Kassim Osgood may be the best special teams player in the NFL, which means he has a spine the size of Point Loma. Try running out in the middle of Interstate 5 at rush hour. Similar.
But the Chargers' tough guy doesn't use his fists.
“No. I like to keep my helmet on,” he says. “And I like my pads. They keep me young. And it beats going to jail every day.”
Chayin Osgood,
boxing for Donovan State Prison
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Battle of the Badges VI
When: Tomorrow, from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m.
Where: Barona Valley Ranch Resort & Casino
What: Ten boxing matches, featuring officers from the San Diego Police Department, Donovan State Prison, San Diego Sheriff's Department, Chula Vista Police Department, the Border Patrol, San Diego Probation and San Diego Corrections. Proceeds will benefit the Community Youth Athletic Center.
Tickets: Adults $20, children (10 and under) $5. Available at the door or by calling (619) 474-2922.
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Chayin Osgood, Kassim's older brother by two years, is a bit different. Maybe even tougher. He goes to jail every day. Chayin is a corrections officer at Donovan State Prison, so he doesn't exactly punch in at the La Valencia Hotel each morning. But punching other men doesn't bother him much.
Chayin, hardly a boxer by trade, works at it two hours a day, four days a week at the Community Youth Athletic Center in National City. And, once a year, the 30-year-old gets in the ring for three minute-and-a-half rounds, all for charity.
Tomorrow, he will fight the Sheriff's Department's Michael Cerda as part of the 14-bout card at the sixth annual Barona Battle of the Badges, which starts at 4 p.m. at the resort and runs through 8 (all money goes to CYAC youth programs). For the second time in his 30 years, Chayin will step into a ring with the intention of beating on another guy.
His first experience was at Barona a year ago, when Chayin, who plays wide receiver for the San Diego Enforcers (made up of local law officers), discovered the difference between football shape and boxing shape. He won the fight by a decision, but didn't exactly look like Sugar Ray Robinson doing it.
“He exhausted himself,” Kassim says. “He has to learn to pace himself. It's a common mistake. Boxing is different.”
So Chayin, whose resemblance to his brother (he's 6-3, Kassim's 6-5) is remarkable, decided to hit the gym and try to get some kind of idea.
“You watch boxing and those guys make it look easy,” Chayin says. “But when you get out there with 5,000 people watching you, it's a different ballgame. It's hard to manage your nerves, to slow down your heart rate.
“Last year, I punched myself out. I didn't pace myself. But let's say I left everything in the ring.”
So he isn't going to be challenging those Russian heavyweights – whoever they are – anytime soon. Chayin doesn't support his wife and children in the ring, but they kind of get a kick out of watching him.
“Everyone does – everyone except my mom (Phyllis),” he says. “She knows it's all for charity, but she's nervous about me being in the ring. But she watches. This year, I promised her I would try not to make her as nervous. All I can tell you is that, out of the 5,000 people watching last year, I heard her voice the most.
“I tried boxing when I was a kid, but my mom put a stop to it because our gym was on the wrong side of town (Salinas). So I played football four years in high school (North Salinas) and in JC (Hartnell College). I was a wide receiver, so it runs in the family.
“My brother and I were best of friends growing up. We never fought. My mom thought he was too scrawny to play football, but I knew he was good. She could yell at me, but we were going to keep playing football.”
Chayin later worked for United Airlines, hearing complaints as a customer supervisor. “Now,” he says, “when I get yelled at, I can yell back.”
That would be at Donovan on Otay Mesa, where as one of 800 officers, Chayin has served for two years. His stepfather and uncle have been in corrections, and he prefers working in a prison to being a police officer – because he knows the clientele.
“I grew up with it, listening to all the stories,” he says. “Where I work, you know what you're dealing with. Out on the street, when you walk up to a car, you don't know what you're dealing with.”
He spends his days around murderers, child molesters, rapists and thieves. But he doesn't throw punches in the slammer and he doesn't make friends.
“You want to use the least amount of force possible,” he says. “You may wrestle somebody to the ground, but you never punch anybody. That's the easiest way to land yourself in hot water. If you throw a punch, you'd better be able to justify it.
“You have to maintain a professional approach. You don't want to make any friends (with the inmates). You always keep a small amount of fear. That keeps you coming home. But in terms of paralyzing fear, no. There's a night-and-day difference between the prison life you see on TV and in the movies, but, still, you can't get too familiar; you can't get too comfortable.”
Chayin knows there's a chance that he's going to be seeing some of these convicts again, anyway.
“They come back all the time,” he says. “When they get out, the running joke is: 'When are you coming back?' ”
Is it just me? Boxing seems safer.
Nick Canepa: (619) 293-1397; nick.canepa@uniontrib.com
