Jimmy Rhodes

The gym smells like sweat and leather, the sound of fists smacking against bags filling the air. I adjust a kid’s stance, nudging his elbow up. “Keep your guard up,” I tell him. He nods, determination in his eyes. I see myself in these kids—the same hunger, the same need to prove something.

I’m 32 years old, and for the past two years, I’ve worked as a trainer at this gym in Bushwick, New York. A few years ago, I was in the ring, fighting under bright lights. I had wins, made money, thought I had it all. I married a woman who believed in me, had a son who looked at me like I was invincible. Then I lost. First in the ring, then at home. I was angry all the time, snapping at my wife. She finally left, taking our son. He was two then. Now he’s four.

I started therapy because I had to. At first, it felt like punishment, but slowly, it became something else. Coaching came next. It was just a job, but then I saw how much these kids needed it. Some come from worse places than I ever knew, already fighting battles no kid should fight. I know that feeling. I know how it hardens you.

Last week, I saw my son for the first time in months. My ex let me take him to the park. He ran ahead, legs wobbly but fast, his laughter spilling out like music. He’s taller now, more sure of himself. I watched him climb a slide, and something inside me loosened.

When I brought him back, he hugged my leg before running inside. My ex stood in the doorway, watching me. “He had fun,” she said. Her voice wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either.

“I’d like to see him more,” I said.

She hesitated. “We’ll see.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever win her trust back. But I do know one thing: I’m still in the fight. And this time, I know exactly what I’m fighting for.

The ring taught me how to take a hit and keep going. Life is no different. You can’t always dodge the blows, but you can decide how to stand back up. And I’m not done getting up yet.