Ernest pushed him relentlessly.
There was no coddling.
If Tommy dropped his guard, Ernest would tap him on the forehead with a focus mitt.
Hard enough to sting, soft enough not to damage.
“Keep your hands up,” Ernest would bark.
“Cole’s kid hits harder than that. You want to eat a straight right because your arms are tired? Keep them up.”
While Tommy learned the mechanics of suffering, Richard Cole was busy constructing a spectacle.
Ernest received the official contract via courier on a Tuesday.
It was thirty pages of dense legalese printed on heavy stock paper.
Cole had rented out the grand ballroom of the Zenith Athletic Club.
He had hired professional referees, a ring announcer, and independent judges.
He was turning a schoolyard bullying incident into a private gladiator match for his wealthy friends.
Ernest sat at his kitchen table, a single yellow bulb buzzing overhead, and read the contract.
It was airtight.
Clause 4.2 explicitly stated that the one million dollars would be transferred via wire into Ernest’s designated account within twenty-four hours of a victory.
Clause 7.1 detailed the penalty of a loss.
Ernest would sign a non-disclosure agreement, waive all rights to sue Oakridge Academy, and legally agree to relocate out of the county within thirty days.
Ernest signed it.
His signature looked small and messy next to Cole’s flowing, confident script.
By week three, Tommy started to change.
The fear hadn’t left him.
Ernest didn’t want the fear to leave.
Fear kept you sharp.
But the panic was gone.
It had been replaced by a quiet, simmering focus.
Tommy stopped complaining about the pain.
He started studying boxing footage on Ernest’s laptop, watching how the greats slipped jabs, how they managed distance, how they controlled the center of the ring.
One night, while holding the focus mitts, Ernest noticed something.
Tommy wasn’t just throwing punches anymore.
He was predicting Ernest’s movements.
When Ernest feinted a left hook, Tommy didn’t flinch.
He ducked and pivoted, perfectly positioning himself for a counter to the body.
Ernest dropped his hands, breathing heavily.
He looked at his son.
Tommy was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on Ernest like a predator tracking prey.
“You saw the feint,” Ernest said.
“Your left shoulder dipped early,” Tommy replied, his voice flat, analytical.
“You always dip your shoulder a half second before a hook. Hunter does something similar. I watched a video of his last exhibition on social media. He loads up his right cross. He telegraphs it.”
