had the perfect fighting body. Long reach, wide shoulders, a low center.
“You’re one arrogant son of a bitch, do you know that?” he snarls at me, words ejecting from his mouth rapid-fire. He’s got a hint of a southern drawl, a faded accent.
I blink. “Anything to win, Coach.”
“Take off your helmet. Now, God damn it!”
I unfasten it, hold it by my side. Coach is still in my face, but his proximity won’t jar me. I know he’s harder on me than any of his other students.
It’s because I’m the best.
“You think you can switch southpaw in the pros?”
“Plenty do. Jones Jr, Hagler.”
“You’ve got a long way to go to get your name in with them, boy! Come on, show me what you got with your left, then.”
Coach backs up, pulls a mouth guard from his shirt pocket and chews on it.
His shirt pocket. The guy is wearing slacks, for fuck’s sake!
He kicks off his leather shoes, peels off his socks. He’s got gross old-man toenails.
He drops into an orthodox stance.
Now my heart is racing. I’ve beaten Coach before, but he is one tricky fighter, and he’s got a ton of power, that special kind of old-man muscle.
I set my stance, leading with my right, waiting with my left. I don’t put my padded helmet back on. Coach is in here without taped wrists and in fucking slacks and a dress shirt… he doesn’t usually fight.
It would be unfair of me to wear the helmet.
Coach hops toward me, a little dance, swaying left, right. He stutters with his feet, deceptively light for somebody his weight, but I see the feint before he throws it, and know where the follow-up is coming.
I counter, hit him in his arm, grab hold onto it and spin around him until I’m on his back.
But Coach spins with me, and now he’s on my back. With his hands around my face, I worm out of his hold, throw a left cross. He dodges, and swivels a kick at me.
Damn it, the kick is a feint! I don’t notice it until too late. My arms are stretched downward, blocking his low leg, and I see his right fist hurtling straight toward my jaw.
He cracks me, and I stumble backward, head spinning, the taste of metal in my mouth.
It was a good fucking hit, that tricky motherfucker.
“Come on, boy,” he taunts me. “You think you’re ambidextrous? You think you got what it takes?”
I feel the heat inside me, the competitive fire, ignite. I don’t get angry – I never get angry in the cage. Get angry, and you lose discipline. Get angry, and you’re done for.
But you still got to have fire, competitiveness. It’s not about wanting to win. It’s about wanting not to lose .
I test a jab, he slaps it away, and so I keep testing it, testing it, watching the way he moves.
He puts too much weight on his back leg. It’s because he’s got a gut, he’s compensating. I jab quickly at his face, boxer-style, but deliberately hit wide. I know he’s going to counter with his right, but I duck it, grab onto his thigh, and tip him backward.
He goes down hard onto his back, and for a split second I’m paralyzed. He’s my coach, the closest thing I have to a father, and I just knocked the wind out of him.
In the second I hesitate, he whirls a leg at me, kicks out my feet. I crash down hard onto him, and then we’re grappling on the ground.
I can smell his sweat, hear his labored breathing, but his strength is just astonishing.
I’ve got to stick to using my left as my dominant hand. After all, that was the test.
And so I weave around him, pin him where I can, get his body into position so that I’m on his back and he has no leverage.
To someone watching, we must look like two human-sized beetles tussling on the pavement.
I sit him up, get my left arm beneath one of his armpits, and then pull it up to his neck. I kick his outside thigh with my heel, right where his lateral cutaneous nerve will be, and numb his leg.
No more leverage. It’s physics, it’s biology, it’s science.
I then pin his other arm with my foot against his
“You’re one arrogant son of a bitch, do you know that?” he snarls at me, words ejecting from his mouth rapid-fire. He’s got a hint of a southern drawl, a faded accent.
I blink. “Anything to win, Coach.”
“Take off your helmet. Now, God damn it!”
I unfasten it, hold it by my side. Coach is still in my face, but his proximity won’t jar me. I know he’s harder on me than any of his other students.
It’s because I’m the best.
“You think you can switch southpaw in the pros?”
“Plenty do. Jones Jr, Hagler.”
“You’ve got a long way to go to get your name in with them, boy! Come on, show me what you got with your left, then.”
Coach backs up, pulls a mouth guard from his shirt pocket and chews on it.
His shirt pocket. The guy is wearing slacks, for fuck’s sake!
He kicks off his leather shoes, peels off his socks. He’s got gross old-man toenails.
He drops into an orthodox stance.
Now my heart is racing. I’ve beaten Coach before, but he is one tricky fighter, and he’s got a ton of power, that special kind of old-man muscle.
I set my stance, leading with my right, waiting with my left. I don’t put my padded helmet back on. Coach is in here without taped wrists and in fucking slacks and a dress shirt… he doesn’t usually fight.
It would be unfair of me to wear the helmet.
Coach hops toward me, a little dance, swaying left, right. He stutters with his feet, deceptively light for somebody his weight, but I see the feint before he throws it, and know where the follow-up is coming.
I counter, hit him in his arm, grab hold onto it and spin around him until I’m on his back.
But Coach spins with me, and now he’s on my back. With his hands around my face, I worm out of his hold, throw a left cross. He dodges, and swivels a kick at me.
Damn it, the kick is a feint! I don’t notice it until too late. My arms are stretched downward, blocking his low leg, and I see his right fist hurtling straight toward my jaw.
He cracks me, and I stumble backward, head spinning, the taste of metal in my mouth.
It was a good fucking hit, that tricky motherfucker.
“Come on, boy,” he taunts me. “You think you’re ambidextrous? You think you got what it takes?”
I feel the heat inside me, the competitive fire, ignite. I don’t get angry – I never get angry in the cage. Get angry, and you lose discipline. Get angry, and you’re done for.
But you still got to have fire, competitiveness. It’s not about wanting to win. It’s about wanting not to lose .
I test a jab, he slaps it away, and so I keep testing it, testing it, watching the way he moves.
He puts too much weight on his back leg. It’s because he’s got a gut, he’s compensating. I jab quickly at his face, boxer-style, but deliberately hit wide. I know he’s going to counter with his right, but I duck it, grab onto his thigh, and tip him backward.
He goes down hard onto his back, and for a split second I’m paralyzed. He’s my coach, the closest thing I have to a father, and I just knocked the wind out of him.
In the second I hesitate, he whirls a leg at me, kicks out my feet. I crash down hard onto him, and then we’re grappling on the ground.
I can smell his sweat, hear his labored breathing, but his strength is just astonishing.
I’ve got to stick to using my left as my dominant hand. After all, that was the test.
And so I weave around him, pin him where I can, get his body into position so that I’m on his back and he has no leverage.
To someone watching, we must look like two human-sized beetles tussling on the pavement.
I sit him up, get my left arm beneath one of his armpits, and then pull it up to his neck. I kick his outside thigh with my heel, right where his lateral cutaneous nerve will be, and numb his leg.
No more leverage. It’s physics, it’s biology, it’s science.
I then pin his other arm with my foot against his
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