My first fight in Madison Square Garden was 17 years ago. I was 25 years old and 119 pounds, which made me a bantamweight. Merriam-Webster defines “bantam” as “any of numerous small domestic fowls that are miniatures of members of the standard breeds” or “a person of diminutive stature and often combative disposition.”

The diminutive stature came naturally. The combative disposition took work. Backstage at the weigh-in for the New York Daily News Golden Gloves finals, I stripped and stepped on the scale, avoiding the eyes of my opponent. As the female official diddled the counterweight to the left and right of the number 19, I mentally recited Cus D’Amato’s advice to Mike Tyson about the hero and the coward: The hero and the coward feel the same inside. It’s how they act that divides them.

It was hard to act like a hero in thong panties, but I didn’t have an ounce to spare for briefs.

In the dressing room, my trainer, Mike, wrapped my hands with gauze.

“Cut the ring off,” he told me. “Don’t follow her around.”

I could hear the anxiety in his voice. This was only my second fight. Two months before, I’d outjabbed a chunky Dominican in a church in Queens. Now I was facing Patricia Alcivar, the defending Golden Gloves champion, ranked No. 2 in the nation. Mismatches are common in female boxing, because the scarcity of opponents means there is no novice division.