Conversation with a friend today got me thinking about one of my favorite quotes.

In the stinky basement of the athletic facility at ND, there is a hidden room with a bunch of heavy bags hung up. In the dark, deep corner of that room, there is a makeshift ring w ropes. In

another corner, there are boxing gloves, usually strung into pairs by their laces. But sometimes you’ll see a lone glove that’s fallen out of the bin.

In this secret corner of campus, the women’s boxing team holds practice. A beloved coach put this quote on the wall. He would

share it at the end of the year banquet. Coach Suddes. One of my heroes and mentors. A man with a smile that lit up a room. A man with a smaller build, but hands as fast as any I’ve seen. And a spirit that would never quit and never die. The embodiment of The Fighting Irish.

Any chance he got, he would post this quote or repeat pieces of it to us.

For many of the college students he coached, it probably didn’t mean much. For some of us, we found the dark corner of the basement because we had some deep need to learn a sport like boxing. For some of

us, the boxing team and stepping in the ring was our exercise, a way to lose weight, engage in a cool sport, and make friends. For some of us, it was just a fun way to spend time after class and on weekends.

For others, boxing was something we needed to work out some deep-

seeded issue from the past. To conquer demons from childhood, to beat up the bully who tormented us as children, to vent anger or pain that there was no other way to vent.

Only those folks who have wrapped their hands, put on their gear, and stepped in between the ropes can

truly know what it means to stare fear directly in the face. We walk into a ring where great pain, exhaustion past what you’ve ever felt before, and possibly spectacular humiliating defeat are all possible if not likely.

We taste our own sweat. Each breath stings as it runs in

and out of your chest. For newer boxers, the stress and energy that is felt before the first bell rings is often manifested in the jaw, biting down so hard on their mouth guard that they nearly bite through it. But those of us who have been in the ring before know that breathing

in, breathing out, staying loose, and relaxing your jaw are all crucial to surviving the onslaught.

Getting hit where you are tight is a good way to get injured. Getting hit where you are loose and flexible and fluid... you can absorb and move through those blows.

They still hurt. Don’t get me wrong. The pain in the ring is unlike anything I had ever experienced before or after, at least physically.

But walking out of that ring, having faced all of your very rational fears, having conquered your mind and turned your body into a machine,

and having survived and succeeded where many fail... that ecstasy is the only drug I’ve ever tried. And it’s why boxers come back to practice every afternoon for months at a time. Hooked.

They feel that endorphin rush at the end of their first fight and they know they will

never find a better high.

But as you know, this isn’t a thread about boxing. It’s about the Woman in the Arena.

As a sophomore, I was made captain of the Women’s Boxing Team. As a senior, President of the club. Not because I had particular athletic prowess or some phenomenal

skill set. Not because I was the fastest or strongest or biggest or hit the hardest.

It’s because boxing was in my soul. It’s because this quote, The Man in the Arena, resonated and reflected my life on several levels. The literal one, yes. But figuratively, metaphorically, I