Lords of the Ring

As a plebe, Hernandez is not allowed to listen to music in his room, leave campus on weekdays, wear civilian clothes or stay up past 11 p.m. He must wake up every morning at 6:30, and keep his shoes shined and his room spotless. He must memorize obscure naval trivia and recite it loudly when any upperclassman asks him about it. He must "chop," moving at a half-run, half-walk, everywhere he goes in his dormitory.

Hernandez wanted to attend the Naval Academy from the moment he first laid eyes on the campus, in the fall of 1995. He was 10 years old. His older brother, William, had just survived his summer as a plebe, and the whole family paid him a visit. Frank was impressed with his big brother as he watched him parade in his summer whites and make his way through an obstacle course.

William graduated from the academy in 1999 and now serves as a naval flight officer aboard a reconnaissance jet in Japan. Frank wants to be a service warfare officer. To qualify for admission to the academy, Frank had to agree to attend the Naval Academy Preparatory School, a yearlong program for future midshipmen who need extra academic work before enrolling at Navy. Despite this preparation, Hernandez already finds the work daunting. He's struggling to keep up in chemistry and history.

IT IS SEPTEMBER, and Coach McNally is rattling off the list of boxers who are going to fight against Air Force, the five-time national champion, when the Falcons visit Annapolis in a few weeks. Hernandez is among them, the only plebe who will represent Navy. McNally tells him, privately, that it is a sign of confidence in him. Now he has to get ready.

Someone pops a 50 Cent CD into the stereo as Hernandez and the other boxers begin doing circuits in the boxing gym. The room is ringed with sepia-tinted pictures of past boxing teams and blue-and-gold plaques listing former brigade champions. Heavy bags are suspended from the ceiling by chains in one corner; a speed bag juts out of a wall; headgear and gloves are stored in black cages. In the center of the floor are three boxing rings, one of them elevated. A heavy smell of leather and sweat hangs over everything.

One group hits the heavy bags; others are shadowboxing; more are sparring; and a small number of women are jabbing at one another on the elevated ring.

Until a few years ago, Naval Academy women didn't box; they took a course in self-defense that focused on how to disable an attacker. But Carla Criste, a Navy track and field coach, objected to that old way of doing things. She wants female mids to be able to start fights, not just respond to them. "When you hear the word 'self-defense,' it's pretty victimizing, as if you are waiting to get beat up," she says.

This will be a landmark year for women in the Navy boxing program. For the first time ever, they will compete in the brigade championship. The combatants will be senior Amber Coleman and junior Maia Molina-Schaefer, two 125-pound women who want to be Marines.

McNally doesn't even glance at the women. He's focused on the men, and he doesn't like what he sees: "You guys -- especially you guys who haven't gotten to the brigade finals -- need to concentrate on keeping your hands up," he says. "You're getting lazy."

A few seconds later, he interrupts them for a strategy lesson. Boxing, he says, is "contact chess. You're thinking three or four moves ahead." He demonstrates one of his old students' favorite slips in slow motion. He leads with his left, slips the counterpunch and clubs his opponent softly in the side. "Twice I saw him break somebody's ribs with that shot," McNally says, smiling.

THE INSTANT THE BELL RINGS on the night of October 3, Air Force junior Ryan Dorsey-Spitz comes at Hernandez with a flurry of punches. He's a far more experienced boxer than Hernandez, and he wants to impress the judges right away. Dorsey-Spitz's punches are wild, and Hernandez seems to block or slip all of them. Hernandez is quicker, too, and snaps off a low jab that connects hard. A crowd of about 200 midshipmen urges him on. But Dorsey-Spitz is a few inches taller than Hernandez, with a longer reach, and he keeps the midshipman at a distance. They dance in circles around the ring, Hernandez blocking most of his opponent's punches but unable to throw many of his own.

"Your hands were up, but you're not throwing too many punches," McNally says after the first of three two-minute rounds. "Double jab, hard right to the body, hook to the head." Hernandez nods, breathing heavily.

McNally's advice doesn't make any difference. Dorsey-Spitz continues to control the pace of the fight in the second round. And the judges will reward it. The bell rings again.

"You got two minutes to win this fight," says Hernandez's assistant coach and cornerman Jim Searing.