#// sir u know many forms of martial arts

[nrth-wind-a]

[for fashion!skrael: how did you first get into fashion? is there any particular philosophy that motivates your designs? how do you keep your inspiration? for frankie: what's it like to be behind the scenes of shows? how does it compare to jobs you've worked in the past? :v]

Skrael:

1. How did you first get into fashion?

Skrael grinned. “Ah, my mother used to leave that reality television show Project Runway on for background noise, and a very small version of me seemed to have taken the lessons to heart; I used to draw out the failed designs from every episode, with my own ‘improvements.’ Eventually, my mother noticed enough that she bought me a sketchbook for my... oh, I believe it was eighth birthday? I nearly filled the thing not months later, and it... rather took hold, I suppose.” He chuckled. “Though, I would say that it was my high school art teacher who really started encouraging me to pursue it more strongly. She allowed my final projects to be the clothing I designed for homework sketch practice. It was great experience for my fashion school applications.”

“...I suppose, going back to the very earliest start, though, the first person who should be credited with my interest in fashion should be the great Tim Gunn himself. Without his presence, I doubt Project Runway would have been quite as interesting.”

2. Is there any particular philosophy that motivates your designs?

“Everyone wants to express themselves; I like making clothing for those who seek to express themselves in the ways they are told not to.” 

3. How do you keep your inspiration?

Skrael hummed, thinking about the question for a moment. “I... suppose, similarly to what I said about my motivation; those who enjoy my designs-- the gothic, the alternative, the punk-- they encourage me to keep going. They inspire me.”

His face turned mischievous, “Not to mention... a little bit of spite, too, never hurt,” and he gave a wink.

Frankie: 

1. What’s it like to be behind the scenes of shows?

Frankie gave a hearty laugh, running his hand through his cropped green hair, “Oh man, you ever been on a boat during a sea storm? ‘S’like that, but I get the unique pleasure of keepin’ others from hurlin’ themselves into the storm to make it worse. I don’t usually get directly involved, though; I’m more supposed to watch the door and keep out anyone who isn’t on official business. So, I guess to go off that boat metaphor, I’m like the guy in the lighthouse who has to watch the storm, and only sometimes sees the spray of a wave flyin’ at me.” 

“Although, with Skrael and Bellroc-- my most loyal clients-- I think that metaphor goes out the window, ‘cause I definitely get splashed by waves then. Those two are very good at what they do, and I wouldn’t say they’re difficult to work with. But y’know Meryl Streep’s character in Devil Wears Prada? ...Yeah. They could probably be besties with her, if they could ever manage to hold a civil conversation for once.” His smile gave away that he wasn’t so much complaining, as he was making a friendly joke. “But anyway, they’re not abjectly assholes-- except, y’know, to each other-- so it’s not like I get drowned when I work for them, or anything. They just... are very entertaining sometimes. You know it’s never gonna be a basic or easy show with them. Adds some excitement to life; keeps ya on your toes.”

“Which, I think kinda ties into that second question there.”

2. How does it compare to other jobs you’ve worked in the past?

“Working fashion shows, I gotta be honest, is actually some of the more exciting stuff I’ve done in my life. Before this, I did nightshift security work-- never really had anything truly crazy happen there-- and some odd jobs where I could take ‘em. Construction projects, yard work when I was a younger college kid tryin’ to get by. Nothin’ quite as glamorous as my current field. I got into the fashion business through my nightshift security experience, y’see; I started needed work during the day, cause pullin’ nightshifts five days out of seven started to wear after a while, so I looked into what jobs I could take that were still in the security field, and, honestly, I didn’t even specifically look for the fashion industry-- it kinda grabbed my hand and yanked, y’know?”

“As for how it differs... I mean, for one thing, most of the shows are during the day, so I get to sleep through the night, now. The pay’s a little better, especially when Skrael and Bellroc get involved; just the same way those two bump up the excitement. I don’t always have a regular shift anymore, but I get to stream video games as a side hobby that sometimes pays through donations, so I appreciate getting to do that when I can. Overall, it’s just been a pretty nice gig, so I’d say I enjoy it more than past jobs, too. Plus-- I’ll tell ya what, some of those designers are chronic gossips-- I’ve heard so much celebrity drama that didn’t go public, I could probably write my own book about it all. I would never, of course-- confidentiality is a key part of my job-- but, y’know. ‘S’still fun to listen to.” 

[discotreque]

LwD 1.10, “No Small Parts”

Well, that was the most fun I've had watching Star Trek in literally a quarter of a century.

I had high hopes for this series. I love TAS, largely because of its wacky outsized concepts that could only have worked in animation—not that they all did work, but the potential was so apparent to me, even as a kid reading the Alan Dean Foster novelizations—and as an adult, there's something about the imagination of Lower Decks's FX setpieces that transcends even the glorious CGI bonanzas of Discovery.

Pause for a confession. I've long pushed back against criticism of serialization in new Trek. That's just how TV is now, okay? Might as well complain about it being in widescreen. But I'm backing down a little, because I've realized there is something about Star Trek that's inextricable from at least a partially-episodic format. And while Picard was telling a different kind of story, I can't deny that my favourite episodes of Disco have been the ones with a mostly self-contained A-plot. After 10 delightfully episodic instalments of LwD, its focus on long-term development of characters instead of a season-spanning puzzle-plot (okay, mostly just Mariner, but we only have 10 × 22 minutes and she is the star) has been downright refreshing.

So here we are, at the end of the most consistent and well-executed Season 1 of a Star Trek series since, arguably, Those Old Scientists. And sure, if they'd had to produce another... yikes, 42 episodes? Then sure, they probably would have dropped a clunker or two—but they didn't, and winning on a technicality is still winning. I'm practically vibrating with excitement for Disco to come back next week, but damn, I'm going to miss this little show while it's on hiatus.

Spoilers below:

Something I've been keeping track of finally paid off this week! (Which never happens to me, lol.) The destruction of the USS Solvang marked the first present-day death(s) of any Starfleet officer on Lower Decks, the only other on-screen killing at all being a flashback in "Cupid's Errant Arrow". Which makes sense, being (a) a comedy, and (b) about typically "expendable" characters: it hasn't been afraid to flirt with a little darkness here and there, but killing people off at Star Trek's usual pace wouldn't just be wrong for the tone, it would be downright bizarre.

But... people die on Star Trek. That's one of the core themes of the show, really: space is full of knowledge and beauty, but also danger and terror, and believing that the former is worth the risk of the latter is (according to Trek) one of humanity's most noble traits. I'm the least bloodthirsty TV watcher I know, but the longer we went with a body count of nil—ships completely evacuated before they were destroyed, main characters hilariously maimed without permanent consequences, etc.—well, I didn't mind per se, but the absence of truly deadly stakes was definitely getting conspicuous.

Turns out they were saving it up for maximum impact. And holy fuck, I've never felt such a pit in my stomach watching a ship get destroyed that wasn't named Enterprise. It felt grim and brutal and somehow both much too quick and dreadfully inevitable—and yeah, it looked extremely fucking cool—and I'd like every other Star Trek property for the rest of time to take notes under a large bold heading labeled RESTRAINT.

Comedy doesn't need to do this, but my favourite comedy does, and in a way that few other art forms can even approach: lower my emotional defences by making me laugh, endear character(s) to me with goofy-but-relatable antics—then BAM, sucker-punch me in the motherfucking feels. M*A*S*H is probably the classic example on TV, Futurama was notorious for it, and even Archer has pulled it off a few times; it's also a staple of some of my favourite standup. I wasn't sure if Lower Decks was going to go there in Season 1—and wasn't sure if they'd earn it—but I knew if they did, that they'd nail it, and damn. Feels good to be right.

Last batch of notes for the season!!! I rambled enough already, so let's do it liveblog-style:

I fucking KNEW they were going to use "archive" visuals from TAS at some point, I KNEW IT :D

"THOSE OLD SCIENTISTS" ahahahahahahahahahahahaha

I like chill and confident Boimler a lot? You can really see—

oh bRADWARD NOOOOO

That opening shot of the Solvang tracking down to the red giant was extremely Discovery-esque... minus the motion sickness, that is

A lady captain AND a lady first officer? That's—oh hey, it's Captain Dayton's brand-new ship. Hahaha, that means they're totally fucked, right?.

Yep! They sure a—umm, wh—shit, okay, but—oh no—no, you can't—wait DON'T

...fuck

FUCK.

Narrator: "And then Amy needed a five-hour break."

[live-action Star Trek showrunner voice] "Gee, Mike! Why does CBS let you have two cold opens?"

Okay, yes, the bit with Rutherford cycling through all the different attitudes in his implant was transparently an excuse for Eugene Cardero to vamp while waiting for something to do in the story, but as far as I'm concerned they can contrive a reason for him to do a bunch of different silly Rutherfords in a row any time they damn well want, because that was classic!!!

EXOCOMP EXOCOMP EXOCOMP EXOCOMP

AND THE EXOCOMP IS PAINTED LIKE THE EXOCOMP IS WEARING A LITTLE EXOCOMP-SIZED STARFLEET UNIFORM

EXOCOMP!!!!!

The slow burn and now the payoff of the Mariner-is-Freeman's-secret-daughter plot has been executed so well. I'm beyond impressed with this writer's room, y'all—they are threading a hell of a needle here

"Wolf 359 was an inside job" would have been a spit-take if I'd had anything in my mouth

...how many memos do you think Starfleet Command has had to issue asking people to stop calling the USS Sacramento "the Sac"?

CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW THEY'VE DECORATED THE SHUTTLECRAFT SEQUOIA THOUGH

Is, uh, is it weird if I'm starting to ship Tendi and Peanut Hamper a little? It is weird, isn't it. I knew it was weird...

Coital barbs??? I take back everything I said about wanting to know more about Shaxs/T'Ana.

The "good officer" version of Mariner is... kind of hot, tbh! But Tawny Newsome has done such a great job of building this character all season that her voice getting uncharacteristically clipped and martial and "sir! yes, sir!" is also deeply, deeply weird

Ah, so this is literally exactly like when TNG (and DS9) would bring in, and then blow up, a never-before-seen Galaxy-class ship, just to underscore that we're facing a real threat this week, baby. And hey, it fucking worked—my heart was in my throat, omg, for the reveal of the—

PAKLEDS?????????

The fucking PAKLEDS have been gluing weapons to their ships for the last 15 years. GREAT.

(We interrupt the SHIP BEING SLICED INTO SCRAP for an interesting bit of world-building: on Earth, the traditional First Contact Day meal is salmon!)

"I need a dangerous, half-baked solution that breaks Starfleet codes and totally pisses me off! That's an order." I'm starting to think Captain Freeman might actually be overqualified for the Cerritos, y'all—she's REALLY awesome

OH SHIT IT'S BADGEY, this is a TERRIBLE IDEA

"How much contraband have you hidden on my ship?" "I don't know! A lot!"

Awwww, Boims!!!

AHAHAHAHAHAHA, FUCK THIS, PEANUT HAMPER OUT

BADGEY NOOOOO

AUGHHHHH WHAT THE CHRIST DID HE JUST—BUT—RUTHERFORD'S IMPLANT????

RUTHERFORD!!!!!!!!!!

SHAXS!!!!!!

F U C K ! ! ! ! !

ahaIOPugdfhagntpgjrq90e5mgu90qe5;oigoqgw4ouegrw5SP;IAEHURVa IT’S THE TITAN???????????

IT'S CAPTAIN WILLIAM T. RIKER ON THE MOTHERFUCKING TITAN??????????

i'm screaming I'M SCREAMINGGGGGG​TGGGTGQER;​LBHAOIBVNV;​OAPBIJNVagr;h;​oagruipuwtnaetbaetgq35ghqet

I'M SO GLAD THIS WASN'T SPOILED FOR ME WTF

I AM WEEPING LIKE A CHILD

...

(Just a brief 20-minute pause this time)

And oh wow, seeing Will and Deanna hits different after Picard too, in a few different ways, which I may even get into later now that my heartrate is back to normal, lmao

Oh, I am always here for some jokes at the expense of the Sovereign class. The Enterprise-E sucked. They should have built a new bigger model of the D and new Galaxy-class interiors for the TNG movies, and I will die on that hill

OKAY, FINE, YOU GOT ME, RUTHERFORD × TENDI WOULD BE ADORABLE AND THIS IS ACTUALLY A PRETTY GOOD SETUP FOR IT

Awwww, Shaxs though :( Congrats on the single most badass death in Star Trek history, dude. The Prophets would—well, the actual Prophets would probably be slightly confused about most of it, but Kira Nerys would be proud of you and I feel like that probably counts for more. RIP, Papa Bear

I am here all damn DAY for the Mariner–Riker parallels, ahahahahaha

Pausing it to record my prediction that Boimler's commitment to not caring about rank anymore is going to last 3... 2...

Yep.

Bradward, how DARE YOU.

"Those guys had a long road, getting from there to here." OH FOR THE LOVE OF—

What a brilliant way to resolve and renew the various character arcs and relationships moving into Season 2! The writers could easily have brought everything back to status quo—chaotic Mariner fighting with her mom and being a bad influence on Boimler, etc.—and done another 10 just like these, but I suspect that wouldn't have been ambitious enough for these writers. What a blast. I cannot wait for more.

Thanks for following along, friends! Stay tuned for my (similarly patchy and amateur) coverage of Discovery, starting next week!

[paradoxicalloop]

hey so MMA can you talk about it? Idk I’m interested in it! How long have you been doing it for/how does it work(sorry for the dumb questions hehe)

No not a dumb question I love talking about it.

But in all honesty I did quit I think 3 years ago (because the division of the MMA studio I went to got shut down and they had to move us to another studio and I didn’t like it there) anyway. Every MMA studio is different but I can talk about my experience.

I did MMA (or we usually just call it karate most of the time) for about 8-9 years? Basically, you start out with white belt (of course) and every few months or so you would get to test for your next belt. To train for that next belt there were 4 things you were tested on: each belt had it’s own specific 1) form 2) one-steps 3) ju-jitsu 4) and board break.

A form is a really cool looking sequence of moves you that you have to memorize. (they’re really cool, look up karate forms on Youtube if you want some examples). Each belt has 1 form that goes with it.

A “one step” is basically a mulitstep move (i know the name is misleading) that is essentially exibiting how one would respond if some steps and punches at you. They could be as simple as blocking the punch with one arm and then (mining, not actually hitting them) punch, punch, palmstrike; or as advanced as hip-tossing them to the floor or grabbing their arm, swinging underneath it and then (safely) choking them from behind. Each belt has 2 one-steps you need to master.

The ju-jitsu...(idk what noun im supposed to add to this, sequences? sure let’s go with that) The ju-jitsu sequences are a lot like one steps, where u practice one technique, but they’re on the floor (the art of ju-jitsu is a type of knee-wrestling martial art). These could vary from how to get out from being pinned a certain way, to learning one choke or arm lock. Each belt has 1-2 ju-jitsu moves you need to master.

And lastly, boardbreaks. one of the most hyped up parts, and the last part of test day. It’s pretty self explanatory, you are assigned a move you must be able to break a wooden board with. But the boards do vary in thickness, especially for the little kids. (Also i know i said you’re assigned one move, but actually when ur testing for ur black belt u have to do four, but i’ll explain black belt testing in a bit) However, you should never try to break a board by just straight punching it like they do in the movies (and some other martial arts but idk how they do it there) you could damage your fingers that way.

In between practicing all of that we also do knee-wrestling, sparing, and practicing technique.

The regular testing is just an hour or so where ur family watches u do all the things listed above. But black belt testing is way different

Black Belt Testing

Ik this is a relatively small part of karate but I found it really important when I did it, and it’s a three day process, so I want to talk about it. But also if I remember correctly I’m technically not legally allowed to talk about it in this much detail so please don’t share this around too much

Black belt testing only happens once a year, and the training process is very extreme and lasts from August until the test in November. And well, the mantra for black belt testing is “someone will bleed, someone will cry, and someone will throw up,” and they really aren’t exaggerating.

First , you have to do running and push-ups nearly every day. You are required to run at least a mile outside of class once every three days, and I think 50 pushups (or as many as you can do, on ur knuckles, without dropping to ur knees) every day (they give you a log to keep track of this).

You also have to get up every Saturday morning for a special black-belt candidates only class. During that class they usually have you start with running three miles (to be able to pass testing you have to be able to run 3 miles in 30 minutes, and you arent allowed to walk at all while running those 3 miles)

AND you have to do 10 “acts of kindness” outside of class and log them, because “being a black belt isnt just about having the belt, its about showing the respect, politeness, etc. of a black belt.”

And that’s just the prep, if you can survive that then you actually get to test. The testing itself is a 3 day event, two are held in private and the last day is a ceremony for family to watch. If I remember correctly this is how these days play out:

First day: private testing. It happens on a Saturday morning, adrenaline’s high. We start off with warm up, listen to the head instructors speech about how this isnt going to be easy and how proud he is that we’re here, do line drills (preforming one move over and over again while walking in a line across the room), and then do our form, one steps, and ju-jitsu sequences for the instructors. There are also plenty of sets of push ups randomly thrown in (they say that during all the test days combined you are required to do at least 500 push ups). Push ups are also randomly dealt to the class if someone doesnt say “Yes sir” or “yes ma’am” loud enough, if we are being in any way disrespectful, etc.

Second day: The hard one (imo). This happens a week after the first test. After warm up we put on our shoes and then walk across the street to the track, we get yelled at (sometimes encouragingly) during our run, and I, in typical me fashion, end up throwing up (yes this happened both times). We then have to do knuckle pushups on the concrete. (yay.) After you’re sweaty and tired from that you get to spare! You have multiple rounds of sparing, some of them with tall adults you dont know, and honestly just try to survive. After that we move on to knee wrestling, more pushups, and then the day is over.

The Third Day: The ceremony. If you’ve made it this far you will very likely receive your black belt, the third day is really just for show. This is held in the Sunday after the second test. Instead of the karate studio it’s held in a really nice gymnasium and all your family is there to watch. You’ve been assigned a place to stand and have done practice runs because everything has to be perfect. You start of with warm up, making sure to tell yes sir and yes ma’am as loud as you can and stand up in attention as straight as possible (which u can imagine was very hard for me /j) when instructed. Then you do line drills again, your form, a round or 2 of sparing, and then the hard part. The big build up: board breaks. Each board is actually 2 boards tapped together and u have to break 4 sets of them and then you can finally relax. (I cried both times because I wasn’t able to break them quickly). Then they hand u ur certificate and u have to awkwardly shake all the adults hands. Then they dismiss everyone and u did it!

I know I’ve painted a lovely picture of the MMA/Karate experience but honestly it is really fun. It’s an amazing adrenaline rush, it helps you feel a sense of accomplishment, and going through all this with peers builds really good friendships. It was such a fun journey and I really do recommend it for anyone who wants to try it out. I learned so much and my time there really shaped me as a person and it was just so good. Honestly I wish I could do it again.

I’m so sorry this post is so long but I mean u did tell me to just talk about it so I gave you all the details you could have wanted.

[alextheantichrist-blog]

Law of the Jungle

The slimy bastard grinned at me as he swung his right towards my face. I ducked and came back up with an uppercut that had him kissing pavement. One of his friends tried to grab me from behind, but I elbowed him hard in the ribs and he went down on his knees. The three other guys that were with him began to circle me as the main guy got up, rubbing his jaw.

"You're pretty tough," said the leader. "But can you handle all five of us?"

"Bring it on, you ugly piece of shit!"

The leader frowned and came at me. At the same instant I sensed his buddy get up from behind and try to grab me. I sidestepped them both, making them bonk their heads together and go down again. The guy to the left of me began to put his hands up, but I was too fast for him. I pumped my left into his face and then smashed my right into his gut. He fell down and lost consciousness.

The other two guys came towards me at the same time. I dodged both their blows, hitting one with a right hook to the kidney and the other one with a left hook to the head. They both went down.

Now it was just the leader and the lackey who tried to grab me. The lackey tried to charge, but the leader put his hand on the lackey's shoulder.

"Step back, he's mine."

The leader came in with a stiff left that connected and had me seeing stars. The next thing I knew I was on my knees, taking one punch after another to the face. As one of his rights came at me, I bobbed and weaved and pumped my right into his groin. It connected and the leader went to his knees with a high-pitched scream.

I got back up and started pounding him mercilessly: left, right, left, right. The lackey tried to step in, but I threw him to the ground with a stiff left hook. I then went back to pounding the leader. His nose was now broken. His face was bleeding from three different places. The skin of his forehead had the consistency of ground beef. Still the sucker would not go down.

"Please, mercy. I didn't mean to spill your drink, honest!"

Was that what we were fighting about? It didn't matter. All I cared about was beating my opponent into unconsciousness. That's what you had to do to survive.

"Ain't no mercy here, friend."

My right fist came up to hit him again, when suddenly a blinding white light appeared. I shielded my eyes.

"Stop, police," came the cry, and I was suddenly surrounded.

I was too confused to fight back. They all had their guns trained on me. Then I felt something bash my head in and everything turned black.

I remember what I dreamed that night, because I dreamed it every night. I was seven again, looking up at my dad with his muscular frame and eyes red from alcohol. He seemed to tower over me like a giant monster in one of them Japanese movies. He grabbed me by the collar with his left hand. It felt like a vice. His right then curled into a fist and slammed into my face. It felt like getting hit with a brick.

"Nothing personal, kid. It's just the Law of the Jungle. Only the strong survive. You're still weak. That's why I gotta whip you into shape!"

His fist kept pounding into my face until it was a bloody mess. I tried to scream for him to stop, but it died in my throat. My mother was sitting in the corner, crying. Her face was swollen and puffy.

"Come on, you little shit. Fight back! You're not gonna be able to survive unless you fight back!"

With one last punch everything turned to black and the dream ended.

I stared into my parole officer's face. I could tell she was a hard woman. Her eyes and general demeanor told me she'd seen some shit and lived to tell the tale. A connection between us suddenly formed.

Two years had passed. I had just gotten out of prison.

She sighed with what I could tell was frustration. "David Wilker. In jail again, I see. You seem to really enjoy beating the shit out of people."

"It's just how I am. I'm tough and I don't take shit from nobody."

"Well, if you keep at it, you will be back in prison in no time. Do you want that?"

"I can't say I enjoy prison."

"No, no one does. That's why we're trying to keep you out of it. But you seem to be trapped in a revolving door. You get out, you fix yourself up, get a job in construction; next thing you know you get drunk and beat up some poor schmuck for spilling your drink."

"Hey, he had it coming! I didn't like that smug face of his, no sir. He was walking around like he owned the joint."

She sighed again. "I guess there's no use in telling you to stop. I wonder if there's any way for you to channel that aggression in a more healthy and appropriate manner."

She tapped her pencil on her legal pad. "Have you ever thought of taking up some form of mixed martial arts? Muay Thai? Boxing?"

"I don't need nobody to teach me how to fight. I know that well enough."

"I'm sure. But I'm saying that in that context it's appropriate to fight. You can get your fighting done there without ending up back in prison."

"I never really liked ring sports. Too many rules. It's suffocating. I can't just go out and let loose."

"Well, you better learn to control yourself, because next time it's not gonna be just a few years. You're a repeat offender. They're gonna go down hard on you."

I sighed. "Fine. I guess I will try boxing."

She looked at me with a deadpan stare. "I can sense your enthusiasm. However, I think this will be good for you. I will try to find a gym close to your area. I will give you the information, but you have to call them and go to the class, go it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I stared at the sign on top of the gym for a good five minutes. Fight First MMA. You gotta be kidding me. What a corny name.

I went inside and saw a fit-looking man with a crewcut.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here for the trial boxing class."

"Ah, you must be David. Welcome. I'm Matt. Let me introduce you to our boxing coach."

He then took me into a large space with blue mats on the floor. Half of it was full of people in white uniforms grabbing each other on the ground. That must be the Brazilian Jiu Jitsu guys. The other half was full of punching bags. Matt then took me to see a bald, middle-aged man. He was well-muscled and had scars on his face. I could tell he was a fighter.

"David, this is Steve. He does the boxing program here."

We shook hands.

"Welcome, David," said Steve.

"Call me Dave."

"All right, Dave. What brings you here?"

"My parole officer sent me. She said that since I like to beat the shit out of people, I might as well do it where it's acceptable."

Steve laughed. "Honest. Straight to the point. I like that. I think you'd be great for our program."

I smiled. This didn't seem to be so bad.

"All right, time to start class," cried Steve. "Everyone grab a rope and start skipping!"

"Hey, what's with this?" I cried as everyone headed for the stack of skipping ropes. "I ain't no middle school girl!"

The coach laughed again. "Skipping ain't just for little girls, Dave. Not only is it good cardio, but it keeps you light on your feet. It will make you a better fighter. You wanna be a better fighter, don't you?"

"I guess."

"Come on, just try it! What's the worst that could happen?"

I grabbed a rope and started skipping. I was able to do it a few times before wham! The rope hit my toes. Damn, that stung! My toes were on fire. It was a kind of pain I'd never felt before. I'd rather be hit by a sledgehammer than have to endure that pain again.

"It's okay, Dave. It hurts worst the first time. Then you just get used to it!"

I grumbled and tried skipping again. Wham! The rope hit my toes again. Since they were already sore from last time, it stung even worse. Steve had lied.

My head started feeling hot. I was seeing red. I realized I hated skipping and wanted to storm out of that damned place.

Steve must've noticed I was getting flustered, because he took me aside and said, "I know it's hard. It can be quite discouraging at times. But if you keep at it, I promise you you're gonna love it."

"I hate skipping. I don't think I will ever love it."

"That's okay. Skipping is only one part of boxing. Just stick around for a bit and I'm sure you will find something you like about it. If you like something hard enough, you will be able to grit your teeth through the stuff you don't just to get to it."

I sighed. "All right."

After more frustrating attempts at skipping, we went to weights. This I had no problem with. My work always had me lifting heavy things, so I had built up quite a bit of muscle.

"All right, everyone," cried Steve. "Put on your gloves and grab a bag! We're gonna be doing five three-minute rounds. Do any combinations you feel like. Just remember your technique."

Now this I could do. I put on a pair of gloves Steve had lent me for the class and started pounding on that bag. It felt liberating. It was just like beating someone's face in, only this guy couldn't resist.

Steve watched me for a while. "Not bad. You certainly have the raw power and you know the basic punches. However, your technique is off. You have to punch with your hips. You're punching with your shoulders. If you turn your hips, you will get more power."

I did as he said and it was like magic. I could feel the strength of the impact. The bag shuddered and started spinning.

"You see? Not only do you have more power, but you have greater reach. Sure it's maybe just an inch, but an inch makes a difference in a real fight."

"Thanks, coach."

I began putting my hips into it and was surprised with the results. The bag spun every which way. I kept pumping and pumping, until I felt the coach's fist lightly tap my face while I was punching. I went back to punching and it happened again. After a few times, I stopped and stared at him.

"Where's your other hand, boy?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your other hand should be pasted to your face. It protects you from an incoming punch. Try that."

I did. It felt really awkward, but it got the coach smiling, so I guess it was worth it.

After class, I met up with Matt again.

"How was it?"

"It was amazing! I loved it."

"Good, would you like to sign up? We have a few options for you. You could pay monthly for six months or a year or you could pay a lump sum for six months or a year."

I looked at the prices and my eyes flew wide open. "$150 per month? Are you trying to swindle me?"

"Sir, I assure you we are doing no such thing. You will find that our prices are competitive with other places in the area."

I rubbed my chin. "That sure is a lot of money. And I have to commit for at least six months, huh?"

"Yes, that is also standard for any MMA gym in the area."

I sighed. I wasn't sure about putting down that much money and committing to that much time. Six months was more than I had held onto any job.

Then my parole officer's voice came into my head. Do you wanna go back to jail?

No, sir, I didn't. This may be the only way I could stay out of prison, and I knew now that it didn't come cheap.

"All right." I sighed. "Where do I sign?"

My therapist was a petite blonde woman. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five. She spoke in a soft voice.

"How are you feeling today?"

"Uh, okay, I guess. I'm not really feeling anything."

She stared at me with a face like she knew everything and nodded.

"Okay, okay. Now I heard from your parole officer that you have a lot of issues with anger. Is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. Whenever I see red, I just lose control. The smallest thing can set me off. Someone looking at me the wrong way, for example. I hate it when someone looks at me like I'm lesser than them."

"I understand. Now, over these next sessions we're going to unpack what makes you so angry. We will try to get at the root of your anger."

"I just thought I had a short fuse. I get that from my dad."

"Really? Tell me about your dad."

"Oh, he'd lose his temper over anything. Dinner not being cooked right, me having the TV on too loud. You name it. 'Course it didn't help me that he came home drunk every night."

"I see. And what did he do when he lost his temper?"

"Oh, he beat the shit outta me. Me and my mom both."

"I'm sorry you had to deal with that. That sounds horrible."

"It's all right. I mean, everyone had that growing up, right? It's normal."

"No, it's not, actually. In these modern times, most parents don't beat their children anymore."

"What, really?"

"Yes. I think it's really important for us to denormalize it. What happened to you was not normal. It was abuse."

"Huh. I never thought of it like that."

"It's normal for victims to not see the abuse for what it is."

"Victim? Listen, honey, I ain't no victim. I'm strong. My dad made me this way. It was his rough and tumble teachings that kept me alive in this harsh world."

"Just because you're strong doesn't mean you're not a victim. Being a victim of abuse doesn't make you weak."

"It doesn't? But... but my dad said..."

"Your dad was an abuser. He would do and say anything to have power over you."

"But... but... that's what I need to survive."

"No, it's not. You can live in peace and not have to suffer abuse."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I can understand that. We will work with that until it becomes easier to believe."

"All right, everyone," cried Steve. "Let's hit the pads! Here's the combination: jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Everyone got that? All right, let's go!"

Three months had passed and I was making good progress. My technique felt much cleaner and my muscle memory was absorbing the right moves.

I was pumping my fists into the pads when Steve came up to me.

"How's it going, Dave?"

"Oh, it's fine." I hit off another combo. "Boxing's great. My parole officer's pretty happy with what I'm doing, too. The only problem is, she's having me see this shrink."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I don't like her very much. We keep talking about feelings and stuff. It's not my thing."

"Well, I say keep at it."

"Really, coach?"

"Yeah. Listen, it's not just your body that you should keep in shape, but also your mind. Is this therapist nice to you?"

"Well, yeah. Kinda too nice, like she wants something."

"All she wants is for you to get better. I know it's hard to trust people after what you've been through, but try. Not everyone is out for themselves."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I bet you tell your therapist that a lot, don't ya?"

"Yeah. How did you know?"

"I've been to therapists, too, you know. I think everyone should. We all got baggage to unpack. Does she challenge you a lot?"

"Yeah, and I don't like that. It makes me uncomfortable."

"That's important. It would do no good for her to just be 'oh, poor baby' on you the whole time. I think you've got yourself a good therapist. If you wanna keep outta prison, keep seeing her."

"But I thought the boxing was enough."

"Boxing helps, yes. However, it's only a band-aid. It won't fix everything. You have to go deep to be able to fix your underlying problems."

"Hm. I will consider it."

"Thanks, Dave. I appreciate it."

My therapist looked at me for a while. I realized over time that the look she was giving that I thought was condescending was actually just concern. That made me warm up to her a little. I still didn't fully trust her, though.

"Let's talk about your anger."

"What do you wanna know?"

"I would like to know why you are so angry."

"Gee, that's a tough one. Does there have to be a reason?"

"There's always some underlying reason, at least from my experience."

"Lemme think."

"Take your time."

I thought long and hard and I came up with one word. "Unfair."

"What's unfair?"

"Just life. I keep getting in trouble for things I can't control. I can't hold down a job. Ain't no woman who wanna stick around me."

"I see. Tell me more about that."

"Sometimes I feel like I don't wanna live anymore."

"You have suicidal thoughts?"

"Not specifics. Just this feeling that life isn't worth it."

"I see. Do you get pleasure out of anything?"

"Just boxing. It feels good to hit stuff."

"Yes, you've mentioned that before. I think that's a very healthy coping mechanism. Keep doing that."

"You really think so?"

"Well, it's better than beating up random guys outside bars, isn't it?"

"You sound like my parole officer."

"I think she has a good point."

I sighed. "Yeah, I guess so. I kinda miss showing people I'm not to be messed with. There's something personal about talking to a man with your fists."

"Don't you get to do that in boxing, though?"

"Not yet. I haven't advanced enough to get into sparring."

"Well, hopefully that will give you what you're missing in a more safe and appropriate environment."

"Yeah. I'm looking forward to that."

"Let's get back to that feeling of unfairness. Do you think it's unfair what your father did to you?"

"Hm. I never thought about it like that. I always thought I deserved it."

"Maybe you were feeling it subconsciously."

"Maybe. I dunno."

"Your father seems to have made quite the impact on you."

"He was the one that taught me everything I know."

"And yet all that you've learned has led you here."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm just saying that those things your dad taught you aren't helping you. You've been in prison multiple times. You're unhappy with your life. You have unhealthy coping strategies, like fighting people."

"You're saying that everything he taught me was a lie?"

"I'm saying that what he taught you is unhealthy. It's not how most people live."

"So I've been doing it all wrong?"

"I wouldn't phrase it like that. I don't think you're to blame. You've survived as well as you could given the environment you grew up in. But now your environment has changed and you have to adapt to it."

"I'm not sure I like this."

"That's understandable. People usually don't like change."

"You mean to tell me I gotta change everything about me?"

"Not everything, but maybe some core beliefs. For instance, tell me, what do you think about yourself?"

"Well, I'm tough. I don't take shit from anybody. I'm good at fighting. I guess fighting's all I know. Never did much else. Never did amount to anything. But maybe I deserved that."

"What makes you say that?"

"Come on, let's face it. I'm trash. A junkyard dog. I was born trash and I'm gonna die trash."

"Hm. I think we've hit on something here. You have a very negative perception of yourself."

"You mean I ain't trash?"

"I don't think so. When I look at you, I see someone with a lot of potential; someone who has been through many hard times and has done the best he could do."

I blushed. "No one ever said that about me."

"I think it's about time someone showed you some kindness. You've suffered enough."

Three more months passed. I had been going five times a week. Not only did my body feel a lot better, but I also started mastering the basics. My other hand was always pasted to my face when I threw a punch. I didn't cross my legs anymore when moving in a fighting stance. I punched with my hips, turning over my back leg whenever I threw my right. I knew all the basic slips and bob-and-weaves. I was ready for sparring.

"Dave, this is your partner, Fred," said Steve, pointing to a really smug-looking blonde guy. "He's been at it a few weeks longer than you, but he is the one closest to your level."

"Hmph, I can beat him no problem," said Fred. He was looking at me like I was beneath him, which got my blood boiling.

"What did you say, you little smart-mouth?" I cried, shuffling towards him.

"Ladies, please," cried Steve. "Let's be civil. Both of you get in your fighting stances."

As we prepared to spar, Steve went over to the timer. The beep went off and he said, "Start!"

I put out my left hand to him so he could tap it in a show of good sportsmanship. He wrinkled his nose and his left went straight for my face. I slipped it and returned with a left hook which met nothing but air. So much for sportsmanship.

I readied my left for another blow and felt two light taps on my face. Fred had thrown two jabs lightning quick. This guy was trouble.

I tried to jab again and met another left, followed by a stiff right. That rattled me a bit and made my nose sore for a few seconds. I backed off and he came at me. Hook, cross, hook. I dodged all of them and hit him right in the kidney with a right hook. Just a light tap.

He was furious. He came swinging at me with more power. I parried the first few hits, but took an uppercut straight to the chin. As my head snapped back from the impact he drove in a hard left hook to my ear. Colours exploded in front of my eyes as a high-pitched ringing sounded in my ears.

So this was his game. He wanted to beat me to show just how macho he was. Well, two can play that game. I wasn't thinking anymore. I was seeing red. I went in with a one-two and put all my strength behind the right. He dodged it easily, but realized I was going full power. He feigned a jab to the head and then got me with a cross to the body. I stopped breathing and spat out my mouthguard.

When I had it back on I charged right in. I had forgotten all about technique and proper form. I was my old self again, just brawling for the sake of it. I yelled and went to smash his face in with my right. He slipped it and went inside my guard. Boom-bam! He hit me with a left uppercut to the jaw and then a solid right straight to the face. I went down.

"What the fuck are you guys doing?" yelled Steve. "You're supposed to hold back during sparring, not go all out! If you get seriously injured, how are you supposed to train?"

I got up, still dizzy from that last cross. "You sonuvabitch, I'll kill you!"

"Bring it on, pretty boy," Fred yelled back.

I was about to charge him when I felt a hand on my chest. It was Steve. He had gotten between us.

"Now both of you, calm down. Especially you, Dave."

"Me? He was the one that knocked me down."

"And you were the one that started going all out. I have eyes. I can see the difference between someone sparring and someone trying to beat the shit out of his opponent."

"But, coach, he was egging me on!"

"It doesn't matter. You need to control your anger."

"But that's not fair!"

"Life's not fair!"

I stormed out of the gym.

I spent that evening at a bar, getting hammered. I made to leave, when this bastard bumped into me.

"Hey, watch where you're going."

"Fuck you, buddy."

He was a tough looking guy. His muscles bulged out of his black T-shirt and grey jean jacket. He had long black hair and tattoos running down his arms. He looked like a biker.

"You wanna start something, buddy?" I yelled.

"Sure, why not? Let's go outside."

As we exited the bar, a bunch of images flashed through my mind. My parole officer looking at me disapprovingly. The smashed face of the last guy I clobbered. The jail cell. I then realized that I was making a mistake.

I knew I couldn't convince the guy to reconsider. He was too hot-headed, like I used to be. So I just ran away.

"Hey, where are you going? Fucking chicken!"

As I ran, I cried tears of rage. This was going against every ounce of my being. My nature was being violated. I ran all the way home and punched a hole through the wall.

"I think you did a very brave thing," said my therapist.

"I still lost my temper at the gym, though."

"It won't all go away overnight. You are taking the right steps."

"Sometimes I wonder if I will ever change. Maybe this is just who I am. Maybe I just have to live with that."

"Changing a behaviour, especially one so ingrained from childhood, is very hard, but you were able to walk away from a fight."

"I didn't wanna go back to jail."

"Exactly. That is very important to you. It was so important that you were able to go against your nature, as you said."

"It was really hard, though."

"That's okay. It's normal. It's good to learn to congratulate yourself for the small victories."

"If you say so."

It had been a week since the incident. I walked over to Steve with my head down.

"I'm sorry, Steve. I got carried away. I promise it won't happen again."

"It's all right, big guy." He patted me on the shoulder. "We all have our demons. You need to get that anger under control, though. Not only does it get you in trouble, but it doesn't make you a good fighter. You gotta fight with your head. If you just go in swinging carelessly, you'll get knocked out."

"I understand, coach."

"Do you wanna get even with that guy?"

I looked up. "What do you mean, coach?"

"What I mean is, if you want, I can arrange a fight between you two. It will be official and legal."

My face lit up. "Oh, man, coach, you're the best! I would love to sock it to that guy!"

"It's gonna be about three months from now. You're gonna have to train three hours a day, five times a week starting this week. Part of that training will be one-on-one with me. Each solo class will be an extra $50. Think you can handle that?"

"Anything to get back at that guy, coach."

"Good. Class is about to start. Join us. Tomorrow at 5 pm we will be holding our first one-on-one class. Can you make it?"

"Sure, boss. I'll ask work to leave early. They're pretty cool with that kind of stuff."

"All right. Get ready for a whole different kind of training."

I didn't know what he meant by that, but I soon found out. The next day, after some conditioning, we started pad work. It was all going along fine, and then the coach did something I wasn't expecting.

"Come on, you ugly piece of shit! You think those weak punches will beat Fred? My grandma can do better than that!"

I furrowed my brow. The coach had never been mean to me before. He was always firm, but never put me down. This was a strange turn for him.

"What's the matter? Why'd you stop? Come on, you worthless scum! Hit the pads!"

I saw red. All technique flew out the window as I began to bash the pads. Suddenly one of them bashed me in the face.

"Where are your hands at? You keep dropping them! That's not what I taught you!"

My hands felt like lead, but I brought them up. I kept swinging wildly at the pads.

"Where's your technique gone? What happened to all that I taught you? Come on, you lily-livered weakling! Move your hips!"

I stopped and brought my hands down. "Coach, why are you doing this?"

"You need to learn to control that anger of yours. Whenever someone says or does something you don't like, you lose control. That's why I'm inoculating you from it. A real fighter knows to control his anger and use it as a weapon."

My face finally relaxed and my mouth grew into a smile. "So that's what you were doing. Thanks, coach. That's a big help."

"What are you doing standing around talking for? If you can talk, hit the pads!"

The next sparring class came along, I was matched with someone a lot more friendly. His name was Jeff. He was bald with a white beard. His arms and legs were full of tattoos. He looked like a tough man, but he had the demeanor of a pussycat. Everyone loved him.

When we began I went in jabbing and he got me with a hook.

"Make sure to step out after you throw your combination. That way you won't get hit so easily."

I nodded. I went back in with a jab, cross, hook, but it didn't feel right.

"You're too close. Find your distance by jabbing a couple times. You can use it as a probe to find your reach."

I went out and jabbed a bit until I found my distance. I went in with another jab, cross, hook. He dodged them easily.

"You're too slow. That's why I'm avoiding them. Speed it up. Speed and technique are the most important in amateur boxing."

This was great. I was learning and having fun. It was great to know that guys like him were at this gym.

The day had finally come. I was ready.

The place looked kinda dingy and there weren't that many people in the audience, I counted ten at most, but that didn't matter. This was all between me and Fred.

As we both got in the ring with our gloves, headgear and groin protector on, the announcer said, "Welcome everyone to this official Boxing Ontario match. This fight will be four rounds, two minutes each."

After introducing us, along with our weights, the referee came between us.

"I want a clean fight, gentleman."

The bell rang.

I went in jabbing to get my distance. He did the same. After a while, Fred threw a rapid one-two. That would've gotten me before, but my speed had greatly increased. I slipped both of them. As I went in for a combo, I caught him trying to do a rapid double jab. I slipped and got him in the kidney with a hard left hook. That staggered him. I went up for an uppercut, but he managed to move his chin out of the way. I overextended myself and he got me with a cross to the body. Now we were even.

We broke apart and Fred came in again. I dodged his one-two-hook and he dodged my hook-uppercut. We were both bobbing back and forth like a couple of marionettes. Every time one of us went in with a punch, it would hit air. This went on for a while.

I feigned a jab and got him with a hard cross. He went down. At the count of two he was back up, but the referee kept counting until eight, since those were the rules. I came after him again, and it was my turn to eat his cross. I hit the ground and got up after the count of three.

As the referee kept counting, I looked into his eyes. Those cold blue eyes had nothing but hate and contempt in them. They reminded me of something, but I didn't know what.

As I charged in after the count, the bell rang.

After two more rounds of this, we were both exhausted. The intense energy needed for this drained our stamina. We both had puddles by our feet and had trouble keeping our hands up. We both had black eyes. There had been two more knockdowns, one for each of us. As far as points went, we seemed to be evenly matched. Whoever got the third knockdown first would win the match.

The bell rang the start of the last round. I went it with all I had and, after dodging a few blows, Fred clinched. This was a good time for both of us to rest for a bit. After the referee separated us, he came in with a hard right. I dodged it and sank my right to the wrist in his midriff. After retreating he came back and clinched again.

After the separation, I looked at my opponent's hate-filled face. Suddenly it morphed and it was my dad standing in front of me.

"Come on, you little shit! Fight me if you're man enough!"

I began to see red, but quashed that immediately. The work I'd done with both my therapist and my coach had helped. I kept my anger beneath the surface and used it to fuel my left hook to his face. He was thrown back a couple steps and then came back and clinched again.

"Come on, fight already," cried someone in the crowd. "We didn't come here to see two guys hugging!"

In the clinch, I heard his shallow breathing. He was losing steam. I might've been exhausted, but he was in much worse shape.

I managed to get out of the clinch and hit him with a cross one last time. I put all my strength, all the months of blood, sweat and tears into it. It connected and I saw his whole face deform with the hit. He hit the ground and that was it. The match was over.

"The winner, by technical knockout, David Wilker!"

Everyone cheered. I caught a glimpse of my parole officer near the door. She nodded and smiled, and then left. I had beaten Fred, and beaten a greater foe, as well.