As "Real Steel" continues to rake in box-office cash ($67 million-plus at last count), following in the sweaty tradition of boxing movies such as "Rocky" and "Cinderella Man," real boxers continue to practice the sweet science in area gyms — including fitness classes. But is the boxing experience different for women than for men? Who's got the upper cut? The Record staff writers Sachi Fujimori and Mike Kerwick bravely volunteered to find out at LA Boxing in Paramus.

Sachi Fujimori's account:

At first sight, I know my boxing instructor, Darren Goodall, understands women. On one chiseled arm is a tattoo with script letters for "Mom"; the other arm is dedicated to "Grandma."

The 21-year-old Golden Gloves medalist attracts a strong following of females to his noon class. "The women seem to be more dedicated; some of them you see here every day," says Goodall.

I'm handed a pair of canary yellow boxing gloves borrowed from the gym. I'll later discover punching in loaner gloves is equivalent to going barefoot while wearing bowling alley shoes. When I remove the mitts, my hands stink like feet.

But we're not there yet. First, I must explain the longest hour of my life in recent memory. I find a spot near the front of the room next to my very own 150-pound punching bag hanging from the ceiling. Fast-paced hip-hop music booms over the speakers. Goodall leads us through a series of warm-up drills, jumping jacks, running in place and "burpees" (squat thrusts). He has that perfect balance of drill sergeant authority and charisma, which makes me not want to let him down.

Breaking a sweat

I discover early on that I can't do push-ups. I knew this already, actually, but it didn't affect my day-to-day life until now. This class is going to be tough with my weak upper body.

I'm a runner, have been since childhood, so any form of workout that involves my legs is welcomed. So when Goodall pulls out his cellphone timer to have us race around the gym for two sets of double laps, I love the competition. Cardio is a big part of a boxer's training.

About 20 minutes into the class, I glance at the hands on the clock, and am lamenting that we have 40 minutes to go. In the wall-length mirror, my face is already puffy red and sweaty wisps of hair are sticking to my forehead. That doesn't usually happen until the end of an hourlong run.

I slip on my gloves and now it's time to punch the heavy bag. Goodall demonstrates the drills in quick strokes, like a professional — which he is. Then I try to imitate these moves — jab, cross, hook — and my hands move slowly and clumsily. But I do enjoy making contact with the bag — it's much more satisfying than punching the air.
The drill patterns become more complicated, and Goodall stops over to give me personal instruction. He demonstrates the basic punches in slow motion — jab, hook, cross, upper cut — and helps me improve my stance, so my left foot leads and I'm squatting more.

To my left, a woman is beating the life out of her bag, but with a rhythm, like she's dancing. Her brown eyes are focused on her target like laser beams.

Success stories

Her name is Julia Yoler. The 33-year-old from Little Ferry said she's lost 25 pounds since joining the gym in June. And her punching bag, on occasion, is a stand-in for an ex-coworker, she says with a grin.

One of our last boxing drills really puts the pressure on. Goodall calls out a number, and we have to hit the bag as hard as possible — for the specified number of punches — to produce a deep slapping noise. If it's not loud enough, he threatens to make us run more laps. He goads us on to strike more powerfully. "Especially my girls — I want to be scared of my girls," he says.

Walking out of the gym that afternoon, I was tired but not totally wiped out. The pain didn't set in until the next morning, when I woke up in bed and I didn't want to move a muscle, not even to reach over to check my cellphone. I felt like I had been in a fight in a back alley. Muscles ached that I didn't even know I had — in my neck, my armpits, my shoulders. I hobbled down the stairs of my apartment like the Tin Man.

But all of that soreness also meant that I had a really good workout. By the next day, my biceps actually showed faint signs of definition, as did my abs. I began fantasizing how fierce I could be if I lived near a boxing gym and made it a regular workout.

Mike Kerwick's account:

I'm in a bathroom on the eighth floor, running hot water and soap over my hands, when I notice the red marks on my knuckles. One glows like a campfire on my left middle finger. One hides in the crevice between my right ring finger and pinky.

"Who won?" asks a colleague when Sachi Fujimori and I return from our boxing workout.
I joke that I did, that Sachi was so beat up she didn't come back. Meanwhile, I'm the one with raw knuckles. And Sachi's hands look like they spent the afternoon at a salon.
We did not actually fight each other. But we did put on gloves. Even with the gloves, throwing punches tends to leave a few marks.

Before the workout, our trainer — Darren Goodall — showed me the bridge of his knuckles. There were calluses. It was an important lesson, I realized later. The reddish hue on my knuckles is a small price for fitness. It called to mind that terrific Shane Falco line from "The Replacements":

Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory lasts forever.

More women than men walk through that door to take part in Goodall's one-hour workout. Our class of approximately 15 people is a nice mix: some men, some women and two unprepared reporters. Sachi and I are both runners, so when Goodall threatens to crush us with a few more laps around the gym, we stifle our snickers.

Our muted laughter vanishes quickly. After 25 minutes of conditioning, we put on yellow boxing gloves for the heart of the workout. We throw punches at the heavy bags, then drop to the floor and do 10 seconds of push-ups. We throw more punches, then drop to the floor and do 10 more seconds of push-ups.

Throwing punches isn't that taxing at first, but it takes a toll on my arms. Each ensuing push-up is more difficult, until my arms stop cooperating, and I spend most of those 10 seconds of push-ups collapsed on my stomach.

The best component of the workout is the way Goodall builds his punching combinations. We spend 30 seconds throwing two left jabs. Then two left jabs and a right cross. Then two left jabs, a right cross and a left hook. It feels a little like Simon — that memory game from the 1980s.

An hour later, the workout ends.

Who won?

My knuckles say I lost. But if my editors ask, tell them I won.