A WOMEN FROM THE BRONX THAT WILL KNOCK YOUR A-S-S- OUT!!

Fellas I know you like those Latin women but here is one if you ever meet you need have a second degree blackbelt or something, Nisa Rodriquez is not to be played with, T4R gives her massive respect and grandstand for her accomplishments. meet her

They come from around the neighborhood to see her hook, that crazy hook. Tough musclemen in gold chains and do-rags, wide-eyed children, the fat señoras who mind the desk downstairs; they crowd the ring at St. Mary’s gym when she fights, watching her move, hoping she’ll do damage. They keep track of her weight, of her training, of her potential, gauging it as if it were their own. “When you gonna fight next?” they ask when they pass her in the hallway. “Yo, Sweet Hands, knock ’em dead.” She grins when they call her that. Sweet Hands. The ring name her mother’s boyfriend gave her because he thought she was too sweet to fight.


At 18, Nisa Rodriguez is five foot eleven and still growing. On the streets of the South Bronx, she comes across as willowy and a little bashful—that is to say, utterly benign. She speaks softly, cushioning consonants with her tongue and letting L’s swim around in her mouth in a way that advertises Spanish as a first language. The boxer emerges only after she’s changed into fighting gear, her tank top exposing the thickness of her arms and the distance they can throw a punch, her hair pulled back tightly, making her fine features more severe, Vaseline smeared over her arms, chest, and face so that her opponents’ gloves slide right off her.


Not long after she stepped into the ring, the crowd got what it was waiting for. Her hook came barreling in, just beyond her opponent’s peripheral vision. She hissed as she threw it—hiss, hiss, hiss—like maracas. Then: the gummy sound of flesh against rubber, and her opponent, a big strong man who outweighed her by 70 pounds, started dancing around, his muscles turned to jelly, his body shaking against the rope like it was electric. She went for his face, and it crumpled, a dumb look of surprise bleeding out of his features.

She put on a good show that night, rotating between the two guys so that they would have a chance to catch their breath. The impression she gave was one of sheer, unmitigated violence.

“Is that all?” Nisa asked, panting and elated, as a bell signaled the end of the last round. Another boxer snorted. “There are no more guys,” he yelled to her from across the room. “You’ve beat them all up.”