Recount an incident or time when you experienced failure. How did it affect you, and what lessons did you learn?

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The Fighter        

It’s been a full week. I impatiently walked into the gym. Without discovering people’s concerned looks, I threw one mechanical punch after another, heaving and buckling the innocent sandbag. In fact, I was not so much punching the sandbag as I was pummeling me. To wipe the sweat drenching my face, I suddenly stared at the mirror. How come all I find in the mirror is the vacant look of failure, a set of aimless eyes looking in the empty space?

I picked up boxing about two years ago partly mainly because I loved its competitiveness. Until just a week ago, I had been the youngster of the gym imagining myself on the ring with a triumphant smile. In my eagerness to prove myself even further, I begged the coach to let me have my first proper spar and nagged him until he let me to do so. I stepped into the ring, picturing a scenario in which I would miraculously sucker-punch the opponent into submission. A T.K.O right off the bat. The glorious debut of the wonder rookie. Born-ready.

I lasted less than two minutes. Not even a full round. The debut of a failure.

An obligatory pat on the back from coach. “You did well, he said, for a first-timer.”

Coach said I was a fiery youth with a rare passion for the sport.        However, indeed, I did not box with my passionate soul for the sport. The sweet taste of victory attracted

The day after, worrying about me losing my confidence, Coach calls me in and says I should watch some tape. He tells me the video will teach me the things I need to improve and learn. For the first time in a while I’m genuinely excited. I will see the winners of the fierce matches. Coach leaves, and I sit on a chair in front of the TV set and press play. The footage shows two female boxers. It’s a light flyweight competition. One of the boxers seems relatively big-boned, while the other one is as skinny as can be.

A sharp beep starts the bout. The skinny boxer abruptly reminds me on the ring, and my eyes naturally follow her motions. Her trunks drip of sweat just a few minutes into the match, and I notice sharp, uneasy breaths. I find myself rooting for her, but near the end of the first round, a left hook from the big-boned boxer finds her face, and she collapses.

An interviewer finds her in the locker room and asks her a cliched question about her comments on the game. I want to shout at the interviewer in the screen. How can you ask her that? Don’t you see her face?  I fully expect her to storm out. Instead, she grins.

“You know, it felt real good,” she says. “I was just happy to be out there.”

Her face soon overlaps my despondent look. We are both failures, but her smile tells me that she is never defeated.

That night, lying on my bed, I mull over her response. I recall her casual grin, made awkward and crooked by her swollen right cheek. It felt real good. I was just happy to be out there.

The following morning, I head for the gym as soon as I wake up. My steps feel lighter than usual. I enter the gym jumping for the sandbag, I try keeping still and close my eyes. When I finally open my eyes, I face a boxer feeling the sensations aroused by the heated air in the gym. The squeaking of rubber soles against the gym’s wooden floors wakes up an enthusiastic soul inside me. The whizzing of jump ropes and their rhythmic taps track the tempo of my heartbeat. I inhale deeply, drenching my nose with the salty scent of sweat, and I pace my breaths with the players’ quickened gasps of air.

I stand in the middle of the studio, genuinely thinking, you know, I feel good.  My soul is joyful. And that’s all I need here.