To Her, with Glove

It took less than a minute to draw blood. A few jabs into round one, boxing superstar Christy Martin drove an uppercut straight into the face of Sumya Anani, a virtual unknown from Shawnee. Anani's head snapped back and her body stiffened for a split second. But she didn't buckle. Something inside her 140-pound frame awoke and forced her forward. She swung her fists as wildly as a child in a temper tantrum.

Christy Martin stumbled backward. Her pink trunks brushed against the ropes. When the bell rang a minute later, she slumped into her corner, a dash of red seeping from her dainty nose.

Martin was the sport's most decorated veteran, with 10 years under her belt, millions of dollars in earnings, and fame like no other woman boxer had ever known. Two years earlier, more than a million people had seen her destroy Ireland's Deirdre Gogarty on the undercard of a Mike Tyson mismatch on Showtime. By all accounts, Martin's had been the best fight of the night: two dolls going 10 bloody rounds. The sport, which had fought to gain legitimacy for more than a century, finally had its hero in Martin, a boxer with the full package -- strength, skill, good looks, and a cocky attitude. With Don King as her manager, she had basked in the glory, appearing on The Tonight Show, The Today Show, CNN, Extra, and even an episode of Roseanne.

Anani, by contrast, had been boxing for only two and a half years. She'd embarked on her career reluctantly, after seeing Martin's picture on the cover of Sports Illustrated. She had pursued the sport not for the glory but for the challenge, though she had longed for Martin's paychecks. For this 1998 fight, Martin received more than 10 times Anani's $10,000 fee.

The gap in experience between the two boxers was apparent. Martin, known as "The Coal Miner's Daughter," kept her gloves close to her face, delivering swift, efficient punches. Anani fought with abandon, like a schoolyard brawler.

"Anani is just nonstop offense!" barked ringside commentator Carl King, son of the infamous, wild-haired Don. "But she's not throwing punches with a target in mind. And that's not a good thing to do with Christy Martin."

Anani wasn't listening. In the second round, she caught Martin off balance with a glancing blow, forcing the fighter to her knees. Near the end of round three, she stunned Martin with a monster left hook to the face. The champ's eyes grew as wide as a cartoon's and she hid behind her fat, red gloves. Sensing pain, Anani moved in, driving blow after blow into Martin's head and torso. Martin stumbled backward and the crowd at Ft. Lauderdale's War Memorial Stadium rose to its feet, roaring for blood. Martin cowered against the ropes as Anani plastered her with dozens of unanswered shots. The bell sounded, saving Martin from a certain TKO.

Martin stepped up her offense in the middle rounds, brawling toe to toe with the upstart from Kansas. But each punch only jolted Anani with more energy. She hung close to the champion, swinging like a windmill. Martin's silky white tank top grew rosy with blood and sweat. Her face swelled like dough. Anticipating an upset, Carl King shifted his allegiance. "The next hurricane to come through Florida is going to be called Sumya!" he crowed to the audience tuning in on satellite TV. "She's a welcome addition to the King family, I can tell you that!"

By the final bell, Martin was pretty no more. Snakes of sweaty hair streaked across her lacerated face. Her doe eyes sunk deep into her puffed-up cheeks. She draped a towel over her head as the master of ceremonies took center ring, dapper in his tux. "The winner by majority decision," he bellowed, "'The Island Girl,' Sumya Anani!" Anani's trainer, Barry Becker, hoisted her on his shoulders and she raised her arms in triumph.

She'd scored the biggest upset of the year. But most of the world would never know.

"Close your eyes," Sumya Anani says softly, barely audible above the whoosh of exhaled air. "Breathe deep. Clear your mind. Let all the day's cares drift away."All around her stand people in shorts, hands clasped together as if they were in prayer. An attentive teacher, Anani moves from student to student, correcting postures, gently guiding suburbanites along the path to divine unity. Before she took up boxing, she was a yoga devotee. She still practices the Eastern art three or four times a week; she teaches it at the Jewish Community Center in Overland Park on Tuesday nights. Here, beneath the green glow of fluorescent lights, Anani's physical prowess shines. As the students teeter and strain in their asanas, she slides in and out of her postures with graceful ease, twisting her figure into shapes approaching art. "Your body is the performer," she tells the students while balancing on her left foot, bending over and stretching out her arms and right leg to form a perfect T. "Your mind is the observer."

Before discovering yoga, Anani earned a license in massage therapy. When she got her first massage, she thought, "This is what I want to do. I would love to make people feel like this." It's spiritual for her, an exchange of energy, a way to be nurtured by nurturing others.