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Olympic gold rewards 17-year-old boxer's resolve

By Nancy Armour

Associated Press

Published: Wednesday, Oct. 10 2012 8:54 a.m. MDT

In this Sept. 18, 2012, photo, Olympic gold medal boxer Claressa Shields takes a break during workouts at the Berston Field House in Flint, Mich. The ferociousness that won Shields an Olympic gold medal melted away as she climbed on the podium to claim it.

Carlos Osorio, Associated Press

FLINT, Mich. — The ferociousness that won Claressa Shields an Olympic gold medal melted away as she climbed on the podium to claim it.

She giggled and grinned as she caressed it, the prettiest thing the 17-year-old boxer ever had. She shimmied and bounced. She belted out the national anthem with gusto. Finally, unable to contain herself any longer, she held the medal high in the air, threw her head back and laughed.

"This gold medal," Shields said, "will make my life a lot better."

Truth is, she can thank herself for that.

"It took a lot for her to get to where she is, because she so easily could have gone in a different direction," said Mickey Rouse, who along with husband Jason Crutchfield, Shields' coach, has taken Shields in.

Unwilling to accept a life of poverty, crime or worse, Shields found her family, her passion and her way out through a small, dark basement gym.

"If you want something," she said, "you've got to get it yourself."

Now she is an Olympic champion, the only U.S. boxer — male or female — to leave London with a gold medal, with more possibly in store four years from now in Rio de Janeiro.

Her first fight since London is Thursday night at the National PAL Championships in Toledo, Ohio.

Shields is a fearsome presence in the ring. Her scowl and angry stare are the first signs of the trouble that awaits her opponents, and she removes any doubt with a furious flurry of punches. Her record is 29-1 — though she disputes that one loss — and she made easy work of the world's best fighters in her middleweight class at the London Olympics, capped by a 19-12 victory over Russia's Nadezda Torlopova, a former world champion at a higher weight class.

Outside the ring, however, she's no different than most 17-year-old girls. She spends hours texting and surfing the Internet on her computer, so much so that Crutchfield occasionally has to take her phone away. Her idea of celebrating when she got back from London was meeting friends at the mall, roller skating and having water balloon fights. No matter how hard she tries to keep it clean, her room is usually a mess.

She is meticulous about her appearance, often trying on three or four outfits before picking one. She's as at home in ballet flats as boxing shoes, and recently traded her braids for long, loose curls. She bites her nails — "I think it's a habit" — and plays with her hair when she talks, and she can't resist a quick glance to check herself out when she passes a mirror.

"Very typical kid," Crutchfield said. "Verrrrry typical."

Yet she just as easily could have been one of the many children who slip through the cracks in Flint.

Once the proud home of Buick, Flint has never recovered from the body blow it took when the auto industry collapsed in the late 1980s and early 1990s. The 2010 U.S. Census found nearly 37 percent of Flint residents living below the poverty level, more than double the national rate; the city had a median household income of just $27,199. The unemployment rate in August was 9.5 percent, more than a point above the national average, according to preliminary figures from the Bureau of Labor Statistics.

The East Side, where Shields spent most of her childhood and still trains, has been hit particularly hard. Miles of barren concrete and toxic contaminants are all that's left of Buick City, the vast assembly complex that employed almost 30,000 people at its height and dominated the landscape. Large portions of the surrounding neighborhoods are little more than rubble, blocks filled with burned-out or dilapidated houses. Liquor stores are plentiful, grocery stores not so much, and what few businesses there are barricade themselves behind thick, black bars on the doors and windows.

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