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On the road …

Ragusa Ibla, Sicily, October 2025

It has been a long time since I traveled alone without any particular itinerary. If I have a mandate at all for myself it is to slow down my pace and drift.

That has proven a tall order as I find myself encountering moments of unexpected grief coupled with the inclination to fill my days from end to end rather than allowing them to unfold. Still … I’ve been managing to find that sweet spot. The first, I think, on the ferry from the Roman port of Civitavecchia to Palermo.

Palermo, Sicily, coming into port, September, 2025

Palermo, Sicily, coming into port, September, 2025

I had actually booked a stateroom for myself — a lovely little space with a window out to the sea. Having fallen asleep early, I woke up at around 3:00 AM. Making my way to the main area of the ferry, I passed by sleeping bodies in seats and on benches, before getting a cappuccinno from the lone barman.  We chatted for a bit, before I took my coffee out to the deck. The sea, the warm air, the lightening from a distant thunderstorm embracing me in the moment. I felt myself become the breezes. The bits of spray from the water as the ship steadfastly made its way across the Tyrrhenian Sea. Felt for the first time in many months a feeling of peace and the beginnings of drift I’d come to Italy to find.

I’m coming to my third week soon. I’ve been to Rome, Palermo, Malta to visit my friends Jocelyn and Tom, the ferry to back to Sicily, although that was less than two hours versus the thirteen to Palermo. Still as a travel day it had its own magic, along with the taxi ride up to Ragusa Ibla.

Now in Ortigia, Sicily … having found a cafe with WIFI, quite the surprise I’ll add, my days have more and more of those moments. Those pieces of time where I am free within myself. Yes, going to museums and all of the other “supposed to sees” that one encounters, but I also have given myself the permission to do nothing. To have a pajama day.  To start to unpeel the layers of a lifetime with Jed enough so that I do not cry every time a photo of him appears on my iPhone.

And so it goes …

twenty-four years … 9/11

The Twin Towers in July 1983, with New Yorkers taking in the sun on the beach created by the WTC landfill. Photo by Marilynn K. Yee/The New York Times

This picture always gives me hope.

One finds beauty where one can. Creates a world of wonder where one can. Insists on the good in the world where one can.

New Yorkers have been engaged in that for 24 years.

We move forward – some of us still not able to walk the hallowed grounds. Some of us mourning deaths as recent as this year that are directly attributable. Experiencing grief and its attendant feelings of loss, especially when thinking about a loved one who breathed in the dust working the pile day after day … now suffering, or having transitioned on.

It’s what we can’t bring ourselves to think about that really hurts. The losses upon losses both personal and in the world at large.

We pray for peace and the grace of peace. And pray some more and more again. Until next year … when we again feel the stab and pang of how senseless it all has been.

Think to ourselves, may the memory of those who perished be for a blessing.

 

 

 

The long goodbye

It has been a week.

My senses are out of kilter as to time and place. I will think it is Tuesday when it is Monday. Saturday when it is Friday and vice-versus.

The house feels larger even with Izzi staying here. We rattle around. Marveling at how tall the ceilings seem. At how many people were able to fit comfortably in the living room when we sat Shiva on the Monday and Tuesday after Jed’s death.

With Jed at home, the rooms had always seemed balanced. His large frame occupying the space. Balancing out the height and width and breadth even in his last weeks lying in his hospital bed. His presence still filling the rooms with echos of his insouciant smiles or his coquettish turns in one or another doorway.

Jed standing tall was a marvel. His posture perfect but tinged with a languidness that harkened back to the Wyoming roots of his General father. And yet Jed was a true Easterner. Intelligent and smart and fast thinking from all his years spent in New York City. At home, on a sailboat or a kayak, climbing a mountain or walking the G-trails of Europe, or sitting at Puffy’s Bar, or writing one article or another for the New York Times, or sharing a pint of ice cream with Izzi. Talking politics or mycology or the origins of fire as the basis for the industrial revolution.

Frontotemporal Dementia robbed him of so much of that. Slowly. Insidiously. Painfully. As a horrible march down the rottenest of fetid paths lined with the scary monsters of childhood nightmares. Still, there were things he could hold onto. His three quick kisses to the air when one or another of us came into view.

The whispered, “I love you.”

The moment of sudden lucidity in his last week when he looked at Izzi and said, “I’ll be there.” For Izzi. For the milestones and triumphs in Izzi’s life to come. His fatherhood still there at the last.

The sway of his body as music played.

Jed still in there a little. Struggling to breathe. To live and release enough to pass on.

 

 

Of beginnings and endings and beginnings again

Jed, Izzi, and Sugar Ray, May 16, 2025

One of the privileges of life is to be there at the beginning and the end.

The miracle of my own pregnancy, delivery, and birth aside, my first experience of new life, was the birth of my dear friend Mara’s son Gabriel. He was born in the birthing center at what was then Roosevelt Hospital on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She’d been in labor for quite some time, when all of a sudden, imminent birth came upon us. In the ensuing haste, I became her stirrup, bolstering my body against her bent leg as she pushed. I had never felt such power or connectedness to the cycle of life, and still count it among the most extraordinary experiences of my life.

Standing watch for death is no less miraculous. One feels through the touch of the skin and the cast of the eye how the body begins to let go. Shutting itself down into a dream like state of near relaxation.

Sitting with Jed as he begins to transition is no less extraordinary even as I feel the pain of watching my partner in life transcend our plain of existence. I find the rapidity of change to be the most difficult to contend with–an infusion of painful awareness that shoots through my psyche like a bullet train until I am able to normalize again; experiencing the all to human need to construct reality around the unfathomable.

Izzi and I spent today hanging out with Jed. We watched Soprano’s episodes, played Bette Lavette albums, chatted away. Sat on our computers. Wandered in and out of his room. Fed him bits of pureed food and sips of water from a spoon.

We told stories.

Talked about the future and the trip we want to take together.

Expressed our love.

The two hour interval

Jed with his dog, May 6, 2025

Anyone who has every cared for a bed bound person is familiar with the necessity to reposition their loved one every two hours. This is to avoid and/or is part of the treatment for bed sores.

Yesterday I used one such two hour interval for a manicure and pedicure. The self-care felt evident, but more so the chance to drift as a very kind young woman from Southern China, carefully washed my feet, scrubbed my heals, massaged my legs, and applied nail polish before repeating a similar process on my hands.  I appreciated how she used a portable fan on my feet as she applied polish to my fingers–and used a portable fan for each hand in between her ministrations.

Meanwhile, it’s four weeks since hospice care began and I’m in a same-o, same-o frame of mind.

Up by 7:30 AM no matter what time I fell asleep the “night” before, to allow the home health aide “clock” in from my cell phone.

Gloves on and the work to give him a wash, change his shirt and his diaper, change the “chucks” – the absorbent disposable mats under his body – and every few days, the positioning pad and fabric mat. It usually takes about an hour. And then breakfast, pureed yogurt and fruit with a little nutritional yeast thrown in, or oatmeal and apple with a bit of smashed up walnuts and a couple of spoonfuls of maple syrup ’cause why not.

Meds are next. The ones that help Jed stay calm and out of pain–a new wrinkle now that he is bed bound: neck pain, stiff joints, where a turn without supporting his head mean agonizing moments until we right it.

Jed sleeping on his side, May 15, 2025

Then sleep. A two-hour check. Turn or change then turn. Then two more hours, and change, lunch: smashed avocado and cottage cheese, or an egg salad, or left over pureed mashed potatoes with spinach. More meds, time upright to digest and then turn.

Plus two-hours, and again, till dinner, and more meds, and then the four-hour turns. at 10:00 PM and 2:00 AM. Those are the hardest. I am tired. And not sleeping enough. And sometimes doing the 2:00 AM on my own because the workers don’t work overnight. When they can help they do, but one worker in particular informed me last week that she can’t do it anymore.

The 2:00 AM on my own has its own rhythm. The repositioning is the hardest, but I am beginning to get it right. I find that bathing him in the half light has a kind of soothing appeal. I take my time. Careful to wash off every last bit of Desitin and biological matter that clings to him. Once I am done. I sit for a while. Watch him drift in sleep. His mouth open, as he draws breath. His body otherwise still resting on a mountain of pillows and flannel PJ bottoms that we stuff strategically to ease his comfort. 

Last week Izzi started to come to help. We bond even deeper as we minister to him. We fill his nights with our love. Lie in my bed afterward at 3:00 AM, unable to sleep, watching old Sopranos episodes. 

Is it really two weeks?

Jed greeting the morning, April 30, 2025

I swore it was three weeks since I put my sweet man on hospice care.

Today, however, marks two actual weeks in spite of the tricks time is playing on my mind and heart. Two weeks, and he is sleeping more. Eating less. Drinking less. Weaker. And yesterday, despite everything we are doing, he was diagnosed with a grade 2 bed sore just below his coccyx.

Two nights before when we discovered it, and having taken a photograph forwarded it on to Jed’s hospice nurse, she wrote back quickly saying it was a bedsore. It was a horrifying moment. A crushing moment. A moment of recrimination deep into my soul: How did I not see it before? How can I cure it? Make it go away overnight with a huge schmear of Desitin?

The clinical classification of the wound during his nurse’s regular visit yesterday gave me the sense that Jed is truly on this journey. A moment to be etched onto my soul. Mostly sad. Resigned. And more sadness.

The realization that despite the best efforts of bathing and drying and keeping the skin lathered with this and that product, skin breaks down. That the body doesn’t heal as fast. That he is truly at the end of his life and no amount of wishing and hoping changes the course.

When I spent 10 days in a silent Buddhist mediation retreat years ago in Thailand, I was taught that all things have a beginning, a middle, and an end. The walking mediation practice seemed to exemplify that concept the best. One starts off walking with the goal of walking 30 paces or so before stopping, turning, and beginning again. I admit to anxiety and discomfort on my first forays. Would I be mindful enough to stop at my appointed place? Or, would my mind wander and thereby miss the ending, so entranced in the mind-movies we invent we lose track of ourselves in space and time?

After a while, I got it. I would walk, set myself some landmarks and starting out feel exhilarated. Towards the middle I could begin to feel that my goal was nearing, but that the place where I was had its own beauty, its own interest. At the end, I felt a sort of arrival. That my task was done and that I was ready to start it anew as I stopped, took in where I was, turned and set out again with a new vista and orientation towards the place at the edge of a field where I had chosen to walk.

Contemplating Jed’s journey, I feel the vistas for him. The morning light in his room as I open the curtains, and how it casts light at the edge of his bed. Our time of bathing and dressing him. Anointing him in creams to keep his skin protected from the this and that of the day. Preparing a pureed meal and then feeding it to him. Providing his meds crushed in applesauce or bananas and strawberries. Setting him in his bed. Turning him, and on throughout the day into evening. Watching him sleep. Whether it is me or Izzi or one of his lovely home health aides. Guarding him. As the journey of his life slows. Reconfigures towards what will be his inevitable turn…

 

The Boy From New York City

At Puffy’s, Demember 1996

The night I met Jed at Puffy’s Bar on Hudson Street, in Tribeca, the song, The Boy From New York City by the Ad Libs was playing. I hadn’t heard it in longer than I could remember, but walking into a bar that had such a great dancing beat to it had set my mood for the night and when Susan Dumois, the bartender, stepped out from behind the bar and started to dance with me, I knew the night was special.

In the blink of an eye, I sit in Jed’s room, Bach’s Suite No. 3 playing soothingly in the background as he sleeps, coughs, sleeps again.

We are at the end of his second week on Hospice.

I think I am located in it but perhaps not. I cry less. Feel less anxious, though if sleep is the measure, my anxiety comes through in the fitful hours of watching cat videos, and my new favorites the rescue beavers, Tulip, Stormy Rose, and the two tiny beaver kits, Blossom and Sprout.

I don’t write – except lists, and other easy stuff in my journal when I can take an hour to myself and sit somewhere.

Home hospice life with Jed, April 23, 2025

My sense of control comes from the stream of non-stop package deliveries of supplies for Jed. From the preparation of meals, adding Thickener, a product that literally thickens liquids to help a person with difficulty swallowing drink or eat their food. From shaving him with his electric razor careful to be gentle, and getting every hair I can find. From the notes I trade with his medical team.

What I have no control over is the relentless course of the disease. Of his sudden distress. Of his decline. Of his whispers. Of how my heart breaks from time to time.

I find the strength to face each day in the wee hours. And from dear, dear friends and family who send me their best wishes for which I will always be so, so very grateful.

A boxer’s truth

Jed with daughter Izzi, March 23, 2025

My husband Jed and I met on a fateful night in December, 1996 at Puffy’s on Hudson Street in Tribeca, then sporting the best juke box in the City. We had one chance to meet and make something of it, and we took it. Fairly early on we discovered we shared a love of boxing. I had just taken a course at the local gym, and earlier had practiced on the heavy bag in the basement of my friend Eddie. Jed had just fought in his first “white collar” bout at Gleason’s Gym, and otherwise with his black belt firmly affixed, was teaching beginning karate at a Dojo in downtown Manhattan.

We’d watch Friday Night Fights on ESPN, regaling ourselves about Teddy Atlas’ commentary (who didn’t in those days). He was also my biggest booster when I trained at Gleason’s. And using his brilliant skills as a New York Times columnist and editor, went on to help me edit my first book, A History of Women’s Boxing.

Our affinity was the boxer’s heart we shared and our ability to push through our collective traumas to face our truths.

Jed’s always been there for me-through tough times, arguments big and small, differences and non-differences, and through the love that exudes through the pores of our being and into our shared joy, Izzi.

Jed, Brooklyn Heights, Fall 2021

Jed’s formal diagnosis with behavioral variant of Frontotemperal Dementia over seven years ago was a near on knockout blow-but Jed persevered as did I.

Round after terrible round of the disease we adjusted.

During the pandemic it became obvious the Jed was no longer able to be alone. I retired from working with the City to care for him and have continued ever since. In those days, he could still take a long walk or go to the store at the corner. And in my company, we’d retrace his former route through downtown Brooklyn: A walk up Cadman Plaza to Olde Fulton. Then a walk through Brooklyn Bridge Park before meandering our way home through the side streets of Brooklyn Heights.

Privit – Brooklyn Bridge Park, June 2021

Each June we’d walk through the rows of privit grasping it in our hands to keep the scent alive on our bodies.

We’d hold hands.

I’d give him some water – though he mostly refused.

He still walked a pace, but was beginning to slow by the Fall.

I started having companions for him in 2022. That allowed me a few hours of respite a couple of days a week and it was also still possible to run out in the morning to the supermarket because he still slept in. Our boxer’s heart keeping faith with one another-has he began to have medication to help with the symptoms and found it harder and harder to comprehend what was going on around him.

From then to now feels like a blur, but the now is a late round effort.

Jed and the care aides, April 13, 2025

This past Thursday was the last day that he walked-though he can still punch (and land some good shots that leave black and blue marks) when we turn him in his hospital bed in order to wash and clean him.

The Friday before that, he forgot how to swallow, but fought his was back to solid food.

Bed bound. Losing weight. Coughing. Endless sleeping.

Yet treated with kindness and love by wonderful women. That’s what I cling to as I take the decisions necessary to transition him to hospice care. Here at home. Among his books and enough camping gear to outfit a boy scout camp (a feature of FTD is obsessive spending!). Feeling the love of what home brings when Izzi sits besides him.

The journey of this illness is a terrible one. Yet the key has been keeping faith with our pas-de-deux. Our pact of love and faithfulness that saw us care so deeply for one another. To fight on the same team. Playing at doubles. Each of us having each other’s back. Literally.

Jed is 77. This all feels way, way, way too soon and yet he’s here. Still punching. Smiling between cursing us when he feels hurt by this or that turn. Still saying I love you and lighting up with the broadest of smiles when Izzi enters the room.

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. – January 15, 2025

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. shortly after his release from Reidsville Penitentiary, Georgia, 1960, Photo Credit: National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution, gift of Jack Lewis Hiller, ©1960 Jack L. Hiller

At a particularly harrowing pivot point in the history of the USA, we are in a time of sharp reliefs.

There have always been divisions from the inception of the nation, generally understood as the Federalist – State’s Rights divide. The Constitution, in the original sin of the nation’s founding, upheld the ultimate state’s rights issue by allowing for slavery to continue: a decision that continues to roil our understanding of justice and the rights of citizens and those who reside in our nation.

As Dr. King began his extraordinary crusade for Civil Rights, the nation had to face up to the deep divisions of racism, and in so doing spurred on the civil rights legislation that over a generation guaranteed rights for African Americans,  women, LGBTQ+, Native Americans, immigrants, the disabled, and many other classes of people who were marginalized and overlooked.

And yet, here we are: Racist. Sexist. Anti-Gay. Anti-Trans. Banning books. Banning speech. Dismantling public education through anti-intellectualism and the removal of critical inquiry. And on, and on, as we face the disillusionment of the fourth estate and the celebration of corruption that is transactional oligarchy.

The legacy of Dr. King , however, remains.

His last speech in Memphis in support of the sanitation worker’s strike, known as the I’ve Been To The Mountaintop speech, given on the eve of his martyrdom, remains to instruct us.

May we all have the strength to leave our world better than we found it.

 

Twenty-three years … 9/11

The vicissitudes of life create pathways of a present tense of existence.

One asks have I performed this or that task? Met the needed deadlines? Balanced all of the varying strands to ensure that I am reasonably on point in concert with the strains and stresses of any given day?

There are, however, those moments when free in mind and spirt I will walk along Brooklyn Bridge Park and in glancing up notice the sky. It is when I cannot help but gasp at the absence of my twin towers of memory.

They were the locating beacon points of the City I love. The edifices that always startled my imagination when I looked up to grasp their presence rising above the city scape.

And they always were a grand surprise. Whether shrouded in mist with the early glow of light on a rainy evening, or majestic as I would walk in and amongst them. Marveling at their symmetry and the quietude of the plaza where they stood so gracefully.

Their loss is also incalculable. So many lives snuffed out on the day they fell and in the succeeding years as first responders have succumbed to 9-11 illnesses.

But there is also the loss of how wars played out in their name leading to yet more death and destruction and a sense of existential threat and imbalance I would argue the USA has yet to recover from.

Were we to enable the symbol of symmetry again, we might, perhaps find ourselves. Understand that while we must defend, we must also have the balance of sure-footedness. That existential threat can be overcome by letting go of our attachment to fear of the unknown. That by embracing our past and our present, we can feel more confident in our future.

I still ache for the towers because they are my memory of place, not from some nostalgic sense, but for a sensibility that embraces the surprise and joy of seeing an old friend made new again. Their absence is also the symbol of a kind of anger and tactic of terror I eschew at every turn. Yes. I understand the politics of terror. It is out of a very old play book. What I have always hoped for and continue to strive for though is a world where such plays are no longer necessary. Perhaps I remain naive to think that such things can exist–but in my city of memory they do exist as two giant towers to the sun that bring light and a boundless sense of joy into being.

Publication day, June 4, 2024, The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science

The must-read book on the rise of elite women’s boxing

 

It’s 💥Publication Day💥, June 4, 2024!!!! Books on sale now!!! Links below!

🥊THE PROMISE OF WOMEN’S BOXING: A MOMENTOUS NEW ERA FOR THE SWEET SCIENCE🥊

by Author and Women’s Boxing Historian, Malissa Smith Foreward by Claressa Shields

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Amazon: Purchase here

Barnes & Noble: Purchase here

Rowman & Littlefield Publishers: Purchase here

The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science is the must-read book on the rise of elite women’s boxing.

On April 30th, 2022, the first boxing super-fight of the era, headlined by two women and fought at Madison Square Garden, lived up to its hype and then some. The two contestants fought the battle of their lives in front of a sold-out crowd and garnered 1.5 million views through online streaming. It was the culmination of a long, three-centuries arc of women’s boxing history, a history fraught with highs and lows but always imbued with the heart and passion of the women who fought.

In The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science, Malissa Smith details the exciting period from the 2012 Olympics through the true “million-dollar baby” women’s super-fights of 2022 and beyond. Rich in content, the stories that emerge focus on boxing stars new and old, important battles, and the challenges women still face in boxing. Smith examines the development of the sport on a global basis, the transition of amateur boxers to the pros, the impact of online streamlining on the sport, the challenges boxing has faced from MMA, and the unprecedented gains women’s boxing has made in the era of the super-fight with extraordinary seven-figure opportunities for elite female stars.

Featuring the stories of women’s boxing icons Katie Taylor, Amanda Serrano, Savannah Marshall, and more, and with a foreword by two-time Olympic gold medalist and three-time undisputed champion Claressa Shields, The Promise of Women’s Boxing offers unprecedented insight into the incredible growth of the sport and the women who have fought in and out of the ring to make it all possible.

Here’s what the boxing world has to say about Malissa Smith’s new book:

There is no one more knowledgeable about or dedicated to women’s boxing than Malissa Smith. Without bias, Malissa is able to translate her passion into words that satisfy an enthusiast while appealing to occasional fans. A must read for any diligent sports enthusiast. 🥊 Jill Diamond, WBC co-chair of the Women’s Championships, WBC International Secretary, Global Chair WBC Cares

Malissa Smith is the ultimate chronicler of women’s boxing. Her new book details the last dozen years, during which fighters like Claressa Shields, Katie Taylor, and Amanda Serrano have not only evened the playing field, but at times outperformed their male counterparts. 🥊 Steve Farhood, Showtime boxing analyst and former editor of The Ring magazine and 2017 Inductee, International Boxing Hall of Fame

Malissa Smith’s comprehensive analysis and understanding of this very important period in the evolution of women’s boxing makes for a terrific read. 🥊 Lou DiBella, President, DiBella Entertainment, 2020 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame

Malissa Smith has given readers a very accurate accounting of women’s boxing. From the Olympics to selling out Madison Square Garden, she has revisited the history I’m proud to be a part of. 🥊 Christy Martin, retired boxing champion, 2020 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame

Malissa’s grasp of, eloquence on, and in-depth research into the continued resistance of change to 3-minute rounds for women is equally fascinating and disheartening. A must read for anyone interested in gaining insight into women’s boxing. 🥊 Alicia Ashley, retired boxing champion, 2023 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame

Malissa Smith has written a compelling book on the progression of women’s boxing, showing us the grit, determination, and perseverance that took the sport from the first ever inclusion in the 2012 London Olympics to today’s era of mega-fights. 🥊 Sue Fox, founder, Women’s Boxing Archive Network, International Women’s Boxing Hall of Fame

For anyone who follows and enjoys women’s boxing—this is the perfect book for you. It’s not just history and facts; this book is also full of stories and in-depth examinations. Malissa Smith did a terrific job! 🥊 Jackie Kallen, boxing manager, 2024 inductee to the International Boxing Hall of Fame

Malissa’s effort to document the journey of women’s boxing is nothing short of titanic. In a world where stories are told in spurts of 280 characters on social media, Malissa takes the time to delve into the struggles of every fighter, and she takes us along for a ride that is rich in both journalistic rigor and historical accuracy—with her gift for storytelling making it a pleasure to read. 🥊 Diego Morilla, writer, editor, and moderator for the Women’s Ratings Panel, The Ring magazine

Malissa has captured the wonderful growth of women’s boxing in her book The Promise of Women’s Boxing. She highlights how quickly the women have become a major force in amateur and professional boxing. And in many cases, the women overshadow the men. 🥊 Bruce Silverglade, owner of boxing’s world-famous Gleason’s Gym

Heat is all of us and them some … perseverance personified

Heather “The Heat” Hardy celebrating herself and her beloved New York City, days before retiring from boxing due to the brain damage she sustained across her active professional career. [Photo Credit: Heather Hardy]

Heather “The Heat” Hardy is a boxer’s boxer, so when she announced her retirement from the sport on Instagram, one knew just how serious things were.

Heather Hardy Instagram post, May 7, 2024

A Momentous Start

From the moment she picked herself up off the canvas in August 2012 in the first round of her first professional fight, Heather Hardy knew nothing was going to stop her from winning. Her performance from that moment on against opponent Mikayla Nebel was so commanding, promoter Lou DiBella signed her to a multi-fight promotional contract, a first among many in the arc of Hardy’s career.

By January 2013, however, Hardy felt the struggles and inequities of being a professional female boxer, “I am still making considerably less than my male counterparts and doing the exact same job.”[i]

Her next big milestone in a career of milestones was her showdown with Shelly “Shelito’s Way” Vincent on August 21, 2016-the same day Claressa Shields was slated to defend her Gold medal status at the 2016 Rio Games.

The Hardy-Vincent fight was on a Premier Boxing Champion’s (PBC) fight card with Errol Spence Jr. battling Leonard Bundu in the main event. In front of a sold out crowd, however, clamoring to see their “main event,” the Hardy-Vincent showdown for the WBC Women’s International Feather title was to be the fight of the night. The venue also told the story. Set at the Ford Amphitheater in Coney Island, the covered outdoor theater was seemingly split into two camps and two camps only: the crowds of ticket holders who’d come out for Hardy and the folks who’d traveled down from Connecticut and Rhode Island in droves for Shelly Vincent.

What made the evening unique, is the Hardy-Vincent title bout was slated to be broadcast on the USA NBC Sports Network, the first time PBC broadcast a women’s boxing fight, albeit broadcast on online and not on cable.

Hardy came out the victor in that fight, but speaking of her win she acknowledged the journey of being a female in boxing.

“I hope it makes people know that we’re out here, there’s so many of us … there is a sea of female talent,” and taking a beat she said, “Tonight we had Claressa Shields become the very first, ever, Olympic American boxer … to be two-time Gold medalist.”

Shields for her part writing in the forward for the upcoming book, The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science, stated:

I got a text from Heather Hardy who had just fought Shelly Vincent in Brooklyn and had won. “Congratulations on your victory,” she said. “You are doing so much for women’s boxing.” And then she let me know that her fight, the same day as my second gold medal, also made history. “We were broadcast on the NBC Sports Network!” I took it as a sign. “If she can do it,” I thought to myself, “then I can, too.”

In the midst of this, Hardy was the first female boxer to compete at the Barclay’s Center arena in Brooklyn, and as ever a true sister of the ring, she brought Amanda Serrano along in her wake as the second woman to compete there. Those singular honors, however, did not mean that she got the paychecks to match or the pride of place on bout sheets that would include television exposure. Ever the pitch woman, Hardy sold tickets up until the day of the fight, dragging herself to Gleason’s Gym to make certain that she fulfilled every ticket obligation. And every fight was a boon for the promoters because she always sold out her allotment and more, the galling part was there were fights when she was moved to the position of opening bout before her fans even had a chance to enter the arena, having otherwise been promised a later placement.

And as for camp, that meant the extra hours of the day in between training her clients, getting Annie breakfasted and dressed for school, and so on. Camp was showing up before her clients started for her warm-up and sparring — at 7:00 AM. Then the run home to get Annie ready, then the run back to Gleason’s for more clients, work outs on the pads and heavy bag, more sparring, more clients, a run over the Brooklyn Bridge and back, time for cardio, then back to Annie after school, and the evening rush of clients to train back at Gleason’s Gym. It’s exhausting just thinking about it, never mind living it.

Heather Hardy Instragram post, October 22, 2017

And still no decent paydays. She fought for every promotion till it seemed impossible and then she pivoted to MMA for a better payday — and as she put it, they at least sent a car to take her to Madison Square Garden for her fight there. MMA though is another whole world of physical hurt and while the warrior in her took it on, the physical toll was measurable and scary after her second contest in Bellator185.

World Title

If ever there were belts given for perseverance, Hardy has proven herself undisputed. Her true fight for a world title came in 2018 as only the second female bout to be shown on an HBO show, something that only happened because of her dogged perseverance (there’s that word again) in pursing HBO executive Peter Nelson.

As Hardy put it, “They were announcing it as a triple header, and yeah, I was happy to be on the show, boxing at the Garden, doing the rematch … [but] I was really annoyed that they were announcing it. Like, how dare you announce it as a triple header, knowing that me and Shelly are going to sell out the little Hulu Theater, and for weeks I mean, I was tweeting HBO and articles, and one night … I was so mad … I called [HBO’s] Peter Nelson and left a message…”

Heat in front of her office at Gleason’s Gym holding her well-earned WBA World Feather title, October 2019  [Photo Credit: Malissa Smith]

The gist was to complain about not being on the broadcast portion of the card and as Hardy later related, her promoter Lou DiBella called her the next morning asking if she’d called him. Hardy told him that she had, but only after taking a gulp and expecting an explosive reaction. Letting the silence permeate the air, DiBella finally broke it saying, “it … worked.” Peter Nelson had agreed to broadcast the HardyVincent2 fight, adding that there was no money in the budget for it, but that he’d do it anyway.

The fight was also a twenty thousand dollar pay day—a career high in boxing for Hardy, but still nothing more than a break-even night with fully “30% going to the corner, off the bat,” plus all the other expenses and lost revenue for working less during camp. She added, “I understood the business side of how to make money in this industry,” by working hard to market herself, but that savvy still wasn’t translating into a six-figure fee for fighting for a title, no matter how much she and Vincent brought to the gate in ticket sales.[2]

The win was brilliant — and the loss to Amanda Serrano the Fall of 2019 was a heartbreak, but the “that’s boxing” mantra and the sisterhood between them stayed in focus even as Hardy continued to champion the need for greater equity for women in the sport across the board from money, to opportunity, to visibility and everything in between.

With COVID, Hardy’s world fell apart again. The margins of living paycheck to paycheck were even scarier. With school fees for her daughter and the prospect of college to come the challenge of finding the money for it was even more daunting. And there was also health to consider. It was harder and harder to come down to 126 pounds, not to mention the physical effects of broken noses, broken ribs, broken hands, and headaches from multiple concussions. When she finally got back into the ring in the spring of 2021 for a six-rounder against Jessica Camara in the middle of nowhere Tennessee, it felt as if it had all fallen away — sitting in a miserable venue and wondering whether if it was worth it anymore.

Heather Hardy with Martin Gonzalez, Henry Deleon, and the late Hector Roca [Photo Credit: Irish Echo, Feb. 22, 2023.]

Perseverance willed out, however, as she began working with her old mentor, Hector Roca, whom she affectionately called, Papa. She also teamed up with Boxing Insider’s Larry Goldberg to put on his first promotion at the Sony Theater, and feeling ready mentally and physically to give it one more go, won a unanimous decision six-rounder against Calista Salida. 

For her next outing under the Boxing Insider banner, she fought an eight-rounder. By then, Roca had passed away after a difficult illness, and dedicating her fight to him, Hardy felt that he sat on her shoulder willing her to greatness. She did not disappoint, winning a mixed decision against Taynna Cardosa.

With that win in her pocket, and having reached the age of 40, Hardy was intent on one more try at the brass ring. This time she called on Amanda Serrano, who having won the undisputed mantle in her ten-round slug fest with Erika Cruz in early February, was able to call her own shots and having postponed Taylor-Serrano 2 due to her own injury, was more than happy to give her sister in boxing, Hardy a shot. She also gave Hardy the one pay day in her life that she deserved. A six-figure check that would pay off the back bills and loans that had accumulated through the very lean COVID years.

Amanda Serrano and Heather Hardy after Serrano’s UD win on August 5, 2023 [Photo Credit: Boxing Scene, August 6, 2024]

What Hardy promised was to put herself on the line in the center of the ring–not to mention the weeks and weeks of hard sparring to prepare for Serrano whose power in the ring hurts her male sparring partners, never mind her opponents.  And Hardy did give it her all, but also took a battering that left her unable to see out of one eye.

Undaunted, Hardy felt she still had more to give, but for all the promise of the sport that the sold out Taylor-Serrano battle had brought from the year before, women in boxing in the USA were finding it difficult to get on cards. When it came to Hardy who was on the back side of her career it was getting even more difficult, with occasional offers for little money with impossible time scales to get down in weight. Back at the training grind and with still more bills to pay it all seemed impossible, but she agreed to try her hand at a bare knuckle boxing contest against the leading champion of BKFC, Christine Ferea. The training, however, was not going well, and when she developed more issues seeing out of her eye, it became clear that something was drastically wrong.

For those of us who know Heat, the sense of loss for her is overwhelming.

Boxing has been her life and the thing about being a prize fighter is it is hard to picture a life without it. And yet, having bravely stepped forward into the unknowns of a life outside of the ring, if past is prologue, she will win in life with the same unfettered brilliance she has given all of us since she first passed through the ropes all those years ago.

Osu!

 

 

 

[i] “Heather Hardy Interview ahead of her January 23rd Fight at BB Kings!” Girlboxing.org, January 18, 2013.

[2] Heather Hardy, Interview with Malissa Smith, September 30, 2022. [Excerpt from Chapter 5, The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science.]

A room of my own?

The New Year has certainly brought its challenges. I planned on a slow start. That way, I’d have lots of time for the next steps of my new book, The Promise of Women’s Boxing, set to be published in June.

What I got was my second bout of COVID-19, and worst of all, Jed came down with it. Sure, there was sneezing, coughing, fever, headache, and some GI discomfort, but for Jed, there was also a sudden wave of confusion that was scary for both of us.

He quickly went on a course of Paxlovid to try to squelch the illness as quickly as possible, and for me, a turn in Izzi’s old room, where I’d set up my work area but now, a bedroom of sorts to make sure my non-stop coughing didn’t disturb Jed.

What I didn’t expect was a night of calm sleep.

Yes, I still responded to the sounds of Jed in the night. Even mopping up the floor where he’d had an accident, a feature of his COVID-19 response. But my time alone in what had been Izzi’s room was a respite of sorts. Time alone to drift. To sleep. To not sleep. To be fitful. All the moments that one has, but unscrutinized and interrogated. I was not awakened in the middle of the night; not plagued by my caregiver’s grumpiness at never having a break.

I’ve written about a caregiver’s need for self-care. Putting that into action is something else again. For me, it’s been a combination of claiming space to write a book, to go to the gym, to sit in a drift in a cafe when I have respite care from Jed’s companions Lynn or Maya, or some other action. But I admit to its being fleeting at times, and as Jed’s illness moves forward as an inevitability, I’ve come to learn that those moments to oneself become more and more a required feature of day-to-day life, any guilt about it be damned.

I also admit that it is unsettling at times. As Jed’s ability to recall who I am or whether we are actually married or not becomes a fact of our lives together, the notion of a shared room recedes as well. And yet he’ll ask, “Where are you sleeping?” Feeling his way to a past where we’d never have slept apart.

In those moments, I feel a shattering loss.

An echo of what was.

And there is a grief in life that can become so great that receding into Izzi’s old room becomes my only defense against a sense of utter devastation.

So now, Izzi’s old room is my room. The place where I climb into my bed at night, having firmly wished Jed a good night at the end of our evening routine of washing up, brushing teeth, and turning out the lights.

 

 

 

A Busy Women’s History Month!

Author and women’s boxing historian, Malissa Smith has had a busy Women’s History Month!

The activities included media appearances and an article about her efforts to support women in boxing published on the World Boxing Council’s website.

The UK-based Women In Boxing organization’s International Women’s Day event was held on March 7, 2024. Speaking about the history of the sport, Malissa Smith was featured in a busy line-up to include the keynote speaker, champion boxer Natasha Jonas.

Malissa Smith was a featured speaker for Women In Boxing’s 2024 International Women’s Day event on March 7, 2024.

Making a special live appearance, Malissa was an in-studio guest on WHCR 90.3 FM’s What’s In Your Hand show hosted by Rick Young on March 15, 2024. Alongside renowned thoracic surgeon Dr. Raja Flores, the trio of boxing aficionados had a lively conversation about New York City boxing and the place of the sport as an important component of youth development.

As a guest on the Off The Couch Boxing Show podcast, Malissa’s expertise on women in boxing was in evidence as she discussed the highlights of such “GOATs” as Christy Martin, Lucia Rijker, Laila Ali, Katie Taylor, Amanda Serrano, and Claressa Shields. She also discussed issues surrounding parity for female athletes with respect to promotion and pay, and her upcoming new book, The Promise of Women’s Boxing: A Momentous New Era for the Sweet Science.

Malissa Smith made a guest appearance on Episode #95 of the Off The Couch Boxing podcast on March 16, 2024.

To round out the month, the World Boxing Council featured an article about Malissa Smith’s on-going support for women in boxing as an author, historian, and advocate for the sport.

“This is a singular honor,” Smith said. “I am humbled by the WBC’s recognition of me.”

International Women’s History Day Event on March 7, 2024, 6:00PM GMT (London)

I am honored to participate in the Women In Boxing International Women’s History Event on March 7, 2024 at 6PM, GMT (London).

Email: team@womeninboxing.com to register your interest and receive the link to this free event!

Other confirmed speakers are Niki Wilburn-Shaw, WIB; Caitlin Bennet, Matchroom Boxing; Kate Wilson, SheIsBossingIt!