I’ll share one of my person philosophies to begin this article; my greatest enemy is stagnation. I’ve collected activities like kids collect Pokémon. This ranges from comic books (collecting and producing), to writing, skateboarding, fighting games (Street Fighter), footbag, juggling, and more recently, boxing. Have I excelled in all of them? Hell no. I’ve been lucky in a few, however, something I don’t take for granted. Footbag and the fighting game community (FGC) have been two of my longest-running activities, to the point I could be called an OG, or maybe just old. I’ve always joked I’m on my fourth or fifth retirement, having stepped away from a few hobbies once or twice. Somehow I always return, or get pulled back in like Michael Corleone. Secretly I love it, love being a part of things. Keeping an open mind, my attention casts a wide net. Can this become distracting at times? Unquestionably. But every once in a while, something resonates. That’s usually when I go in, what we call ‘the rushdown’ in the fighting game community. If it’s inspiring, I’m usually all in. Guess that’s part of my obsession-compulsive personality. If I’m into it, I’m into it.
SBG, Boise, Idaho
A few of my friends have been in combat sports over the years, something I always respected. It wasn’t a pursuit of mine for the longest time, for a very good reason. Growing up in the 80s and 90s, my childhood and especially teenage years weren’t exactly… peaceful. Like any kid, I got in fights, then later partook in a few embarrassing street fights I’m not proud of. You see, as an ADHD child, I had a temper. What kept things from being worse were that I wasn’t a large kid, so the destruction was limited. That changed in high school when I suddenly ballooned to 6’2 and 185 lbs. I didn’t become a bully, but didn’t get challenged much, either, if you get my meaning. I was naturally strong with a wicked disdain for authority. Many hours in the gym only built on this. I’ll reiterate, I’m not proud of many things I did back then. The word hoodlum comes to mind. Though I wouldn’t trade those years as they defined who I am, they were turbulent times.
High School Years
Towards the end of high school, I discovered footbag, which shaped my life moving forward. That’s another story. But to sum up, it prompted me to go a different way, to shed my violent ways. During my many years with that sport, I refined myself, eventually graduating from college to the delight of my parents. Aggression was in my rearview, mostly. I’m not sure the past is ever fully gone from the psyche. Our experiences define us. Somewhere inside, an anger remained. Only showing its ugly head on occasion, I suppressed it for many years. It never went away, however. I do subscribe to the notion of tabula rasa, or projecting a blank slate, regardless of emotion. Presentation is important, the control of one’s feelings. It took me a long time to get to that place. This is why I stayed away from combat sports for so long. Anger doesn’t lend well to boxing, anyone will tell you.
Flash cut to 2019. My prime in footbag is long behind me. And though I still played, as a mentor of mine once said, the returns diminish. I’ll go into it in my article on footbag, but the sport is intensive. Think of it as sprinting; it’s an anaerobic exercise which requires peak shape to maintain a high level of play. Besides not being in my physical prime anymore, I’d long burned out from competitive play and pushing myself. I replaced this with the gym to get my exercise. One day while I was working out, I noticed they’d installed a punching bag. A pair of MMA gloves lay next to it. For no reason other than boredom, I threw on the gloves and starting hitting the bag. Felt alright, and I worked up a sweat doing it. The next time I went to the gym, I did it again. It felt even better. Soon I bought boxing gloves and hand wraps. That’s how it started.
Training, the Early Days
Growing up in the 80s, I was well aware of Iron Mike Tyson, the Dynamite Kid. In the 90s, it was Evander Holyfield and Lennox Lewis. Big George Foreman’s return as well. I lost the boxing thread after that. Jumping forward to 2019, with my growing interest, I revisited the greats of my childhood. The more I practiced, the more I studied, re-watching matches from different boxing era. Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, Sonny Liston, Floyd Patterson, Rocky Marciano, all the way back to Joe Louis, Willie Pep, Jack Dempsey, and Jack Johnson. I studied the various boxing styles to discern where I landed (a boxer-puncher). I began to school regimented combinations and movement. My time in footbag helped with the footwork. Recently I learned that world champion Oleksandr Usyk plays Jianzi, a Chinese kicking game from which footbag derived.
Oleksandr Usyk Displays Foot Skills
I soon learned I could emulate certain fighters’ styles. Thanks to my footbag dexterity, I could mimic Ali and Roy Jones Jr.’s footwork. Did that mean I had an ounce of their talent? Nope. Many boxers can shuffle, there are plenty of youtube videos dedicated to it. Emulation doesn’t equal skill, or experience. I did, however, become obsessed with the sport. Not as a fan, but as an active participant.
Where the footwork came from (footbag)
Muhammad Ali
As with many things, I developed a plan. I didn’t have lofty expectations at my age, but did want to advance. I trained for months preparing to step into an actual combat gym. When I finally did, it was the main MMA club in town. I started a membership and began attending boxing classes. It felt good, felt natural. Though I’ve tackled a few things over the years, not all of them were natural to me. Footbag, for example. I was always larger than the average player, more cumbersome. That slowed me down compared to my lighter 5’8 comrades who moved like race cars. It was a lot of work, while others made it look much easier. Why I bring this up; the more I boxed, the more natural it felt. I was a heavyweight with movement and footwork. To boot, I was a southpaw, something that throws off a lot of fighters. It was nice to feel natural at something for once, especially after playing footbag for so long with people who were much faster and lighter than me. The hunch I carry didn’t help my form in footbag, but it did protect my chin in boxing. Training with mostly orthodox fighters (right-handed boxers), I learned to shift, meaning I could train orthodox or southpaw. The idea of unorthodox fighting/confusing your opponent enticed me. Being off-tempo and off-timing your shots and movement can trip up the other person, making it difficult for them to counter. Add feints and shifting into the mix, and it becomes a nightmare for your opponent. Unfortunately, it can be a headache for your coaches/trainers, too. Just as important as physicality is boxing IQ, how perceptive a fighter is. The psychology of boxing fascinated me.
Two Unorthodox Boxers: Roy Jones Jr. and Naseem Hamed
I also learned I had heavy hands, meaning I could hit hard. This made me careful training with people, especially boxers in lighter-weight divisions. I could move bags and opponents with not a lot of effort, and knocked a lot of pads off training partners’ hands. My punching bag at home got ripped from the ceiling multiple times before my structural engineer friend reinforced it. Though I wasn’t good in other areas of boxing, the gym comments about my power were reassuring.
Punching Bag fail
What wasn’t inspiring was my cardio. My lungs sucked for the longest time. Like, bad. My prime for footbag had long past, and I couldn’t run a fast mile to save my life. Still, I had a mesomorph build, which has helped me adapt to various physical activities. It took a long time, but I got up to speed. Or so I thought, until sparring.
Strength doesn’t make a good boxer, or ensure victory. You can look to Ali vs. Foreman in 1974 for that. Though boxing felt natural, I wouldn’t say I was good at it. That takes many, many years. In my three years of training, I only scratched the surface. Want to know where you really stand with it? Spar. You’ll get your answers. The first time I sparred, it was against someone not far from my age, or height. He had reach, was decently strong, and was closer to my weight (at that time, around 210 lbs.). We traded for five minutes, the length of an MMA round. There are no winners or losers in sparring, but you know you’re keeping track. Though I out-landed him, my cardio still wasn’t up to snuff. I really had to pace myself, cutting down on the footwork I loved so much. I still had a lot of work to do just to reach the bare minimum of ok.
MuhammAd Ali vs George Foreman, 1974
My next sparring session was against my buddy who’d graduated into the next level of training with me. He was a middleweight with power, and pressure. As someone with reach, I tried to keep him out, but he got in and out-landed me 2 to 1 at least. I’d liken it to Frazier/Ali 1 (the greatest boxing match of all time), where Frazier simply rolled under Ali’s limbs to pummel him. While I recharged, my friend sparred with another opponent, then me again. This time I snapped out a lot more jabs and combinations, catching him with a solid hook. Still, he kept pushing forward. Missing his head a few times, I targeted his body with a jab. This is when we learned firsthand why weight divisions exist. I thought I threw a pretty light punch, guess I was wrong. It stopped our match, cold. The jab caught a weird part of his ribs, causing him pain. He was out for weeks, I felt like a prick. As far as the rounds were concerned, however, he’d out-boxed me both times. Styles make fights.
CAP Program, SBG
A few other sparring sessions stand out to me. One was against an MMA fighter who was exactly the same height and reach as me. That felt strange. Sparring someone larger or smaller is one thing, fighting someone with an identical reach as you is awkward the first time. Though I brought the footwork/shuffle, he out-landed me with some great 1-2’s. Another guy I faced had a similar build, but with awesome movement. He peppered me from the outside, sticking and moving for the entire round. For five minutes I chased after him, only landing a shot here and there. We talked about it afterwards; he said his basic goal was not to get knocked out. Remembering how I’d overpowered him the previous time we trained together, he adapted and played the keep-away game, the bastard. Smart gent.
The next session is one that resonates with me for a few reasons. It occurred near the end of the night; I’d already sparred and was winding down. Across the gym I saw a dude I knew from class, a big and round Mexican-American fighter with a lot of power. In fact, I considered him the hardest hitter in the gym. He’d had one official match, ending with him obliterating his opponent in the first round. The guy reminded me of Andy Ruiz Jr., a portly gentleman who was the first Mexican-American heavyweight champion. I challenged my fellow heavyweight, and he accepted. The clock was set at five minutes as always. Looking back, it would have been nicer if it was set at three like a normal boxing round. I was well aware of his power, but my reach exceeded his. I peppered him with jabs and 1-2 combinations for the first two minutes, snapping his head back at least once. Meanwhile he swung and missed a good deal. I don’t remember what he landed during that time. Not until minute three. For some dumb reason, I decided to stop moving, and let him in. In hindsight, it wasn’t the smartest play, but I wanted to see what he had and what I could take. I don’t recommend this strategy.
Andy Ruiz Jr.
Standing toe-to-toe, he caught me with three of the meanest hooks I’ve ever been hit with. Though I think he was holding back, he knew he had to make it count for all the points I scored on him. I remember looking at one side of the gym, then suddenly, the other. Three times he snapped my head around. With the third shot, I spun around just to avoid the next punch. Now, I’d heard he’d dropped sparring partners in sessions past. I’m not sure what his intention was that day, but I learned something about myself every boxer should know; what type of chin you have. You see, though he’d rocked me, he hadn’t dazed me. At all. My legs didn’t buckle. Instead, I just reset and took my distance again. I’d like to tell you that we exchanged more shots. This is where that three versus five minute issue comes in. If it’d been a three minute round, what a beauty. Unfortunately, it went on for another two minutes. Two agonizing minutes. It’s cliché, the gassed-out heavyweight, but that’s exactly what happened, for both of us. I had little energy to throw any more shots, and all he could do was walk forward on me without throwing any punches of his own. I just ended up framing him (pushing him away, basically) as he walked me down for two minutes. I’m not sure he was used to being shoved back at his weight of around 255 lbs., but fuck all, I did it. I couldn’t let him in again, but couldn’t throw any decent shots, either. I glanced at the clock which confirmed we only had ten seconds left. With that, I jumped on him, throwing whatever combinations I had left. He blocked them all. The bell rang, and that was it. We said ggs (good games) and went our separate ways, meaning he lumbered off while I slumped against the wall trying to regain my breath. How godlike it would have been at three minutes. Still, it was a great heavyweight round between two power-strikers. What more can I say? Well, the next day I woke up with a great deal of pain in my jaw. It didn’t go away. The week after that I went to the dentist, expecting them to confirm what I suspected; my jaw was broken. My surprise when they reported it wasn’t, but the joint connecting my jaw to my skull had been pushed in. It never recovered the same. To this day, I have TMJ. Chewing food is rough at times. Still, my opponent taught me something; I had a strong chin. I couldn’t be knocked down, or out, easily. This was all without headgear, too. I relayed the story to my comrades at the gym, honoring the person who’d damn near broken my jaw. The funny thing is, to my opponent, it was just another Wednesday. The man sparred all the time. Respect.
I only saw him a few more times, once complimenting him on his magnificent hooks. We never sparred again. A month later, I learned that he had passed away. I never heard the reason, but was told it didn’t have anything to do with the gym. As he was well-liked at our club, a fund was created to help with his funeral expenses. I donated and left a message praising his power and fortitude. Though he was young (21), the kid left his mark on our gym, and me, literally. With humble gratitude, I’ll carry it always.
SBG Ring
I went through one other test of endurance before going on hiatus. From my heavyweight sparring session, I knew I had that chin. But there is another area equally important; your midsection. If you’re weak in the gut, your opponent will target that spot to slow you down and/or drop you. It’s good to know if your belly is strong or not. The way I did it, I wouldn’t recommend, but here’s the tale anyway.
One night at SBG I saw two younger fighters training. One would line up with the wall, raise their arms, and let the other wail on them with body shots. They timed how long each could endure before they tapped out. Well, I wanted to get in on that. Even at a lighter weight, I always had what I call the ‘Husted belly’, which is basically a pot belly that doesn’t go away easily. Thinking it would protect me, I jumped in and put my back to the wall. The record between them before was something like a minute or a minute and a half. They set it for two minutes and the heavier kid commenced firing.
That gent could hit hard, but I still had the ol’ Husted belly to insulate. George Foreman once said something like “I protect my head, and let the cheeseburgers do the rest,” meaning he let his doughy midsection protect him from strikes. I can confirm this is true.
The kid didn’t relent with his strikes, but was nice enough to check in if he was throwing too hard. “Nope,” I simply said. The clock ran out at two minutes and he finally stopped punching. They complimented me, and for that moment, I felt like the man of steel.
Now here comes the aftermath. Over the next few days, my right side turned a concerning black and blue with a twinge of red. Ok, I thought, I got bruised. There had to be some kind of fallout from punishment like that. Fair. Unfortunately, my situation did not improve.
The ‘bruise’ spiraled out from my belly, and I started having cognitive issues. How? I didn’t get hit in the head. Well, it turns out if you damage an internal organ, it can affect you everywhere. I felt like shit for the next month, mentally and physically. Going to the doctor, I assumed they would tell me I had internal bleeding or the like. I don’t think I did, but the doc’s advice was the same as all the others; stop boxing. I did not.
Eventually I healed up from the injury, during which time I ruminated on how dumb I’d been. There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things. You’d think this would have been enough to deter me, but nope. I returned once again, for the last time.
George Foreman: Belly of Legend
My final sparring session also stands out for a few reasons. One Tuesday night I attended a class that ended up being a sparring session. A few weeks earlier I had ordered some headgear from Japan and was itching to use it. It cost me a pretty penny, so I really wanted to try it out. Still, I remained apprehensive about doing rounds, but I was there, so it was happening. It worked out pretty well, to my surprise. I matched four people that night. The first was a middleweight pressure fighter. He was aggressive, unfortunately leading to an accident similar to the one with my friend. I baited him with a jab which he ducked under, only to meet my uppercut. That stopped the round. Thing was, my hand wasn’t closed when I caught him, which I explained to him as we stood there. I chalked it up again to our weight difference; his quick style simply crashed into my heavy limb. The guy had fire, though.
The second gent was a heavyweight. He wasn’t as experienced as the first guy, so I kind of took control of the round and did what I wanted, fighting on both the outside and inside.
The third person was a super quick lightweight with range and footwork. I had to be really careful with him. He knew it, too, and stayed out of my reach as much as he could. Still, I was able to out-strike him, albeit lightly. Nice kid for sure.
The last person ended up being my first sparring partner from years earlier. He still had the same attributes as before, but just wasn’t that fast. Being used to this matchup, I peppered him with various combinations.
After the session ended, I was feeling pretty solid. I’d matched four very different fighters, and even though it was just sparring, I’d taken them all to church. It wasn’t done by overpowering anyone, either. I’d simply out-boxed them. I had questioned if I wanted to take official matches after my most recent string of injuries. Now, I felt pretty confident. This is where the other shoe begins to drop. Overconfidence is a danger, my friends.
Two of my coaches had gone off to open their own boxing gym one town over. I really wanted to get out there to support them, but never found the time between work and my injuries. Still feeling myself from the previous night of sparring, I decided to attend class at my friends’ gym. Many people will tell you to take it easy after sparring, at least for a day or two. I did not. My obsessiveness overtook my rationality, thus I went to train. I should have rested.
Marin boxing Academy
It started out well enough; we went through the usual conditioning before pairing up with partners to practice drills. All good, I even received a few compliments on my style and power. What could go wrong? I was invincible.
The coach paired us with new partners. I matched up with a kid who was about my height but much lighter, and faster. We played shoulder tag. No foot movement, just toe to toe. It was a test of reflexes and speed. Everything started out fine; he was quicker but I kept up. As the minutes wore on, we sped up our tempo. He warned me I was still moving my feet, something natural to me at this point. Firmly planting them, I recommenced. It wasn’t but thirty seconds later that it happened. Pulling back from one of his strikes, I attempted to counter. My knee, unfortunately, didn’t get the memo. As I pushed forward, it kept going backward. With a series of pops, it dislocated. I tumbled to the floor for the first time ever. My unwillingness to relent had become my undoing. The coach came over and asked if I could stand. I looked at the thing that had once been knee, now dangling to the side of my leg, and said, “I don’t think so…” Being jacked up on adrenaline, I thankfully couldn’t feel a thing. They called the paramedics while the class moved to the other room. “Yup,” they confirmed, “it’s dislocated.” This was a shock to me, especially after all those years in footbag. Anyway, they asked if I wanted it dealt with there or at the hospital. I said now, still not feeling any pain. In a few motions they snapped it back into place. A hell of a feeling. They stood over me until I finally asked, “someone help me up?” With a chuckle one of the paramedics pulled me to my feet. Well and well, then. My coach buddy wrapped my leg with tape and I limped out of there. What a long drive home. My sister (who was staying at my house) just gave me a look when I limped through the door. She’d disapproved of my boxing ever since my concussion a year earlier, and had only watched the injuries mount. I laughed it off, knowing I’d be out for a good amount of time. After finishing up some leftover work on my computer, I fell asleep listening to Money Trees by Kendrick Lamar. The one in front of the gun lives forever.
Talented Boxer Kallin Bell Wins Second Consecutive Fight, Caldwell, Idaho
My knee did not heal quickly. To this day it isn’t solid. That was my breakpoint. After physical therapy and months of rest, it still wasn’t where it needed to be. Surgery was an option, but since it was my first dislocation, they said I’d be fine without it. Still, the fire burned. After three months and some home training, I returned to the gym. The results proved less than stellar. Though my power remained, my footwork had vanished. I was clumsy and cumbersome, a bad combination in training. I couldn’t slip (dodge) correctly, and could only partake in a few activities. I accidentally hurt someone’s hand that was holding pads. By my third session it became clear to everyone I wasn’t ready to be back. It’s always tough when you remember something one way, but it’s not that way anymore. I remembered being coordinated, slipping and rolling and countering properly. I just couldn’t do it in the moment. My orthodox stance was unstable due to my damaged right leg. After a quick talk with my coach, I finally relented to the obvious; I needed more rest. If and when I did return, it would be as a beginner again, square one. I couldn’t hang at the level I once was. That sucked.
I still walk with a limp. I’d thought the concussion and resulting post-concussion syndrome were the worst, then the TBJ, then the internal damage and bruised ribs. But as of writing this, it was the dislocation that stopped me. I return to this Bane quote; “You fight like a younger man, with nothing held back. Admirable, but mistaken.” I wanted to see how far I could push it. This is what finally got me.
Wise Words
It’s important to make a distinction as I talk about these injuries. Boxing has multiple levels. Many folks practice by hitting the bag/and or pads, and attend classes that teach technique. Following this, some people like to spar to test their skill. Sparring can be heavy or light, depending on what the two boxers agree upon beforehand. A level beyond this is training for and taking official fights; men’s, women’s, amateur, professional, even masters. You can train at whatever level you are comfortable with in boxing. If taking strike damage is a concern, you can simply attend classes, practice technique, and get a great workout. I chose to go a little further and spar, where some (but not all) of my injuries originated. Accidents can happen at any point, especially if you don’t manage yourself properly. I didn’t, which resulted in greater injury.
After all the injuries and troubles, would I change anything? Nope. Even if it was for a relatively short window of time, I learned something about myself, and found a way to channel my energy. I met new and inspiring people, fought through various trials, and got in great shape. I do regret two things; not filming my sparring sessions, and not finding boxing earlier. Like, much earlier. I always joked I was thirty years too late. Great boxers usually start in their early teens, or younger. If executed properly, it would have been a great outlet for the younger/angrier me, a way to focus myself. But then again, I’m sure I’d have accumulated much more damage than I have now. I never got to compete officially, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. One day I might get back to it, depending on my health. Not looking forward to conditioning, though. That’s a bitch.
Red Husted 
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