have mad respect for everyone who put themselves out there Saturday night, but maybe no one more so than Salt Lake County Mayor Ben McAdams. He might be the nicest politician I’ve ever met, but he also showed humility and toughness in taking on a challenge that he had one day to prepare for.
I do not think I could have done what he did.
Then again, I am not sure I could do what I did ever again.
The post-fight hug between Amy Donaldson and Cindy Jensen. | Rachel Gitlin
If I’m honest, I couldn’t have survived the experience without the support of Flash, my family and friends. The most love goes to my husband who never questions and always supports the endless list of questionable activities in which I choose to engage. I enjoyed the best corner crew ever in my uncle Ray, A.K. and Sophie Hughes, who put up with my bad dance moves, the river of blood and my inability to actually heed any of the advice they offered.
At the end of the evening, Flash’s wife, Charese Jamison Newman talked about how the National Crittenton Foundation had offered her refuge and resources when she was young. Now she sits on the organization’s board. It was a sobering reminder that the night, while entertaining and enjoyable, was meant to help women struggling to overcome abuse and exploitation that most of us can’t even imagine.
As I left, many of the fighters and dignitaries gathered in the ring. I took a few minutes to try and etch that moment, this experience into my mind.
I know time will dull the sharpness of the fear; it will muffle the anxiety and uneasiness of the adrenaline rush — and subsequent dump. I pray I will clearly remember just how much good people can accomplish when they set aside ego in favor of love.
And, maybe most of all, I sincerely hope that I will never forget how much value there is in wading into discomfort and fear so deeply that evolution is inevitable.