SHANE. The six weeks I spent running provided no upkeep on my physical conditioning. Kelsey secured the spot for the championship fight again, and although I had been training for several weeks, I was now feeling the ache once again from my poor decision to stay away from the gym.

“Get those knees in the air, Dekkar. If I have to tell you again, I’m going to cancel this show. You’re a sloppy god damned mess,” Kelsey screamed as he slapped the edge of the ring.

“I’m on it boss,” I said between breaths.

“You’re not on anything. You were on vay-goddamned-cation for six weeks, and now you’re paying the price, aren’t you? Now, get ‘em in the damned air. My little sister jumps better than that,” he growled.

“Alright boss,” I huffed.

“Probably ought to call him and say we’re going to forfeit, this is going to be the mismatch of the century,” he complained as he turned away.

“No sir. Not a…”

“Mismatch,” I said as I sped up the pace of the rope.

“You get those knees in the air or I’m calling them,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“On it boss,” I hollered back.

Endurance is the most important part of boxing successfully. Contrary to what most people think, brawn, size, speed, and ability are important, but not as critical to a boxer’s success as endurance. If a boxer doesn’t have endurance, he’ll never last a round in the ring in a fight, let alone two successive rounds. For me, running and jumping rope build endurance more than anything else, and most boxers would likely agree. My legs and chest feeling as if they were on fire, I lifted my knees higher and crossed my arms every third jump.

If this doesn’t end quickly, I’m going to collapse.

I looked down at the surface of the ring. I was jumping in a puddle of my own sweat large enough to bathe in. As I maintained my now new pace, Kelsey slowly sauntered across the gym and toward the ring.

“Alright, slow it down and let’s get you on the speed bag for a bit. You’re going to spar tomorrow. Three in a row. Four rounders,” he slapped both hands on the surface and waited.

As I slowed the pace of my rope and lowered my knees, I turned toward him, “Three?’

“Yeah, three. You got a problem with it?” he asked.

“No boss, just…” I brought my arms to a slow stop and stepped to the side of the puddle.

He rolled his shoulders back, stuck out his chest and looked up with disgust in his eyes, “Just what? God damn it Shane. We’re going to win this fight. I know you can fight, and I know there ain’t a fucking thing I can do to make you a better fighter, as long as your head’s in it. Did you hear me? If your head’s in it. Now, I train you. You sure as fuck don’t train me, kid. So, I need to get your head in it. Now, I look at you and I ask myself things. I ask myself, Kelsey, what are ya going to do with this damned kid to make sure his head’s in the fight? Then, I answer myself because there ain’t another soul in this gym of mine I trust to give me an intelligent answer. So, I say to myself Kelsey, I tell you what. My suggestion is to get him used to fighting again, because there’s something in that fucked up head of his that likes fighting, and only fighting makes him want to be in the fight. And, I look at myself and say, damn old man, that’s a great answer.”

He slapped the edge of the ring and pointed at his chest, “So, the old man inside of me told the trainer who stands on the edge of the ring here what to do. And the trainer in me is doing just that. And you’re the trained. The boxer. The trainee. The man who doesn’t know jack shit. So, tomorrow, we’re fighting three in a row. Four rounds a piece. Back to god damned back. You know why?” he stood six feet or so from the edge of the ring and raised his hands in the air.

“Because you’re the trainer?” I asked.

“No!” he screamed as he waved his hands back and forth.

“Because I’m the trainer and I said so. That’s the important part. The part you never understand. You do what I say. And I say you’re fighting three back to back,” he shook his head and lowered his hands.

“If you say so, boss,” I smiled.

“Well, I just did say so,” he grunted.

“Now, if you’re done taking a break, let’s get on that speed bag.”

“Yes sir,” I responded.

“That’s more like it,” he said as he nodded his head and smiled.

As I lifted the ropes and stepped from the ring, he shook his head and turned away. As dramatic as Kelsey was in his daily activities, it was difficult to be certain if his disgust was something he actually felt, or if it was all part of his show. Either way, he often made me feel as if I wasn’t good enough to meet his expectations of me. The end result was good for us both. For Kelsey, I worked harder than I ever had, and probably ever would. As I dropped the rope beside me and started slowly on the speed bag, Kelsey approached.

“Now, beat on this thing for about thirty minutes. I’ll come get your tired ass when I think you’re done. And, as you’re beating on it, think of how you’re going to out think and out box that big Alabama cornfed fucker, alright?” Kelsey snapped.

“I’m on it, boss,” I responded as I sped up the pace of my hands slightly.

Tyson “Tick-Tock” Brock was a 237 pound savage born and raised in the state of Alabama by his father. His father, a former boxer, trained him in his early years. His grandfather, also a boxer, trained his father. His great grandfather the same. As the story goes, his great great grandfather was a boxer on the plantation where he was raised a slave.

Seven or eight years prior to his involvement with professional boxing, he began a YouTube channel of his own, featuring his street brawling in the back yards of people stupid enough to challenge him. Every single video which was added to the channel would eventually end up with a million views, and a few thousand comments. A professional trainer who viewed a few dozen of his street brawls approached him and offered to train him – the rest is history. Now the undisputed Heavyweight Champion of the World, he was certainly going to be my toughest opponent. His career, not unlike mine, was never down, never out, and undefeated.

As I got lost in the rhythm of the speed bag, I began to think of the videos I had seen of his fights. Slowly, I unfocused my vision on the bag and recalled the matches in the many alleys and yards he had fought in.

As I replayed the videos in my mind, I came to the realization there was no way on earth I going to win this fight. If it went the distance, I’d lose for certain. He was far too big, and far too strong. He’d win on points alone.

To win, I would have to beat him.

Unconscious.