A real lightweight

I love everything about boxing, except, well ... the boxing.

So much about the so-called “sweet science” appeals to me, from the lingo (“where’s my Cut Man?”) to the best nicknames in sports: Ray “Boom Boom” Mancini, “The Bayonne Bleeder” (Chuck Wepner, who inspired the character of Rocky), “Iron Mike” Tyson (who fights this weekend), “The Hit Man” Tommy Hearns and, of course, “The Greatest,” Muhammad Ali.

Fists wrapped in tape, the satin shorts, the pre-fight trash talk, the seedy gyms and broken noses -- I can’t get enough of it. And at the same time, I can’t watch any of it.

Girly statement alert: Despite myself, I just can’t watch people punch each other really hard.

I want to. I want to be a part of all that history and grit, all those underdogs knocking out big guys. I just have a little problem with violence. It’s not a moral or ethical problem; it’s just flat out squeamishness.

I can watch Dr. 90210 suck globs of amber-colored fat from the thighs of aging models all day. I have no problem witnessing a Romanian woman getting her 160-pound tumor removed on the Discovery Channel. Still, one gash above the eye in the boxing ring, and I’m nauseated.

If you didn’t catch “The Contender,” Sylvester Stallone’s reality show about boxing, neither did I. That is to say, I watched religiously every week, but when it came time for the climactic fight at the end of each show, I had to institute a complicated ritual. I would go in the next room, have my boyfriend mute the volume because even the sound of the punches landing would make me cringe, and have him yell out the results of each round. I got so attached to the boxers, I couldn’t stand to see them hurt. Worse, I couldn’t watch someone I had grown to like lose. So, there you have it. Boxing would be my perfect sport if no one got punched, no one bled, no one lost.

Maybe I should just stick to ballroom dancing -- that seems to be mad hot right now.

Fictional boxing is just as tough for me to watch as the real thing. Not only will I be unable to watch the big Tyson versus McBride fight this weekend, I will probably also have to skip “Cinderella Man,” in which Russell Crowe stars as a Depression-era boxer in a film noted for its realistic fight scenes. Although, let’s face it, the real heavyweight bout would be Russell Crowe versus Naomi Campbell throwing phones at each other. Now that I could watch.

When I saw “Rocky” as a little girl, I spent every boxing scene with my face in my dad’s shoulder asking, “What just happened?”

This Christmas, I went to see “Million Dollar Baby” by myself and ended up bonding with the teenage boy sitting next to me. During every gory fight scene we just stared at each other, wincing and covering our ears. At the end of the scene, we’d poke his mom and ask, “What just happened?”

I don’t need to be a champion pugilist watcher, but like Rocky, I just want to go the distance. I want to watch a round or two not through my fingers or from the next room. Why? Because I want a piece of the qualities I admire in fighters: tenacity, ferocity and gumption.

Once when Ali was asked if it bothered him to fight in a smaller ring, a ring that favored his slower opponent, he responded “I would fight that sucker in a phone booth.” That’s some chutzpah right there. Even the unknowns on “The Contender” were gamers. When choosing their opponents, they never chose the guy they could take, but instead the toughest guy available, flying in the face of standard reality show strategy.

My default state is anxious. I’m often half a chill pill away from freaking out over something that isn’t remotely grave. This is why I’m staying in the ring despite the bloody brawling, because every boxing metaphor speaks right to me, from rolling with the punches to learning to take it on the chin. I can’t throw in the towel on the sport I love but can’t watch, but I might need to cover my eyes with it.

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Teresa Strasser can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.