I learned to box from a tattooed Englishman.
He used the F word and
blasted the rap. He had the ability to teach multiple boxing classes a day,
then, as a cool down, rode his bike a hundred miles.
He was a bad
ass.
The Englishman taught me a stance, taught me a hook, left and right,
and most unfortunately he taught a burpee. A real burpee: an up down with a
push-up and jump as an added bonus.
And I never met a burpee I cared
for.
Some thought I fought and bled for the Englishman, the same who
thought he was a pretty face. Not true. I fought and bled for myself, for my own
sanity. The Englishman merely taught me how. And despite all his vanity,
vulgarity and general vice, I have to thank the Englishman.
The
Englishman taught me to fight. And I fight. I fight for self-esteem, I fight for
power, I fight for a chance to fight. Almot every metaphorical punch I've wanted
to throw, I've now thrown literally.
I promise to throw all the literal
punches needed to sufficently have fought back.
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