Foo Fighter Chris Shiflett forgets that even Rocky got his butt kicked once in a while.

Thanks to my older brother, Mike, boxing was constantly on TV in our house growing up, so it seemed only natural for me to start boxing a couple of years ago. Down at my gym, Church Street Boxing in New York City, they put together these White Collar Fights, where part-time pugilists beat the hell out of each other. Our band's publicist, Steve Martin, had been in one of these fights a couple of years ago. We're about the same size, so our trainer, John Rosado, suggests that we fight.

In the weeks leading up to the bout, I became fanatical about my training. I quit drinking booze and eating meat. I go to the gym at least four times a week and jog almost every day. I do my crunches religiously every morning on my living room floor. In my mind I've become Rocky, training on the bleak Siberian country-side, to Steve's Ivan Drago. I feel like I'm ready for a title shot, never mind this little three-rounder. I imagine that I'll dance around the ring, sticking and moving like a smaller, whiter Ali.

Come fight night, I'm on adrenaline overload as we walk out to the ring. I can hear my friends shouting words of encouragement. My legs feel like Jell-O, and I suddenly realize that this is gonna be a lot harder than I'd anticipated.

They ring the bell, and as we move out and touch gloves a funny thing happens. All of a sudden it seems really lame to be in a band. The words of encouragement have disappeared only to be replaced by shouts of "C'mon, you pussy!" "Throw something, Hollywood!' and my personal favorite, "This ain't no TRL!" All those weeks of training melt away, and the two minute round seems to last an eternity. Where’s my fancy footwork? What happened to my dazzling jab and lead right? I finish the round exhausted and covered in sweat. In the second round, I hit Steve with a low blow (accidentally, of course) and get a little warning from the ref. I then wind up barreling into him repeatedly with my head, which as you can probably guess, isn't proper boxing technique. At the end of the third, I give him one last head tackle and it's over. Like in a high school talent show, they don't pick a winner but each of us gets a nice trophy. I'd have to say that although I managed to dodge Steve's power shots, the fight probably would've gone his way.

It's an amazing rush to finally have boxed in front of a crowd. And it's a completely different feeling than playing a show. Rock concerts don't usually leave you with a headache for the next day and a half.