2 For 20

My head snapped back again and again. Circling and covering, circling and covering. Snap, snap like a towel cracking in the locker room, one after another. Someone, somewhere, saying something loudly but I have no idea what it is they are saying. Suddenly, there’s something rusty, something metal tasting in my mouth. Again Charlie Brown’s agitated teacher yells something. Snap, snap, snap!!! The towel cracks again. My monkey brain takes over and I drive off my rear leg, cross - lead upper cut - cross.

Then someone pushes the dimmer switch all the way to the top and the tunnel I was in disappears. I stood there, sweat covered and mouth bloodied. My training partner of just a few weeks was lying on the canvas in front of me. Our coach comes in the ring with an ammonia cap and snapped it under my partner’s nose. After he sat up, Coach turned his attention to me, no doubt to praise me for my first ever knock out (to be fair it was a knock down - he wasn’t out, I don’t think, he was just exhausted from punching me so much).
“Goddammit Baldy-locks!” (that’s me) “You box just like Joe Frazier!!!” 
My heart swelled with pride.
“That in NO WAY is a compliment!!!”
Cue the wha... wha... whaaaaa... tuba solo.
As near as I can remember, the last part of our conversation went like this:
Coach: “You know how many punches you threw in that round, Dummy?”
Dummy: “I’m not sure, Coach, I was… I think… maybe…”
Coach: “Three!!! You threw three fucking punches in three minutes! You dumb son of a bitch, you’ll eat twenty punches to give two!”
Dummy: “I thought you said I threw three, Coach?” (not argumentatively, more like confusedly)
Coach: “You’re missing the fucking point, Son!!!”
He was mumbling some other stuff as he stormed out of the gym toward the locker room. I missed most of it, but I caught several “motherfuckers”, “goddamn“, and “sons of bitches” you can be sure.

My “style” could be summarized fairly quickly as the style of “no style”, or was that “no technique”? Anyway, 26 years has passed since that day’s lesson. I believe I’d at least make Coach proud knowing I still do “Free Bird” rounds, and that while I might not have done everything he said, I heard every word. Not only do I remember, I am still teaching it HIS way.

I am a product of his wisdom and patience, (and boy did he have patience) and owe him more than I could ever put into words. Sure, he yelled and cussed, but he always worked in a, “Goddammit Dummy, you’re tough”, or “a normal human would’ve went down by now”. Those statements meant the world to me as a slow, heavy-footed, non-technician. I was lucky to have his heavy-handed brand of tough love and it’s served me well these last few decades. 

And Coach, if you can hear me, I understand what you meant now: You can teach them to jab and cross with the best of them, but you can’t teach them to love the contact. They either do or they don’t. And maybe that’s a good thing.