From punch combos, the coach has introduced a new move into the training program. A move that I have to polish or have my nose flattened like pizza dough. It’s called the weave. The right weave comes after the jab-straight combo, while the left weave comes after the jab-straight-hook combo. After sketching the Nike swoosh with my body, he asks me to follow it up with a mighty right cross or a left hook.
A minor trouble is that after I weave, my feet are too parallel, which undercuts my balance and therefore, lessens my counterpunching power significantly. It took a few tweaks and repetitions before I became comfortable with it. I need a few more drills before I can rely on it for survival. The blow after the weave had so much leverage that I felt like I smashed the boxing pad into smithereens. Its sweet echo reverberated all over the hollow gym, overriding the thunderous bass kicks of the hip-hop track playing in the background. I felt like a king, the boss of all bosses. Up until the coach mixed it all up.
There was a drill where we semi-simulated a real bout. After the usual punching one-offs or combinations, he would tell me to weave and evade the incoming punches – at the very last millisecond. I didn’t know if I was weaving or running away for dear life. The mitts would graze the tufts of my damp hair. Some blows, if they had an additional modicum of force, would’ve snipped off my skull. I was no longer aware of form or fundamentals. I was backing into the wall and punching bags around us. My feet were all tangled up, and I felt like my shoes were untied. The counterpunches after the weaves hit the mitt right in the middle but did not yield the shotgun blast that I covet. Only the bitter sounds of defeat: a cotton wisp free-falling to a pillow and the coach’s disparaging sneer.
Punch Time Clock 