“You’re out of your mind, Arty,” Mickey grumbled, chewing on a matchstick.
“I heard about the bet. Word travels fast when a billionaire drops a million-dollar bounty on a kid’s head. You’re putting a lamb in a cage with a pitbull.”
“He’s not a lamb,” Ernest said.
“And Hunter isn’t a pitbull. He’s a rich kid who’s used to winning on points and intimidation. Can we use the back corner?”
Mickey waved a hand dismissively.
“It’s your funeral, but if the kid gets concussed, I don’t know you.”
Ernest led Tommy to a frayed heavy bag in the corner.
He handed Tommy a pair of hand wraps.
“Hold out your hands.”
For the next twenty minutes, Ernest meticulously wrapped Tommy’s hands.
He explained every movement.
How the wrap supports the wrist, how it protects the knuckles, how it turns a fragile collection of small bones into a solid club.
“Boxing isn’t about anger, Tommy,” Ernest said, securing the Velcro.
“Anger makes you sloppy. Anger makes you gas out in forty seconds. Boxing is geometry. It’s rhythm. It’s breathing.”
Ernest strapped a pair of battered red gloves onto Tommy’s hands.
“Hit the bag.”
Tommy stepped forward and swung his right arm.
It was a looping, awkward strike.
The glove slapped against the leather with a pathetic thud.
The heavy bag didn’t even sway.
Tommy dropped his arms, his face flushing red.
“I can’t do this.”
“Stop,” Ernest said sharply.
He stepped behind Tommy, grabbing his hips.
“You’re throwing from your shoulder. Your arm is just the whip. Your legs and your hips are the handle. Power comes from the floor. Up through the legs, twisting the hip, extending the shoulder. Try again. Step into it.”
Tommy squared up.
He took a breath, twisted his back foot, and snapped his right hand forward.
Smack.
It wasn’t a knockout blow, but the bag swung backward an inch.
Tommy’s eyes widened.
He had felt the kinetic transfer.
He had felt the power generate from the ground up.
“Better,” Ernest said.
“Now do it ten thousand more times.”
The first week was agony.
Tommy came home every night covered in bruises, not from sparring, but from sheer clumsy exhaustion.
His shoulders ached so badly he couldn’t lift his fork at dinner.
His knuckles were raw beneath the wraps.
