Christopher Walsh spars with Olympic boxer

NORTHPORT| Apparently I'm an idiot. What other explanation can there be? When we came up with this idea of a series exploring various athletics throughout our community, I knew I'd be trying some unusual things.

Things most people in their right mind would never get a chance to do, or even think about attempting.

So when the idea popped into my head to try to get into a ring with Deontay Wilder, the only American to medal in boxing at the Beijing Olympic Games, it seemed to be a chance-of-a-lifetime kind of opportunity.

Not only did I want to know what it would be like to briefly spar with the 6-foot-7 heavyweight Golden Gloves champion, I really wanted to experience what it felt like to get hit by him.

Apparently I'm crazy, too.

Wednesday evening, we did just that, although I did make the smart move of telling family and loved ones what I was doing beforehand, but not exactly when.

'You tell that big man not to hurt you!' my mother said.

The original idea was to go through a couple of days of training, try everything from the speed bag to learning how to throw a punch, just like the Rocky montages minus the raw eggs.

I even brought my own jump rope.

Timing, rhythm, conditioning, I had none of these things on my side.

After arriving at Skyy Gym, though, we pretty much had to cut to the chase. Wilder, who had no idea we would be sparring, finished off terrorizing a punching bag (maybe its screams were my imagination) and rested while I went through the basics with trainer Jay Deas.

Gloves on, headgear tight, Vaseline on the face, and we were off.

The first moment of sheer terror popped into my brain when he got into the ring, but I had enough experience with boxing to know that looking scared probably wasn't a good idea. Neither was trying to run away.

Not surprisingly, the sparring lasted roughly 11 seconds and all of one landed punch.

After a few moments of moving around and indecision, my naïve self thought it may be a good idea to try something like throw a decent strike. Did I think I could actually land one? No.

But I didn't want anyone giggling at my lack of prowess, so I decided to put a little something behind it.

Bad idea. The problem was, I opened up to do so. Wilder stuck out a left jab that dropped me to the floor.

That split second I barely recognized it was coming when the big black glove made contact and I saw stars. It was like someone wrapped up a hammer and whacked my right cheekbone, even though the jab had nowhere near the force as one of his hardest punches.

Wilder later told me what he was trying to do was hit the padding on my headgear, just to give me a taste of it all. However, I leaned forward at the key moment, so I took the full force on my face.

I felt the punch from the right side of my lips all the way to my right temple. Put your fist up against your face there and notice where the middle knuckle is, right under the eye. It took a while, but mine swelled up, giving me a TKO-worthy bruising.

Thankfully, he missed my nose, which is difficult to do, but there was a little trickle of blood.

Wilder, to his credit, didn't ask once, but twice, if I was OK. Maybe he had never seen someone go down so fast.

Nearly 24 hours and some serious ice later it looked as if someone put either a leech or fresh makeup under my eye, and my lips still felt as if they had been deadened up at the dentist.

Overall, though, I was fine, and a little wiser for the experience.

We could have done more. Deas suggested having Wilder work on his defense, not throwing any punches while I swung away, but I declined. I'd gotten what I came for, thanked them for their time and the lesson, and was ready to spend the rest of my life rooting for all of Wilder's boxing dreams to come true.

Just please don't ever hit me again.

Reach Christopher Walsh at christopher.walsh@tuscaloosanews.com or at 205-722-0196.