Sixkill

22

I was with Z. We were confronting the heavy bag in Henry Cimoli’s boxing room. Both of us wore light speed-bag gloves.

“You’re hitting it with your arms,” I said.

He was stripped to the waist, the sweat glistening on his body.

“You get your power from your legs,” I said, “and from your stomach and waist. Watch me... You keep him off you with a left jab, say.”

I demonstrated.

“Then, I’m exaggerating the movement and slowing it down so you can see it... In a crouch, like so, feet solid under you, and you lead with your right hip a little, that twists your body a little at the waist, and you torque the right cross around behind the hip, as your body unwinds, and all of you, once you got it mastered, explodes into the punch.”

I hit the bag, very hard. Z nodded.

“If I can remember,” he said.

“You don’t remember,” I said. “You do it until it becomes muscle memory. Like riding a bicycle.”

“Crees don’t ride bicycles,” he said, and went into his boxing stance. He put a sharp jab on the bag that made it jump, then led a bit too much with his right hip and delivered a right cross, hard into the heavy bag.

“Good,” I said. “Coupla thousand more reps, it’ll be as natural as breathing.”

“Almost there,” Z said, and hit the bag again.

“Gimme ten more,” I said.

Which he did. When he stopped, he was puffing but not a lot. I nodded at the stool near the ring, and Z went and sat.

“You doing your intervals?” I said.

“Four times a week,” he said.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m up to fifteen intervals,” he said.

“We can do some intervals on the heavy bag, too,” I said.

“Hit it fast and slow?” Z said.

“There’s a couple of approaches,” I said. “You been spending time with Henry?”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t hurt,” I said.

“Not drinking much, either,” Z said.

“No harm to that,” I said.