By Terrence McCoy
By Allie Conti
By Terrence McCoy
By Scott Fishman
By Deirdra Funcheon
By Allie Conti
By New Times Staff
By Ryan Pfeffer
Christina Swanson sits backward on a chair, cocks her head, and wraps her rough hands with tape. The younger fighters try not to stare. Maybe it's the moon-shaped scar on her right cheek. Or the tight, sweaty bun disguising her blond mermaid locks. Or the Ken Doll abs and chiseled shoulders — the ones that seem to beg for a superhero cape. Whatever it is, when she stands and bangs her fists together, it's not a friendly gesture.
It's July 10, the night of semifinals at the 2009 Women's National Golden Gloves Championships in Fort Lauderdale. Ten minutes remain before the most anticipated match of the year. Swanson — the former title winner and a Hollywood resident — will battle Jennifer Wolfe-Fenn, a brutal Texan and daughter of pro boxer Ann Wolfe, winner of four world championships.
Swanson warms up in the corner of the ballroom at the Hilton Fort Lauderdale Airport. She's a lean 141 pounds. Two giant chandeliers hover above an illuminated boxing ring in front of her. She throws shadow punches into the air, slowly at first. Trainer Luis Lagerman, whose clean-shaven head reflects the ballroom lights, holds his hands in the air for her to pound.
The audience of about 350 is restless. Butch women with black eyes slurp beers from plastic cups. Husky retired male boxers slouch against the wall, jabbering about the officials. A wide-eyed college kid in the front looks like he's expecting a wet T-shirt contest.
At age 27, Swanson (17-9) wants badly to go pro. And she's good enough. A win tonight means publicity and respect — two things that are rare as pink plastic nails in the weird world of women's boxing. But Swanson hasn't had a fight in a year. There's no money in the amateur circuit, and making rent has a way of coming first. She desperately needs a victory.
The announcer calls her into the red corner. A blast of commercial hip-hop crackles over the sound system. "Let's do this!" Lagerman hollers. She jogs in place before marching down an aisle to the ring.
The bell dings. Wolfe-Fenn (12-2) has a compact figure, wild eyes, and a cowboy swagger. Right away, she unleashes a tornado of punches. Whap, whap, whap. Swanson catches a swift right hook in the ear and a left uppercut in the nose. The impact seems to thrill Wolfe-Fenn, who shoots forward, grunts, and pops off another street-brawl assault. Her white-tipped rubber gloves make a gummy noise as they hit Swanson's face.
Swanson jukes, then lunges forward and clocks the Texan in the nose. Wolfe-Fenn's head snaps back, and she flashes a maniac smile, exposing her navy-blue mouth guard. Her look says, Bitch, I like pain.
Wolfe-Fenn fights like her mother, who many believe is the hardest hitter in the history of women's boxing. Bruisers like her have caused nasty injuries — and even deaths — at women's matches. Four years ago, a 34-year-old teacher named Becky Zerlentes died in the ring at the Colorado regional Golden Gloves tournament. Cause of death: Blunt trauma to the head.
Female fighters like Swanson sacrifice more than just their bodies. Hers is the story of an outcast turned champion and the long odds of going pro in a neglected, male-dominated sport. In South Florida — where many boxing legends have gotten a start — a pretty face matters as much as a fierce jab. Finding an opponent is half the battle, and a tiny fan base can mean going broke in the name of a dream.
The second round ends. Wolfe-Fenn is leading, but her ring rage is draining fast. A herd of fans stand up. "You got this, Swanson!" they chant.
In the corner, her trainer Lagerman is more blunt. "You're way behind, baby! I don't care what the fuck you gotta do!"
The smell of sweat and rubber hangs in the air. It's a week before the match, and Swanson can't find a sparring partner at Fight Club, a hot warehouse-sized gym on NE 20th Street in Miami. Lagerman manages to coax a young-but-jacked 16-year-old male boxer into the ring. He casts a cocksure grin, as if he's been asked to arm-wrestle with Grandma.
He begins by socking her a few times in the chest and face. She ducks, works him to the side, and pounds him three times in the side of the head. Pop, pop, pop. His body slaps against the corner and sends waves through the ropes. He hunches over and hides his face with gloves.
"That's right, get pissed!" Lagerman shouts to Swanson. Three lanky middle-school-aged boys lean against the ring, watching with open mouths. Swanson finishes and takes off her headgear. A river of blood pours down her nose.
Even as a kid, Christina preferred playing with the boys. She was born the younger of two daughters on New Year's Day 1982 in Seattle. Her mom, Jane, was an aging flower child who coached Christina's swim team. Dad was a cautious engineer and "pessimist," as she puts it. She grew up hiking trails in the drizzly woods behind her big brown house in Bainbridge Island, a middle-class suburb.