“One-two-three-four,” Jimmy my trainer calls out. I respond immediately with a jab-cross-hook-uppercut combination. The sound of my punches on the leather echoes off the walls in the back corner of the gym, as we work my standup on the focus mitts. He quickly fires each of the mitts back at me as if throwing punches of his own. I bob my head up and down and side to side, then slide back beyond his reach in a practiced rhythm.

We’ve been at it for six minutes and still have four to go as he picks up the pace, calling out random number combinations. “One-two, one-two, two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, two-three, three-four, three-four, three-four,” he shouts over the sound of the other fighters training in the gym. “C’mon move faster, hit harder, let’s go.”

My response is automatic, jab-cross, jab-cross, cross-hook, jab-cross-hook, jab-cross-hook, cross -hook, hook-uppercut, hook-uppercut, hook-uppercut.

After so many years and so much training it’s become instinct. I even find myself silently repeating the corresponding punches in everyday conversations anytime someone speaks these numbers.

Every muscle in my body is taut and I’m covered in sweat from head to toe as if I’ve been swimming. Picking up the pace, I throw my punches harder, sliding back and forth, in and out of range quicker. I lose myself in the flow as the adrenaline pumps through my veins. My heart beats faster. I’m like a tiger on the hunt, as I think to myself I am iron. I cannot be broken. I will not be defeated.

By the time the buzzer sounds at ten minutes my lungs are burning. My chest heaves as each breath enters and exits. My heart is beating so fast it feels like it may explode through my chest, but I won’t stop. I can’t.

Swallowing back a couple small sips of water, I try to slow my breathing.

One minute passes and Jimmy’s barking again. “C’mon No-No, this is where we separate the men from the boys. This is where champions are made.” He’s right.

I spit out my third sip of water, toss the bottle on the floor and pick up the twenty-five-pound medicine ball. I spend the next ten minutes switching between up-downs and medicine ball slams at a blistering pace. By the time I make it to my last station on the elliptical machine I’m nearly staggering with exhaustion. Again, I push the pain and weakness away, reminding myself this is where champions are made.

It’s hard to believe I’m only four weeks away from a title fight. I’ve been working toward this opportunity for a long time.

Growing up in Boston wasn’t easy, especially in Southie. What used to be an Irish enclave where crime had a foothold, but residents still looked out for each other has become a bleak and hopeless place. A place where people barely acknowledge their own and heroin now has a stranglehold with no end in sight.

My mother left when I was too young to remember and she never looked back. My father wasn’t exactly the nurturing type, but did the best he knew how. Unfortunately, his best usually consisted of saving his blackout drinking rallies for the weekend. This left mostly misery and fits of anger for the rest of the week and with me being the only child, I was often the target of his rage. He was the first person to ever call me No-No, telling me it was because I had No chance and No future. He would then start in with a sermon on how I should, “never start a fight but always finish it.” This was usually followed by a story or two of how he broke some guy’s nose who challenged him, or knocked a guy out defending some damsel who’d been disrespected.

Ever the hero, eventually he’d catch me rolling my eyes or not paying close enough attention and things would escalate fast. I learned young how to take a punch the hard way and before long, I learned how to deliver one as well.

I watched my father drink himself to death, penniless and miserable before I turned eighteen and decided that would never be me. I let the nickname stick as well, to remind me of what I’d never become. Without any discernible skills that could result in earning a decent living I turned to the only thing I’d known all my life, fighting. Since then, Mixed Martial Arts has become my passion, my obsession, my salvation and someday it will be my redemption. I will not let anything stand in my way.

I step off the elliptical machine and dry my face off before hitting the showers when Jimmy, my trainer and also the owner of the gym, makes an announcement. “Guys I’ve got some great news…” His words fade away as I see her. Oh shit.